No I’ve never had a teacher named Frank before. I don’t even remember ever personally knowing anyone who goes by the name Frank. Not even someone who uses it as an alias, nickname, or pseudonym. I mean Frank or Fengshen or whatever other meteorological nomenclature it’s designated, the latest tropical storm that entered and left, in all its devastating glory, Philippine shores. Yes, the tropical storm that violently swept through the country during the weekend left me, aside from all the floating debris and human implements and cold corpses, many lessons in its wake. Nature has always been, despite (and maybe because of) its ruthlessness, one of the best teachers of humanity.
While the storm unleashed Nature’s fury upon all of us poor, helpless mortals, I found it had also unearthed many lessons buried deep in the fathomless pits of my mind, lessons I’m sure I’ve been taught before, lessons I’m sure I’ve learned in the past but had somehow unlearned and already long forgotten. Still, finding those lessons again despite the fact that a storm was ripping and tearing the city to shreds was a pleasant gift of knowledge and wisdom from an otherwise vicious force of nature. It was as if the storm dragged me by the hand, made me sit still inside a small classroom in my mind, pulled out some chalk and charts and flash cards, and began lecturing me while scribbling down some very important lessons on the blackboard. I diligently took down notes on my mental pad somewhere, and highlighted them just to be sure.
One would think that witnessing yet another terrifying exhibition of the earth’s power and wrath would scare the hell out of me, remind me not to mess with the sacred balance of nature, and maybe warn everybody else to stop cutting down old trees and do the same. Ironically, lessons on respecting life and nature and throwing one’s garbage where one ought to, never, not even once, crossed my mind throughout the rather fierce tempest. Seeing the storm lash out at everything did not surprise me. To me, we’ve always had it coming, and it was only a matter of time before our irresponsible exploitation of the already dying environment would trigger it to brutally retaliate and give us a tragic taste of our own harsh medicine. We are now merely reaping the putrid fruits of our abusive labor, suffering the consequences of decades upon decades of unrelenting environmental devastation in exchange of seemingly unnecessary industrial advancement. The calamity was merely waiting to happen, a catastrophe waiting to explode. Once again, we’ve no one else to blame but ourselves.
Anyway, the disastrous weather failed to remind me of all that. There was no need to. Instead, it made me think of other things. Last week I worked on a graveyard shift. I was on my way to work one night, and the storm had barely made itself known yet. There was hardly any sign of rain. Shortly after I had boarded an empty jeepney to leave home, however, rain began to pour in a way that it had not in recent months. It was like someone had suddenly remembered we had not had our share of rain in the past few months, and poured the entire bucket of cold rainwater over our heads right there and then. Suddenly, while musingly looking out at the rain through the jeepney’s now plastic-covered window, a little epiphany was born in my mind. The universe always seems able to find its balance. Lately I’ve had problems dealing with loneliness and depression and confusion, the kind of sad dilemmas that typify mid-life crises, tying old people down like heavy manacles and anvils. And to think I’m barely out of adolescence. I’ve had difficulty figuring out my direction in life, the path I want to take in moving on to the future, and I’ve been feeling lost in all the uncertainty as it has been increasingly difficult to keep in touch with people I’ve always had around me until very recently. I found it hard being alone.
That rainy night, however, I was not bothered by it at all. Even while I rode the jeepney alone, loneliness couldn’t creep its way into me, the melodic falling of the rain entertaining me and keeping all petty thoughts out of mind. I was alone with myself, but I wasn’t lonely at all. I was happy by myself, just staring out at ephemeral ripples on the drenched streets and keeping myself wonderfully warm against the chill of the breeze. Indeed, the universe has ways of keeping its balance. While, upon getting home after being stranded in the office for half a day as the storm raged on, I found out that water supply disappeared as power lines, among other things, were toppled down by the furious winds and electricity blacked out, the typhoon brought with it more than enough ice-cold rainwater to meet our needs, filling our tubs and pails and tabos and pitchers to the brim. While the TV, radio, and computer were rendered inert and useless by the widespread blackout, I had new comic books to read and new thoughts to ponder on to keep myself entertained.
Despite the external turmoil, I found inner peace. As the wind bellowed ominously outside, thrashing and beating its strong, hard fists against all that stood defiantly in its way, and the rain fell heavily like angry war era bombs and missiles on the ground, I was quiet on my bed, almost serene. The ensuing disaster did not scare me. It lulled me to sleep, whispering comforting nonsense into my ears. All the ironically pleasant noise the environment around me created drowned whatever troubling mental chaos that was swirling around me, allowing me to think the way I would always like to, clearly and peacefully.
In those rare moments of lucid tranquility, I realized that it sometimes takes as much as a storm to change one’s state of mind. Sometimes all you really need is an entirely new perspective, another point of view, to see the beauty in an otherwise ugly life. Before you can find and appreciate the calm in the eye of the storm, you must first lose it in all the surrounding chaos.
Sometimes you have to lose something before you realize you already had it. I haven’t washed any of the dirty clothes sitting patiently on my hamper the past few days, putting off doing the laundry one tomorrow after another. What monumental difference would one day make in washing off the dirt and dust of everyday life from my clothes anyway? I found better things to do than hauling all that dirty apparel into the washing machine, filling it up with water, pouring in foamy detergent soap, turning the dial and sitting on a stool beside the humming and churning electrical appliance while washing some more shirts by hand inside a plastic basin. I had to it on a weekend, when my time was my own and when life was running at a pace that I alone commanded. Then came the weekend. And the storm. Just like that, I lost a bright, sunny day or two that would have been perfect for doing the laundry. Obviously now I couldn’t wash my clothes, wring them and leave them hanging to dry up on the clothes line under all that wind and rain.
The opportunity had stopped knocking on my door, turned around upset and left stomping its feet heavily on the ground. Good thing some opportunities, like doing the laundry and other household chores, don’t just knock once. They do so persistently every once in a while. But what if it were the last chance I would have ever had to wash my clothes and dry them under the sun? What if the storm had never stopped and the sun didn’t come out ever again? I would have most certainly been stuck with damp, dirty clothes forever.
Never let an opportunity pass you by. Never hesitate to grab it by the neck (or whatever body part you prefer grabbing) the first instant it presents itself. Every moment spent thinking twice about whether or not to take the opportunity is a moment lost forever, a moment that could have possibly cost you the opportunity itself. You never know, the same opportunity might not come your way again, and it would have completely disappeared from your life permanently. In one seemingly harmless moment of hesitation, you could have lost something that was really meant for you in the first place, and sadly, you will never have the chance of finding it again.
Amazing how it took an entire tropical storm annihilating civilization as we presently know it just to make me realize all these things. I guess the storm taught me well. I’ll try and keep those lessons in mind as long as I can. Just in case some substitute typhoon comes and gives a pop quiz.
Friday, July 18, 2008
As it is
People say change is always good. I’m not so sure about that. I’ve always been, shall we say, afraid of change, afraid of whatever new and unfamiliar things it would bring and all that would disappear, be pushed aside and replaced by them. I’ve always preferred the law of inertia, keeping things as they already are, maintaining the status quo, and not fixing anything if nothing is broken anyway. But change is something you simply can’t oppose, can you? It’s intricately woven into everything we are, everything we do, everything we wear, say, hear, eat, smell, and feel, something we cannot remove without disrupting the peace and order of this great big universe. It’s something beyond our control, like the forces of nature that constantly remind us there are some things in this life and this world we have no other choice but to wholeheartedly accept. So we’re forced to embrace change, whether we like it or not, like an old long lost relative you don’t really remember or recognize but hug anyway just to avoid hurting any feelings.
Lately a lot of changes have been taking place where I work, and I can say not all of them are good. Not even most of them. Most of the people I’ve known and worked with in the last few months have either been terminated or resigned just before they were terminated, leaving me with four other employees to work with on a newly imposed graveyard shift. Now, working with only four other people in a call center that supposedly seats around fifty after a massive retrenchment is not a challenge to me, as being antisocial and reclusive is a phase that comes to me naturally every now and then. But reversing my circadian rhythm and working under harsh conditions at night when all the world sleeps in peace isn’t as easy as turning back the hands of time on an old watch. Believe me, I’ve tried it before and I almost killed myself doing it, chopping off at least a decade from my already short lifespan. I’m not sure whether I can do it again, whether I’m willing to take on this change and leave home for work in the darkness of the night, when everyone else is wrapping up their day with a nice warm supper on the dinner table with their family. Once again, another dilemma to resolve. If it were up to me, I’d take on this like it were nothing. But my body disagrees. Every fiber of my corporeal being, from my big, fatty brain down to the very minute cells that shape the entirety of me, tells me something is amiss whenever I try to disregard my usual concepts of time and space and stay up all night working in front of a computer, talking endlessly while the air conditioner blows frigid wisps of air all around me. By the time my shift ends I feel like a frozen solid piece of meat, immobile and cold. It has been days since my first graveyard shift in months and still my joints have not forgiven me despite the rest I’ve taken.
Last night, just before falling asleep, when all conscious efforts at contemplation were slowly swallowed by my surrender to exhaustion and slumber, a sudden thought raced across my mind like a rabbit sprinting across a meadow. Life is under a no return, no exchange policy. Even if it’s not exactly what you want, you can’t just come up to God’s customer service lane, reason out it has a factory defect, give it back and demand for a refund or a decent replacement. What you get is made especially for you, something uniquely your own and different from everyone else’s, customized to fit your needs and your personality. It is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Even if it doesn’t exactly fit your taste or style. It’s more of a present than a product you purchased, and therefore even if you don’t like it, you get to keep it and have to be thankful for it. You didn’t shop around and pay for it in the first place. It was just given to you, as it is. And you don’t need to worry either because you’re not stuck with it forever, anyway. When the time is right and you’ve already learned to appreciate it and had your share of fun with it, God will take it back and put it away for good in some stockroom. So enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t be that long.
I’m learning to take life just as it is, as it comes. You can’t force or bend it into becoming something perfect. When life gives you lemons, no matter how sour they may be, you have to make lemonade out of them. Otherwise you’ll just have to throw them away and waste the opportunity, because lemons will always be lemons, and lemon seeds will eventually grow into even more lemon trees that will bear fruit to even more lemons to make lemonade out of, no matter how much you hope and pray and experiment with genetics to turn them into sweet apples. There is no point to resisting change, as it is the only thing that remains constant all throughout. Our lives change whenever they are supposed to, and there is nothing we can do about it but accept the changes and live whatever that remains of our lives with these changes. I’ve realized that no matter how much you complain to God and call His 24 hour customer service hotline to tell Him how badly screwed up your life is, He won’t be sending you another one to replace it. You’ll have to make do with what you have and make the most out of it, because as far as He’s concerned, it’s all you could ever really need and want. I guess the slogan the customer is always right does not apply either.
Lately a lot of changes have been taking place where I work, and I can say not all of them are good. Not even most of them. Most of the people I’ve known and worked with in the last few months have either been terminated or resigned just before they were terminated, leaving me with four other employees to work with on a newly imposed graveyard shift. Now, working with only four other people in a call center that supposedly seats around fifty after a massive retrenchment is not a challenge to me, as being antisocial and reclusive is a phase that comes to me naturally every now and then. But reversing my circadian rhythm and working under harsh conditions at night when all the world sleeps in peace isn’t as easy as turning back the hands of time on an old watch. Believe me, I’ve tried it before and I almost killed myself doing it, chopping off at least a decade from my already short lifespan. I’m not sure whether I can do it again, whether I’m willing to take on this change and leave home for work in the darkness of the night, when everyone else is wrapping up their day with a nice warm supper on the dinner table with their family. Once again, another dilemma to resolve. If it were up to me, I’d take on this like it were nothing. But my body disagrees. Every fiber of my corporeal being, from my big, fatty brain down to the very minute cells that shape the entirety of me, tells me something is amiss whenever I try to disregard my usual concepts of time and space and stay up all night working in front of a computer, talking endlessly while the air conditioner blows frigid wisps of air all around me. By the time my shift ends I feel like a frozen solid piece of meat, immobile and cold. It has been days since my first graveyard shift in months and still my joints have not forgiven me despite the rest I’ve taken.
Last night, just before falling asleep, when all conscious efforts at contemplation were slowly swallowed by my surrender to exhaustion and slumber, a sudden thought raced across my mind like a rabbit sprinting across a meadow. Life is under a no return, no exchange policy. Even if it’s not exactly what you want, you can’t just come up to God’s customer service lane, reason out it has a factory defect, give it back and demand for a refund or a decent replacement. What you get is made especially for you, something uniquely your own and different from everyone else’s, customized to fit your needs and your personality. It is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Even if it doesn’t exactly fit your taste or style. It’s more of a present than a product you purchased, and therefore even if you don’t like it, you get to keep it and have to be thankful for it. You didn’t shop around and pay for it in the first place. It was just given to you, as it is. And you don’t need to worry either because you’re not stuck with it forever, anyway. When the time is right and you’ve already learned to appreciate it and had your share of fun with it, God will take it back and put it away for good in some stockroom. So enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t be that long.
I’m learning to take life just as it is, as it comes. You can’t force or bend it into becoming something perfect. When life gives you lemons, no matter how sour they may be, you have to make lemonade out of them. Otherwise you’ll just have to throw them away and waste the opportunity, because lemons will always be lemons, and lemon seeds will eventually grow into even more lemon trees that will bear fruit to even more lemons to make lemonade out of, no matter how much you hope and pray and experiment with genetics to turn them into sweet apples. There is no point to resisting change, as it is the only thing that remains constant all throughout. Our lives change whenever they are supposed to, and there is nothing we can do about it but accept the changes and live whatever that remains of our lives with these changes. I’ve realized that no matter how much you complain to God and call His 24 hour customer service hotline to tell Him how badly screwed up your life is, He won’t be sending you another one to replace it. You’ll have to make do with what you have and make the most out of it, because as far as He’s concerned, it’s all you could ever really need and want. I guess the slogan the customer is always right does not apply either.
Medusa and I
It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. It drizzled outside for quite a bit but it had since stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Normally, in the past ten months or so, I would find myself working even on drizzly Saturdays, slouched like a shackled slave in front of my radioactive workstation from the wee hours of the morning until way past noon, making outbound calls to California and suffering from all the subsequent occupational hazards of persistent telemarketing just to earn some money. But not this Saturday. I had had enough, I thought to myself, and I could no longer take the pressure that was part of my monotonous everyday work routine, so I took the day off.
Fine. I was suspended that day so it’s not like it was a willful decision I actually made on my own freedom and volition. Although I must admit lately I had been hatching diabolical schemes of absenteeism in my mind to try and save whatever’s left of me from dying of over-fatigue or sheer boredom. And somehow the universe, ever sympathetic, helped me fulfill those subconscious plans. I guess my disappointing performance of late sent a very clear message to the management that I was very near, if not already, burning out, and a short sabbatical was just what I needed to regroup and recharge myself. Let’s just say I was forced into taking a short leave of absence to give myself some time to breathe. And I happily agreed. I mean complied, as I didn’t have much of a choice, really.
And so that is how I found myself in some big mall that drizzly Saturday afternoon. Dressed to kill in my blazing red denim pants, white graphic tee shirt with Caravaggio’s Medusa’s estranged serpentine head printed on it and a trendy black and white scarf wrapped around my neck, I sipped bittersweet iced mocha frappe in one of the big mall’s coffee shops. Alone. While waiting to rendezvous with friends and spend the night out partying, singing and dancing, I found no one else to brandish the awesome big yellow bag I was toting to but strangers and passersby who couldn’t care any less about the intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details on the bag. There wasn’t much sense to it, I realized then, deliberately wearing such an outfit that made me conspicuously stand out like any standard road sign from the anonymous crowd that roamed the mall and not having anyone I knew to appreciate or even just notice it. Sad, I know. Even Medusa, stuck on my shirt, seemed bored stale.
Like the sharp aftertaste that pierced my tongue with each sip of caffeine, the painful reality of the situation grew even stronger as I continued to sit there with nothing but Medusa and the cold plastic cup of coffee to keep me company in a table made for two, and my big yellow bag with intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details sitting properly on the empty chair beside me. With nothing to do to pass the time but to force myself to be entertained by my cellphone’s obsolete and therefore understandably dreary features and habitually tilt my dark rimmed glasses to snugly rest on my nose bridge every now and then, I watched people hurriedly walk by, living their own lives in their own worlds, at their own time.
In hopes of breaking the silence that loomed over me like the dark clouds that hovered outside, I desperately looked on for people I knew, even in the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I got a headache doing that, although I did find some people I knew. In the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I found familiar faces here and there, people I must have known or met somewhere, maybe in my past life, but didn’t really personally know such that acknowledging their presence was unnecessary (and weird). Although I couldn’t prevent those rudely awkward moments when I met some of them eye to eye, and I had to therefore, out of social graces and politeness, force myself to raise my arm, wave and smile at acquaintances who didn’t even like me well enough to stop by and sit and talk awhile. After the quick hesitant hello was the even quicker goodbye, with them coming and going with the record breaking speed of light. They had their own lives, I guess, and they believed I had mine as well, two distinct pockets of time and space they obviously did not want to collide, even just momentarily. Medusa hissed as no one noticed her at all.
It’s funny how we always seem to find ourselves so lonely despite constantly being surrounded by a noisy crowd of people. On second thought, that doesn’t sound funny at all. Loneliness is a worldwide epidemic, it seems, one worse and more commonly widespread than say, obesity or stupidity. People always seem to find reasons to feel bad about themselves and the lives they lead, utterly consumed by melancholy and despair. We all seem to get depressed at some point in our lives. Some of us get depressed every now and again, while some of us are depressed all throughout.
Nevertheless, just before I had unconsciously pushed myself off the brink of sanity, I was able to snap out of all that, and realized that all that redundant thinking over a cup of iced coffee did me no good. It made me feel like I was sad because in dressing up I was merely seeking attention and social approval, the kind of emotional maturity troubled teenagers were entitled to. Technically, I’m no longer a teenager, so that doesn’t sound too good. I reminded myself that I dressed up for myself and not for anyone else. It didn’t matter if anyone else noticed what I was wearing or not. It didn’t matter if anyone else liked what I was wearing or not. At that moment of cold irony when I was so alone at the center of literally swarms of other people, I realized how dependent I had become on others to find happiness, becoming a parasite that relied on what others had to say for survival and feasted on whatever sense of social security, acceptance and belongingness the people around me could offer me. I had not realized that at all.
As if one of Medusa’s snakes suddenly came to life and bit me, I came to my senses and realized that I had failed terribly in keeping myself happy without the assistance of tools and trinkets and social appendices, and that I was now merely reliant on others to feed me with pleasure and a sense of significance, people and things I treated and regarded much the same way a crippled man would his crutches. Where would I be without those blessed crutches? Would I merely roll over and rot on one dark corner of the street, perpetually squatting like a fire hydrant and begging for alms until I died? Most probably. I could not bear to think I allowed myself to have become so weak.
I realized there was no need to be so needy. Medusa’s screaming face emblazoned on my shirt was all that I had. There was no one else to talk to. But it was enough. Somehow the poor decapitated Gorgon spoke to me, her forked tongue slithering in and out of her scaly reptilian lips as she reminded me: smile and the world smiles with you, frown and you frown alone. You’re the only person who will always be there anytime of the day to make yourself feel better. It made sense to me, I thought, and so I flipped the tail of the scarf that dangled down my neck over my shoulder so that it wouldn’t cover her mouth so much and muffle the wise words that came out of them. None of it sounded Greek to me, in fairness.
No one else but myself could make me happy, I realized, and I had found real happiness somewhere inside me, at least at that time. I was happy even if there was no one else to tell me so. My happiness did not rest on some other entity’s existence. It was mine to create, to find, to discover, and to relish in, within me. No amount of spineless dependence on others would lead me to the path I needed to take towards inner happiness. If it was to be, then it was all up to me. It all pretty much depended on how I chose to look at life, and whether I chose to be happy with it or not. I let out a sigh of relief and comfort. What a revelation.
In the end it was still just beheaded old Medusa and I who went home after the night long party, her mythical stare turning all those who looked at me into stone, devoured by the newfound glory of my presence. I walked with pride and confidence this time, with the knowledge that I did not necessarily need anyone to give me happiness, and that I could make my own healthy bowl of happiness if I needed to. I’m starting to believe that sanity and happiness really are an impossible combination.
Fine. I was suspended that day so it’s not like it was a willful decision I actually made on my own freedom and volition. Although I must admit lately I had been hatching diabolical schemes of absenteeism in my mind to try and save whatever’s left of me from dying of over-fatigue or sheer boredom. And somehow the universe, ever sympathetic, helped me fulfill those subconscious plans. I guess my disappointing performance of late sent a very clear message to the management that I was very near, if not already, burning out, and a short sabbatical was just what I needed to regroup and recharge myself. Let’s just say I was forced into taking a short leave of absence to give myself some time to breathe. And I happily agreed. I mean complied, as I didn’t have much of a choice, really.
And so that is how I found myself in some big mall that drizzly Saturday afternoon. Dressed to kill in my blazing red denim pants, white graphic tee shirt with Caravaggio’s Medusa’s estranged serpentine head printed on it and a trendy black and white scarf wrapped around my neck, I sipped bittersweet iced mocha frappe in one of the big mall’s coffee shops. Alone. While waiting to rendezvous with friends and spend the night out partying, singing and dancing, I found no one else to brandish the awesome big yellow bag I was toting to but strangers and passersby who couldn’t care any less about the intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details on the bag. There wasn’t much sense to it, I realized then, deliberately wearing such an outfit that made me conspicuously stand out like any standard road sign from the anonymous crowd that roamed the mall and not having anyone I knew to appreciate or even just notice it. Sad, I know. Even Medusa, stuck on my shirt, seemed bored stale.
Like the sharp aftertaste that pierced my tongue with each sip of caffeine, the painful reality of the situation grew even stronger as I continued to sit there with nothing but Medusa and the cold plastic cup of coffee to keep me company in a table made for two, and my big yellow bag with intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details sitting properly on the empty chair beside me. With nothing to do to pass the time but to force myself to be entertained by my cellphone’s obsolete and therefore understandably dreary features and habitually tilt my dark rimmed glasses to snugly rest on my nose bridge every now and then, I watched people hurriedly walk by, living their own lives in their own worlds, at their own time.
In hopes of breaking the silence that loomed over me like the dark clouds that hovered outside, I desperately looked on for people I knew, even in the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I got a headache doing that, although I did find some people I knew. In the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I found familiar faces here and there, people I must have known or met somewhere, maybe in my past life, but didn’t really personally know such that acknowledging their presence was unnecessary (and weird). Although I couldn’t prevent those rudely awkward moments when I met some of them eye to eye, and I had to therefore, out of social graces and politeness, force myself to raise my arm, wave and smile at acquaintances who didn’t even like me well enough to stop by and sit and talk awhile. After the quick hesitant hello was the even quicker goodbye, with them coming and going with the record breaking speed of light. They had their own lives, I guess, and they believed I had mine as well, two distinct pockets of time and space they obviously did not want to collide, even just momentarily. Medusa hissed as no one noticed her at all.
It’s funny how we always seem to find ourselves so lonely despite constantly being surrounded by a noisy crowd of people. On second thought, that doesn’t sound funny at all. Loneliness is a worldwide epidemic, it seems, one worse and more commonly widespread than say, obesity or stupidity. People always seem to find reasons to feel bad about themselves and the lives they lead, utterly consumed by melancholy and despair. We all seem to get depressed at some point in our lives. Some of us get depressed every now and again, while some of us are depressed all throughout.
Nevertheless, just before I had unconsciously pushed myself off the brink of sanity, I was able to snap out of all that, and realized that all that redundant thinking over a cup of iced coffee did me no good. It made me feel like I was sad because in dressing up I was merely seeking attention and social approval, the kind of emotional maturity troubled teenagers were entitled to. Technically, I’m no longer a teenager, so that doesn’t sound too good. I reminded myself that I dressed up for myself and not for anyone else. It didn’t matter if anyone else noticed what I was wearing or not. It didn’t matter if anyone else liked what I was wearing or not. At that moment of cold irony when I was so alone at the center of literally swarms of other people, I realized how dependent I had become on others to find happiness, becoming a parasite that relied on what others had to say for survival and feasted on whatever sense of social security, acceptance and belongingness the people around me could offer me. I had not realized that at all.
As if one of Medusa’s snakes suddenly came to life and bit me, I came to my senses and realized that I had failed terribly in keeping myself happy without the assistance of tools and trinkets and social appendices, and that I was now merely reliant on others to feed me with pleasure and a sense of significance, people and things I treated and regarded much the same way a crippled man would his crutches. Where would I be without those blessed crutches? Would I merely roll over and rot on one dark corner of the street, perpetually squatting like a fire hydrant and begging for alms until I died? Most probably. I could not bear to think I allowed myself to have become so weak.
I realized there was no need to be so needy. Medusa’s screaming face emblazoned on my shirt was all that I had. There was no one else to talk to. But it was enough. Somehow the poor decapitated Gorgon spoke to me, her forked tongue slithering in and out of her scaly reptilian lips as she reminded me: smile and the world smiles with you, frown and you frown alone. You’re the only person who will always be there anytime of the day to make yourself feel better. It made sense to me, I thought, and so I flipped the tail of the scarf that dangled down my neck over my shoulder so that it wouldn’t cover her mouth so much and muffle the wise words that came out of them. None of it sounded Greek to me, in fairness.
No one else but myself could make me happy, I realized, and I had found real happiness somewhere inside me, at least at that time. I was happy even if there was no one else to tell me so. My happiness did not rest on some other entity’s existence. It was mine to create, to find, to discover, and to relish in, within me. No amount of spineless dependence on others would lead me to the path I needed to take towards inner happiness. If it was to be, then it was all up to me. It all pretty much depended on how I chose to look at life, and whether I chose to be happy with it or not. I let out a sigh of relief and comfort. What a revelation.
In the end it was still just beheaded old Medusa and I who went home after the night long party, her mythical stare turning all those who looked at me into stone, devoured by the newfound glory of my presence. I walked with pride and confidence this time, with the knowledge that I did not necessarily need anyone to give me happiness, and that I could make my own healthy bowl of happiness if I needed to. I’m starting to believe that sanity and happiness really are an impossible combination.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Anew
It’s the second day of the second half of the year, and I just finished cleaning my room. No, I didn’t wait that long just for me to go pick up a broom and clean up my room. I do that quite often. It’s just that this time, I cleaned up my room as thoroughly as I possibly could, with all my consciousness and intentions and energy evocatively poured into all of it. It didn’t just involve dusting off the shelves or changing the curtains or sweeping the floor. Every wipe of the wet rag, every sweep of the broom, every fold of the blanket, was a meaningful symbolism, a self defined metaphor for being reborn and starting anew.
I started it all yesterday, the first day of the rest of the year. Early in the morning, while electricity all over the city temporarily disappeared as scheduled, I already found myself dramatically tearing down the intricately designed green wallpaper I arduously put up just before the year began. I must admit I felt a little bad having to say goodbye to the elaborate drawings that covered my wall for the past few months. I’ve always been clingy. But it was time for it to go. Now that the year is halfway through, it’s time for another change, another chance to look at life from a different perspective, especially during what remains of the rest of this year, and part of that change is learning to let go of the little things I’ve grown unnecessarily attached to.
Now I assume most people find nothing significant about the leaving of May and the coming of June because it is, after all, just one of those times once each month where you should flip the page of the calendar to forever forget the days that have already come to pass and remind yourself of the days to come, to keep track of the present and remain connected to the web of time and space as it presently is. To some it may signal the end of a long summer vacation and returning to academic imprisonment, I mean progression. To me, however, it has come to mean an entirely different thing. It is more than just a mere calculated shift in the numbering of the days and the phases of the moon and the comings and goings of the tides.
It is a chance to leave behind the past and reveal the future. It means getting a chance to wipe out all that have happened, and prepare the newly blank slate for whatever new learnings that will be scribbled on it. It symbolizes another beginning, one after the previous beginning that was the New Year, as every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s inevitable end. It is a time to purge my little space of all the old, exhausted and negative energies and fill it up with a new and vibrant aura. It is a time for me to bid farewell to the dust and dirt of the past and make room for whatever new particles the future will bring.
I find it a way of looking back, a way of reminding myself of where I started and how far I’ve come since then, and a way of bracing myself for all the overwhelmingly wonderful surprises ahead. Which is just what I need, really. I’ve been somewhat troubled lately. I feel like I’ve been going around in ever shrinking circles, not really getting anywhere, finding myself in the same place I thought I had already left, a place I thought I’ve long gone far away from. I feel like emptying myself out, picking up all the good pieces and then throwing everything else away. Although I reckon I might just end up keeping everything anyway and putting them all back in, given the way I always see some good in everything, having some use or purpose even for the most unwanted of garbage. Either way, I‘ve been feeling the need to stop going forward for now, go back and take a good look inside myself, analyze everything flying around in the swirling chaos that is my mind and arrange them alphabetically inside a mental file cabinet of sorts. It sounds weird I know.
But I read that having feelings of retrogression like this isn’t unusual, especially now when the planet Mercury is in astrological retrograde, a period when most areas ruled by the planet also experience a reverse in direction. Among these areas include communication, travel, business and the mind’s processes. I don’t exactly know how all this works in the grand scheme of things but it makes sense to me. This explains why most of us, like me, tend to think more, especially about things we haven’t completely figured out just yet, things we’ve pushed aside and left hanging, waiting for completion and decent closure. This also explains why we’ve been having all these inconveniences related to telecommunications, technology that deals with information, and the like. As I’m writing this I’m even making sure to save it every few sentences, as glitches and little inconveniences are to be expected.
Nevertheless, there’s always a reason to start anew. Especially if you go looking for it. For me, the fact that it’s the first day of the rest of my life is enough reason to take a deep breath, exhale all the air I’ve already used to the deepest of my cells, return it to nature where it can be rejuvenated, and breathe in new air that will seep into every microscopic element of my being and refresh me in ways that will ultimately prepare me for all that lies ahead. Every day is a new beginning, no matter which week or month it falls on. I think that’s why every day sees an end at dawn, the sun finally setting to take away with it everything that happened and leaving behind a dark emptiness with which to begin tomorrow, a night to usher in another morning. With that, yesterday becomes a memory and tomorrow a promise. I think that’s more than enough reason to start anew. Every chance we get.
I started it all yesterday, the first day of the rest of the year. Early in the morning, while electricity all over the city temporarily disappeared as scheduled, I already found myself dramatically tearing down the intricately designed green wallpaper I arduously put up just before the year began. I must admit I felt a little bad having to say goodbye to the elaborate drawings that covered my wall for the past few months. I’ve always been clingy. But it was time for it to go. Now that the year is halfway through, it’s time for another change, another chance to look at life from a different perspective, especially during what remains of the rest of this year, and part of that change is learning to let go of the little things I’ve grown unnecessarily attached to.
Now I assume most people find nothing significant about the leaving of May and the coming of June because it is, after all, just one of those times once each month where you should flip the page of the calendar to forever forget the days that have already come to pass and remind yourself of the days to come, to keep track of the present and remain connected to the web of time and space as it presently is. To some it may signal the end of a long summer vacation and returning to academic imprisonment, I mean progression. To me, however, it has come to mean an entirely different thing. It is more than just a mere calculated shift in the numbering of the days and the phases of the moon and the comings and goings of the tides.
It is a chance to leave behind the past and reveal the future. It means getting a chance to wipe out all that have happened, and prepare the newly blank slate for whatever new learnings that will be scribbled on it. It symbolizes another beginning, one after the previous beginning that was the New Year, as every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s inevitable end. It is a time to purge my little space of all the old, exhausted and negative energies and fill it up with a new and vibrant aura. It is a time for me to bid farewell to the dust and dirt of the past and make room for whatever new particles the future will bring.
I find it a way of looking back, a way of reminding myself of where I started and how far I’ve come since then, and a way of bracing myself for all the overwhelmingly wonderful surprises ahead. Which is just what I need, really. I’ve been somewhat troubled lately. I feel like I’ve been going around in ever shrinking circles, not really getting anywhere, finding myself in the same place I thought I had already left, a place I thought I’ve long gone far away from. I feel like emptying myself out, picking up all the good pieces and then throwing everything else away. Although I reckon I might just end up keeping everything anyway and putting them all back in, given the way I always see some good in everything, having some use or purpose even for the most unwanted of garbage. Either way, I‘ve been feeling the need to stop going forward for now, go back and take a good look inside myself, analyze everything flying around in the swirling chaos that is my mind and arrange them alphabetically inside a mental file cabinet of sorts. It sounds weird I know.
But I read that having feelings of retrogression like this isn’t unusual, especially now when the planet Mercury is in astrological retrograde, a period when most areas ruled by the planet also experience a reverse in direction. Among these areas include communication, travel, business and the mind’s processes. I don’t exactly know how all this works in the grand scheme of things but it makes sense to me. This explains why most of us, like me, tend to think more, especially about things we haven’t completely figured out just yet, things we’ve pushed aside and left hanging, waiting for completion and decent closure. This also explains why we’ve been having all these inconveniences related to telecommunications, technology that deals with information, and the like. As I’m writing this I’m even making sure to save it every few sentences, as glitches and little inconveniences are to be expected.
Nevertheless, there’s always a reason to start anew. Especially if you go looking for it. For me, the fact that it’s the first day of the rest of my life is enough reason to take a deep breath, exhale all the air I’ve already used to the deepest of my cells, return it to nature where it can be rejuvenated, and breathe in new air that will seep into every microscopic element of my being and refresh me in ways that will ultimately prepare me for all that lies ahead. Every day is a new beginning, no matter which week or month it falls on. I think that’s why every day sees an end at dawn, the sun finally setting to take away with it everything that happened and leaving behind a dark emptiness with which to begin tomorrow, a night to usher in another morning. With that, yesterday becomes a memory and tomorrow a promise. I think that’s more than enough reason to start anew. Every chance we get.
Catharsis
Two nights ago, I dreamt about my cat again. Like most dreams, there wasn’t much sense or logic or continuity in that dream, only vivid images and raw emotions that have been stripped naked of all conscious restraint and pretense all stitched seamlessly together. There is little need for me to wring my brain dry to remember the surreal details of the dream, as I recall them perfectly.
It began with me walking down a dark alley, the kind that I used to take on my way home from school to ride one of the jeepneys parked nearby. I don’t remember seeing anything else but the pavement I was walking on as it glistened with the remnants of a good downpour, puddles of rainwater reflecting the moonlight from above and illuminating my way. But then suddenly there I was, passing by an abandoned, empty lot, one covered with tall blades of wild grass and enclosed by a cyclone wire fence. I found myself stopping near the lot and taking a peak at what was inside.
Dreams tend to be very vague, symbolic and metaphorical, so I don't know how to explain it exactly, but I somehow knew that the lot, in that particular dream, was where all the things from my past went to when they were no longer part of the present. Beyond the fence, shrouded by phantasmagoric blankets of mist and shadows, was a purgatory of sorts for all the dead people, all the dead animals, all the mangled, decapitated toys and faded memories from way back when that had already crossed over to the afterlife.
It was there that I saw her, my dear old cat, lying limp on the ground, very much like how I remember her when she died. But then she got up, walked across the field, sauntered toward me in the same regal way that she used to, slinked her way out of the entangled mesh fence, and presented herself in all her living feline glory at my feet. Suddenly overcome by my surging emotions, I bent down and stroked her, fondling her small face and wiping the usual dirt that streamed from her bright green eyes down to the contours of her cheeks. She looked so much better and happier, I noticed, her fur immaculate in her newfound youth. I ignored the truth that she had died months ago, and chose to believe that she had now returned to me, by some ambiguous miracle, at least for the meantime.
It was then, just when I was beginning to actually believe the illusion of her reappearance, that my rationality took over, lectured on the infallible laws of science and violently demolished the misleading dream right there and then, like some vile cockroach suddenly crushed to death by the sole of some vindictive rubber slipper. And then everything went black. The dream had come to an end.
It’s almost been a year since she suddenly passed away but I still can't seem to accept my cat’s death as I keep having these recurring dreams, dreams of her coming amazingly back to life. There’s a song from my childhood, I remember hearing almost all the time, and it says that a dream is a wish your heart makes. If that's the case, then could it be I’m secretly, deep in my heart, still wishing for her to one day resurface on my doorstep as if nothing happened? As if her death was merely a discrepancy in the ever changing flow of time and reality that had now been resolved, a bad nightmare that was now suddenly over? Or does it mean it is but time to let go and simply embrace unquestioningly everything that has come to pass? I don’t have the answers to all these questions.
I grew up with my cat. Perhaps that is the reason why the big void she left agape inside me when she died still has somehow not found any closure yet, a wide open wound that was never really sutured, only cleaned and covered up with useless gauze. The normality of her presence was an anchor for me, a center that I balanced myself on. For as long as I can remember, she has always been a part of my life, always around somewhere, waiting to be found and showered with pure, undivided attention. Until very recently. I’ve told myself countless times with resolute conviction that I had already allowed myself time to grieve her passing. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe the wounds have healed, but the scars that have now formed are ugly. Somehow, deep inside the very core of my twisted being, I do feel I have not yet completely graduated from the initial phase of denial. Maybe I find cathartic release in these dreams, a chance for me to ventilate all my unexpressed emotions, feelings of anguish and mourning and loneliness I could no longer outwardly express, thoughts ands sentiments I refused to accept and acknowledge and liberate.
It’s a wonderful feeling, being reunited with someone you never thought you'd ever see or meet again. But it gets creepy when you're reunited, even just in the realm of sleep, with someone who's already supposedly died. The problem with dreams is that they create otherwise impossible realities so convincingly that you end up believing them, at least at the time that you are dreaming. You end up so perfectly deceived, hoping that they become true, assuming that you haven’t yet believed that they are. But then you wake up, and you realize that it simply cannot happen, because in the plane of existence that we live in, there are no such things as pink cotton candy clouds and winged horses and rainbow slides and magical powers. Not even the resurrection of our loved ones.
I know, and psychology tells me, that dreams are a clever way for our subconscious minds to communicate to us, to convey hidden messages we already know but seem to repeatedly miss by some mental anomaly. But they never really tell us upfront what it is that they wish to say. And you can’t plead to or force them to tell you, either. So it really is up to you and your conscious mind to figure things out and decipher the buried lesson, something that in the end is supposed to help you change your life for the better.
As of now I still cannot understand what that dream was supposed to tell me. I haven’t given it much thought, either, as only more and more questions are born, questions that never really seem to find any answers. I might put my already compromised mental health at risk if I try too much. I’ll have to wait until the realization presents itself to me more clearly, and then I’ll find out what that dream truly meant. In the meantime, I will continue sleeping and dreaming, hoping to find out more about myself and this life I’m trying to live inside my own head. Wish me luck. I might not even come out of it alive.
It began with me walking down a dark alley, the kind that I used to take on my way home from school to ride one of the jeepneys parked nearby. I don’t remember seeing anything else but the pavement I was walking on as it glistened with the remnants of a good downpour, puddles of rainwater reflecting the moonlight from above and illuminating my way. But then suddenly there I was, passing by an abandoned, empty lot, one covered with tall blades of wild grass and enclosed by a cyclone wire fence. I found myself stopping near the lot and taking a peak at what was inside.
Dreams tend to be very vague, symbolic and metaphorical, so I don't know how to explain it exactly, but I somehow knew that the lot, in that particular dream, was where all the things from my past went to when they were no longer part of the present. Beyond the fence, shrouded by phantasmagoric blankets of mist and shadows, was a purgatory of sorts for all the dead people, all the dead animals, all the mangled, decapitated toys and faded memories from way back when that had already crossed over to the afterlife.
It was there that I saw her, my dear old cat, lying limp on the ground, very much like how I remember her when she died. But then she got up, walked across the field, sauntered toward me in the same regal way that she used to, slinked her way out of the entangled mesh fence, and presented herself in all her living feline glory at my feet. Suddenly overcome by my surging emotions, I bent down and stroked her, fondling her small face and wiping the usual dirt that streamed from her bright green eyes down to the contours of her cheeks. She looked so much better and happier, I noticed, her fur immaculate in her newfound youth. I ignored the truth that she had died months ago, and chose to believe that she had now returned to me, by some ambiguous miracle, at least for the meantime.
It was then, just when I was beginning to actually believe the illusion of her reappearance, that my rationality took over, lectured on the infallible laws of science and violently demolished the misleading dream right there and then, like some vile cockroach suddenly crushed to death by the sole of some vindictive rubber slipper. And then everything went black. The dream had come to an end.
It’s almost been a year since she suddenly passed away but I still can't seem to accept my cat’s death as I keep having these recurring dreams, dreams of her coming amazingly back to life. There’s a song from my childhood, I remember hearing almost all the time, and it says that a dream is a wish your heart makes. If that's the case, then could it be I’m secretly, deep in my heart, still wishing for her to one day resurface on my doorstep as if nothing happened? As if her death was merely a discrepancy in the ever changing flow of time and reality that had now been resolved, a bad nightmare that was now suddenly over? Or does it mean it is but time to let go and simply embrace unquestioningly everything that has come to pass? I don’t have the answers to all these questions.
I grew up with my cat. Perhaps that is the reason why the big void she left agape inside me when she died still has somehow not found any closure yet, a wide open wound that was never really sutured, only cleaned and covered up with useless gauze. The normality of her presence was an anchor for me, a center that I balanced myself on. For as long as I can remember, she has always been a part of my life, always around somewhere, waiting to be found and showered with pure, undivided attention. Until very recently. I’ve told myself countless times with resolute conviction that I had already allowed myself time to grieve her passing. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe the wounds have healed, but the scars that have now formed are ugly. Somehow, deep inside the very core of my twisted being, I do feel I have not yet completely graduated from the initial phase of denial. Maybe I find cathartic release in these dreams, a chance for me to ventilate all my unexpressed emotions, feelings of anguish and mourning and loneliness I could no longer outwardly express, thoughts ands sentiments I refused to accept and acknowledge and liberate.
It’s a wonderful feeling, being reunited with someone you never thought you'd ever see or meet again. But it gets creepy when you're reunited, even just in the realm of sleep, with someone who's already supposedly died. The problem with dreams is that they create otherwise impossible realities so convincingly that you end up believing them, at least at the time that you are dreaming. You end up so perfectly deceived, hoping that they become true, assuming that you haven’t yet believed that they are. But then you wake up, and you realize that it simply cannot happen, because in the plane of existence that we live in, there are no such things as pink cotton candy clouds and winged horses and rainbow slides and magical powers. Not even the resurrection of our loved ones.
I know, and psychology tells me, that dreams are a clever way for our subconscious minds to communicate to us, to convey hidden messages we already know but seem to repeatedly miss by some mental anomaly. But they never really tell us upfront what it is that they wish to say. And you can’t plead to or force them to tell you, either. So it really is up to you and your conscious mind to figure things out and decipher the buried lesson, something that in the end is supposed to help you change your life for the better.
As of now I still cannot understand what that dream was supposed to tell me. I haven’t given it much thought, either, as only more and more questions are born, questions that never really seem to find any answers. I might put my already compromised mental health at risk if I try too much. I’ll have to wait until the realization presents itself to me more clearly, and then I’ll find out what that dream truly meant. In the meantime, I will continue sleeping and dreaming, hoping to find out more about myself and this life I’m trying to live inside my own head. Wish me luck. I might not even come out of it alive.
Stop, look and listen
Just last week, on my way to work one early morning, a nice sticker on the jeepney I was on caught my eye. Now, that isn’t very unusual, because I ride in a jeepney everyday (I have for as long as I can remember), and we all know how typically colorful our favorite modes of public transportation can get, with all those stickers and brightly reflectorized decorations that constantly remind us to “beware of pickpockets” and pay “barya lang po sa umaga”. So no, it isn’t unusual to notice the tacky, although culturally iconic, glaring signage.
But the sticker wasn’t even particularly conspicuous. It wasn’t like the usual that boldly screamed for attention and stirred amusement. It was just a bunch of unremarkable cut out letters glued to the leather interiors. But the message they all formed together was nonetheless striking. It was a verse from the Bible, a fairly common verse I’ve heard and read and recited (and sang, even) so many times in the past. It read “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”.
Although all my years of education (as in all grueling, sixteen of them) were spent in conservative, private Catholic schools, I can’t say I’m a very religious person. Spiritual, yes. I can say I have a very deep, almost visceral personal connection, a spiritual umbilical cord of sorts, to the Divine. I whisper little prayers every chance I get. But I can’t claim to be religious at all, even if it were for the dear life of me. I seldom find the sincerity, necessity, and sanctity of the rituals and dogmas religions mandate. Religion is one of the enigmatic things in this short, so far unexceptional life of mine that I am still yet to figure out and truly understand and embrace. But I appreciate it. Most of the time.
Still, I didn’t expect that commuting and noticing the small wonders of public transit on a perfectly fine morning would send me a subliminal message, perhaps another ingenious wake up call from this very creative universe. I didn’t expect something so trivial would send me spiraling down the inner depths of my mind, contemplating on things I never have any success at comprehending. As if I had just bumped my head on something really hard and emerged awake from amnesia, I realized something I had known all along the past few months but kept trying to bury at the back of my head. I labor and I am very much heavily laden. And I need to have some rest.
Since the year started I’ve been relentless at pursuing my goal, which is to make the most out of what I have and what is in store for me, to find happiness in whatever it is I do and to make this the best year ever. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew. I’ve had wonderful success so far (and much progress is at hand, too), but I’ve had to pay much in exchange as it all came at a great price. Not even the commissions I earned could afford to pay it off. I vacantly watched as time flew by, waving goodbye at me as it left me behind, slumped and toiling at my workstation to achieve what I had (foolishly) set out to do.
Now I feel tired, like an age old monument, I imagine, standing motionless and tarnished by the harsh elements as the world around me continued to move on and change. Without me. I’m bored and burnt out, stagnant and rotting in a very bad place. I feel like I’ve nothing left to give. I don’t even have anything left to draw upon, like a well that’s empty and dry. And I need the time to fill myself up again. It doesn’t come all the time, I guess, this feeling of being so dangerously close to completely burning out. But it comes. And I think it just came, knocked on my wide open door and gave me a big warm hug. My mind is so aged and fatigued it can no longer function the way it normally does, like a sophisticated cellphone submerged in a glass of ice-cold whiskey, like a precious tonsil surgically estranged from the lymphatic system and preserved for posterity’s sake in a bottle of formaldehyde. My body is, well, it’s always been a rusty old piece of machinery, anyway, so it’s not a big surprise that it’s now breaking down like a thick slab of butter melting in a hot, stainless steel skillet. My soul, my poor old soul, wants to just evaporate and vanish into thin air, even just for a while, if only to momentarily stop existing and leave behind the pains of arduous reality. If Descartes says “Cogito ergo sum” or “I think therefore I am”, then perhaps if do the exact opposite, if I shut my brain down and stop thinking altogether, I would stop existing, too. What a relief that would be. But I can only sleep for so long, and the only other real alternatives are death or lying in a comatose, both of which are rather grim and unattractive prospects.
If only my life were a movie playing in some big old fashioned VCR (I prefer vintage as technology tends to harass you with so many intellectual demands), I would gladly press the remote control’s pause button right now and just rest. I want to make the world play statue dance all at the same time, with me telling when it’s time to dance like there’s no tomorrow and when it’s time stop and just be still and motionless. At the moment I’m so confused about what I really want to do, wading in deep waters of ambivalence. With the kind of disorganized life I am living right now, finding serenity, clarity and lucid moments is hard. It’s so hard to try to change when everything around you remains the same, and it’s so hard not to change when everything around you is. It can get really confusing at times, living a life and trying your best to be good at it.
But I’ve now come to a realization, thanks to that nice little sticker I happened to notice by some big cosmic coincidence. I need some rest. I’m now learning to let go of whatever little control I have over my life (there isn’t much of it to begin with anyway), consciously trying to taper off my obsessive compulsive habit of always making mountains out of molehills, sweating the small stuff, fretting over every minute detail and worrying about the consequences of the smallest of my actions. I’m learning to loosen up, relax, be a bit careless, even, just to keep from killing myself with all the panicking I’ve been doing. I’m learning to take each day as it comes, not forcing things to happen and instead entrusting them to the powers that be, to the universe and whoever is in charge of it. I’m now embracing my nothingness, releasing my command over my life and hoping for life to surprise me with wonderful things I don’t expect.
Maybe I’ll find the answers if just take the time to stop, look, and listen. Life, after all, is a journey, not a destination. It's a big journey with so many unexpected detours. It’s time I learned to let go of the compass, the map, the worry and just sit back and just go along with this big joyride we're all in. It’ll all be over before we know it, anyway.
But the sticker wasn’t even particularly conspicuous. It wasn’t like the usual that boldly screamed for attention and stirred amusement. It was just a bunch of unremarkable cut out letters glued to the leather interiors. But the message they all formed together was nonetheless striking. It was a verse from the Bible, a fairly common verse I’ve heard and read and recited (and sang, even) so many times in the past. It read “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”.
Although all my years of education (as in all grueling, sixteen of them) were spent in conservative, private Catholic schools, I can’t say I’m a very religious person. Spiritual, yes. I can say I have a very deep, almost visceral personal connection, a spiritual umbilical cord of sorts, to the Divine. I whisper little prayers every chance I get. But I can’t claim to be religious at all, even if it were for the dear life of me. I seldom find the sincerity, necessity, and sanctity of the rituals and dogmas religions mandate. Religion is one of the enigmatic things in this short, so far unexceptional life of mine that I am still yet to figure out and truly understand and embrace. But I appreciate it. Most of the time.
Still, I didn’t expect that commuting and noticing the small wonders of public transit on a perfectly fine morning would send me a subliminal message, perhaps another ingenious wake up call from this very creative universe. I didn’t expect something so trivial would send me spiraling down the inner depths of my mind, contemplating on things I never have any success at comprehending. As if I had just bumped my head on something really hard and emerged awake from amnesia, I realized something I had known all along the past few months but kept trying to bury at the back of my head. I labor and I am very much heavily laden. And I need to have some rest.
Since the year started I’ve been relentless at pursuing my goal, which is to make the most out of what I have and what is in store for me, to find happiness in whatever it is I do and to make this the best year ever. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew. I’ve had wonderful success so far (and much progress is at hand, too), but I’ve had to pay much in exchange as it all came at a great price. Not even the commissions I earned could afford to pay it off. I vacantly watched as time flew by, waving goodbye at me as it left me behind, slumped and toiling at my workstation to achieve what I had (foolishly) set out to do.
Now I feel tired, like an age old monument, I imagine, standing motionless and tarnished by the harsh elements as the world around me continued to move on and change. Without me. I’m bored and burnt out, stagnant and rotting in a very bad place. I feel like I’ve nothing left to give. I don’t even have anything left to draw upon, like a well that’s empty and dry. And I need the time to fill myself up again. It doesn’t come all the time, I guess, this feeling of being so dangerously close to completely burning out. But it comes. And I think it just came, knocked on my wide open door and gave me a big warm hug. My mind is so aged and fatigued it can no longer function the way it normally does, like a sophisticated cellphone submerged in a glass of ice-cold whiskey, like a precious tonsil surgically estranged from the lymphatic system and preserved for posterity’s sake in a bottle of formaldehyde. My body is, well, it’s always been a rusty old piece of machinery, anyway, so it’s not a big surprise that it’s now breaking down like a thick slab of butter melting in a hot, stainless steel skillet. My soul, my poor old soul, wants to just evaporate and vanish into thin air, even just for a while, if only to momentarily stop existing and leave behind the pains of arduous reality. If Descartes says “Cogito ergo sum” or “I think therefore I am”, then perhaps if do the exact opposite, if I shut my brain down and stop thinking altogether, I would stop existing, too. What a relief that would be. But I can only sleep for so long, and the only other real alternatives are death or lying in a comatose, both of which are rather grim and unattractive prospects.
If only my life were a movie playing in some big old fashioned VCR (I prefer vintage as technology tends to harass you with so many intellectual demands), I would gladly press the remote control’s pause button right now and just rest. I want to make the world play statue dance all at the same time, with me telling when it’s time to dance like there’s no tomorrow and when it’s time stop and just be still and motionless. At the moment I’m so confused about what I really want to do, wading in deep waters of ambivalence. With the kind of disorganized life I am living right now, finding serenity, clarity and lucid moments is hard. It’s so hard to try to change when everything around you remains the same, and it’s so hard not to change when everything around you is. It can get really confusing at times, living a life and trying your best to be good at it.
But I’ve now come to a realization, thanks to that nice little sticker I happened to notice by some big cosmic coincidence. I need some rest. I’m now learning to let go of whatever little control I have over my life (there isn’t much of it to begin with anyway), consciously trying to taper off my obsessive compulsive habit of always making mountains out of molehills, sweating the small stuff, fretting over every minute detail and worrying about the consequences of the smallest of my actions. I’m learning to loosen up, relax, be a bit careless, even, just to keep from killing myself with all the panicking I’ve been doing. I’m learning to take each day as it comes, not forcing things to happen and instead entrusting them to the powers that be, to the universe and whoever is in charge of it. I’m now embracing my nothingness, releasing my command over my life and hoping for life to surprise me with wonderful things I don’t expect.
Maybe I’ll find the answers if just take the time to stop, look, and listen. Life, after all, is a journey, not a destination. It's a big journey with so many unexpected detours. It’s time I learned to let go of the compass, the map, the worry and just sit back and just go along with this big joyride we're all in. It’ll all be over before we know it, anyway.
Homecoming King
It’s been a while since I last came home. By “home” I don’t literally mean our little house on the prairies of the city’s suburban outskirts, as I’ve been living in the quaint house for almost all my life. I mean home as in inside me, inside myself, inside the only real home I can ever really have. Profound, I know. Let’s just say I’ve been away on a soul-searching adventure of sorts, thinking I could find myself elsewhere, some distant place other than what was already within me. I’ve had no success in finding what I was looking for. And it feels like it’s been a very long time since I last paid a visit, sat down and had a good talk with myself over some tea and biscuits.
In this day and age when people live in insomniac cities that never sleep or blink, it’s hard not to get lost in the colorful chaos. It has become so hard to ignore the many pastimes that exist only to amuse and lure us away from the clear paths we’ve supposedly already chosen for ourselves, leading us astray like some legendary piper did those poor mice and children of Hamelin once upon a time. Losing focus has become part of daily routine, as many of us momentarily leave behind our carefully crafted plans to enjoy some leisurely activity here and there, hoping to find escape and release and, quite possibly, that one missing piece that would complete us and make us truly happy.
We find ourselves forever wallowing in endless, man-made oceans of bright neon lights and disorienting sounds and other eccentric sensations that can easily distract, making us all but helpless against these temptations that surround us. It seems there is always so much to do, so many places to go to and sights to see, so many people to meet, and yet so little time. It’s hard to find your way when everything around you points you to so many other different, often opposite, directions. It’s hard to stop and keep still when the world around you is spinning around, feeding you with confusion and pushing you to march aimlessly down the crowded streets along with the rest of the faceless mob as if electricity ran through your veins. Especially for someone like me, whose sense of inner direction is either dormant or entirely nonexistent, getting carried away by the ever-changing tides of the times is becoming both a hobby and an ugly vice that has left me a mess so easily swayed by circumstances into making half-hearted decisions. The world constantly pulls me away from myself, drawing me away from all the confines of my being with promises of finding bliss outside. And I find myself following in a trance.
Lately I’ve been so caught up with work and all its unthinkable horrors that I’ve barely had the time to stop and figure things out. I’ve somehow become constantly hungry for more than what I already have, chasing after dreams that always seem far away. Pursuing your goals and ambitions and all other worldly things often leads you away from most of the things you’ve always believed mattered the most, things you’ve always held dear and close to your heart. You easily forget your morals, your sense of restraint and control, your childhood inhibitions and self-imposed boundaries, even your impression of who you truly are and what you really want and what would truly make you happy.
I’ve been so engrossed with my journeys outward, entangled in an intricate web of hedonistic consumerism and the addictive cycle of pleasure-seeking egocentrism, that I’ve all but completely lost touch with my being, separated from my true self by the wilderness of distractions life has set before me. Sure, I still get some time alone, to wash the dishes when I get home or raid the stores at the malls in my obsessive-compulsive shopping sprees, but when you come to think of it, I haven’t really had the time to be alone with myself, away from the dirty dishes, away from the trendy yet impractical clothes nobody else but my plastic baul and the malls I’ve been financially supporting appreciate, away from all the things that are cluttered around me and inside my head. I’ve been so lost, so far away from home, from myself, and I must admit I haven’t really put much effort in finding my way back.
After work I somehow feel a vague sense of emptiness, which of course then gives birth to the need to preoccupy myself with more work, if only to fill my hollow insides and dull the throbbing pain of a troubled mind and kill the time, like pulling the stubborn weeds from the garden soil (with enough suppressed tension to actually pull and tear off the earth’s entire crust, too), or inspecting the retailer shelves for whatever expensive new arrivals I might have, heaven forbid, possibly missed by accident. I haven’t really taken the time off to just be with myself and not struggle to keep up with the rest of this quickly revolving world’s extra-curricular activities. Usually, I do.
I’ve always treasured stillness and silence, that precious time to be alone with your many thoughts and yourself, quietly reciting monologues and soliloquies and prayers and conversing with that other sentient voice in you (creepy, I know). It’s another voice that isn’t entirely your own but somehow helps in stirring everything else that’s swirling in your mind into a good brew of recollection and contemplation. It’s not like I’m schizophrenic or anything. I think it’s something we all do unconsciously; turning inward, tuning in to our own thoughts and learning to shut out everything else when it gets too noisy. I just find it a good habit, a way of keeping myself mentally healthy.
Despite living in a world that constantly drives itself towards exhaustion and leaves behind those who cannot keep up, I sometimes choose to just stop altogether, discreetly step aside and let those more eager to run the race shuffle ahead of me and disappear in the distance. Of course I don’t like getting left behind. But sometimes it just feels good to stop and rest. Then I trail behind in my own sweet time, watching the colorful blur that is the rest of the world in a hurried fast forward as I go along. Whenever I feel so close to burning out and getting lost along the way, I usually pause for awhile, taking time to regain my balance and checking my map and compass before once again running the marathon through life’s convoluted (and heavily booby-trapped) labyrinths. I used to do that a lot, like an instinctive reaction to everyday life. I don’t know what sent that habit flying out the window.
I guess I got carried away again, swept off my feet by my insatiable desires to complete myself and pursue happiness in all the mundane comforts that surround us. Of course, like everyone else, I also strive to chase after the many ideas the culture has taught us to value, like success and prominence and wealth, no matter how tiring and draining it sometimes can be. I guess I overdid it again, as usual, losing my focus in the process. I sought happiness in all the wrong places. I feasted gluttonously on food that I knew would only accumulate in my already gargantuan thighs and cut my life expectancy in half. I spent money on many unnecessary things I found rather comforting (if only temporarily), stacking heaps upon heaps of new clothes on my hamper while helplessly watching as my handicapped social bridges began to collapse one by one and crumble to dust, abandoned and neglected. I can’t say I’ve entirely burned them to the ground but much work needs to be done to repair the damage and rebuild where gaps have now emerged. I feverishly pursued lofty ambitions, the fruits of which are still yet to ripen, sacrificing a great deal of whatever time I had left to deal with what little that remained of my so-called life.
Now, after some thinking, I can say I’ve reached a point of (long-overdue) enlightenment. I’ve realized that no matter how far away from home and from yourself everyday life takes you, it’s important to always find your way back and return to the self, on a homecoming of sorts. At the end of the day you must take the time to pause, breathe and look back inside, learn to let go of the worries and troubles of the world around you. I may venture out and explore every so often, broadening my horizons, but now I try my best to not be too far away and distant from my inner self, my core. As the Zen saying goes, you cannot see your reflection in moving water. It is only in still waters that you truly see a clear reflection of yourself. That is why, I’m reminded, I do not fear the long, quiet journey home everyday, despite the carnivalesque theatrics of my dysfunctional family waiting to greet me home by the doorstep. I relish in it, finding in it the chance to forget the confusion the world outside so easily causes and return to who I truly am. At the end of the long day, shopping and wandering the streets, I’ve learned to sever my ties with the pretentious world and reunite with the real me waiting for me to come home. It’s like taking off a dirtied coat and leaving it hanging outside just before stepping into the door. And the homecoming is always wonderfully warm.
Now I’m home. Again. And this time I’ll try my best to stay as long as I can.
In this day and age when people live in insomniac cities that never sleep or blink, it’s hard not to get lost in the colorful chaos. It has become so hard to ignore the many pastimes that exist only to amuse and lure us away from the clear paths we’ve supposedly already chosen for ourselves, leading us astray like some legendary piper did those poor mice and children of Hamelin once upon a time. Losing focus has become part of daily routine, as many of us momentarily leave behind our carefully crafted plans to enjoy some leisurely activity here and there, hoping to find escape and release and, quite possibly, that one missing piece that would complete us and make us truly happy.
We find ourselves forever wallowing in endless, man-made oceans of bright neon lights and disorienting sounds and other eccentric sensations that can easily distract, making us all but helpless against these temptations that surround us. It seems there is always so much to do, so many places to go to and sights to see, so many people to meet, and yet so little time. It’s hard to find your way when everything around you points you to so many other different, often opposite, directions. It’s hard to stop and keep still when the world around you is spinning around, feeding you with confusion and pushing you to march aimlessly down the crowded streets along with the rest of the faceless mob as if electricity ran through your veins. Especially for someone like me, whose sense of inner direction is either dormant or entirely nonexistent, getting carried away by the ever-changing tides of the times is becoming both a hobby and an ugly vice that has left me a mess so easily swayed by circumstances into making half-hearted decisions. The world constantly pulls me away from myself, drawing me away from all the confines of my being with promises of finding bliss outside. And I find myself following in a trance.
Lately I’ve been so caught up with work and all its unthinkable horrors that I’ve barely had the time to stop and figure things out. I’ve somehow become constantly hungry for more than what I already have, chasing after dreams that always seem far away. Pursuing your goals and ambitions and all other worldly things often leads you away from most of the things you’ve always believed mattered the most, things you’ve always held dear and close to your heart. You easily forget your morals, your sense of restraint and control, your childhood inhibitions and self-imposed boundaries, even your impression of who you truly are and what you really want and what would truly make you happy.
I’ve been so engrossed with my journeys outward, entangled in an intricate web of hedonistic consumerism and the addictive cycle of pleasure-seeking egocentrism, that I’ve all but completely lost touch with my being, separated from my true self by the wilderness of distractions life has set before me. Sure, I still get some time alone, to wash the dishes when I get home or raid the stores at the malls in my obsessive-compulsive shopping sprees, but when you come to think of it, I haven’t really had the time to be alone with myself, away from the dirty dishes, away from the trendy yet impractical clothes nobody else but my plastic baul and the malls I’ve been financially supporting appreciate, away from all the things that are cluttered around me and inside my head. I’ve been so lost, so far away from home, from myself, and I must admit I haven’t really put much effort in finding my way back.
After work I somehow feel a vague sense of emptiness, which of course then gives birth to the need to preoccupy myself with more work, if only to fill my hollow insides and dull the throbbing pain of a troubled mind and kill the time, like pulling the stubborn weeds from the garden soil (with enough suppressed tension to actually pull and tear off the earth’s entire crust, too), or inspecting the retailer shelves for whatever expensive new arrivals I might have, heaven forbid, possibly missed by accident. I haven’t really taken the time off to just be with myself and not struggle to keep up with the rest of this quickly revolving world’s extra-curricular activities. Usually, I do.
I’ve always treasured stillness and silence, that precious time to be alone with your many thoughts and yourself, quietly reciting monologues and soliloquies and prayers and conversing with that other sentient voice in you (creepy, I know). It’s another voice that isn’t entirely your own but somehow helps in stirring everything else that’s swirling in your mind into a good brew of recollection and contemplation. It’s not like I’m schizophrenic or anything. I think it’s something we all do unconsciously; turning inward, tuning in to our own thoughts and learning to shut out everything else when it gets too noisy. I just find it a good habit, a way of keeping myself mentally healthy.
Despite living in a world that constantly drives itself towards exhaustion and leaves behind those who cannot keep up, I sometimes choose to just stop altogether, discreetly step aside and let those more eager to run the race shuffle ahead of me and disappear in the distance. Of course I don’t like getting left behind. But sometimes it just feels good to stop and rest. Then I trail behind in my own sweet time, watching the colorful blur that is the rest of the world in a hurried fast forward as I go along. Whenever I feel so close to burning out and getting lost along the way, I usually pause for awhile, taking time to regain my balance and checking my map and compass before once again running the marathon through life’s convoluted (and heavily booby-trapped) labyrinths. I used to do that a lot, like an instinctive reaction to everyday life. I don’t know what sent that habit flying out the window.
I guess I got carried away again, swept off my feet by my insatiable desires to complete myself and pursue happiness in all the mundane comforts that surround us. Of course, like everyone else, I also strive to chase after the many ideas the culture has taught us to value, like success and prominence and wealth, no matter how tiring and draining it sometimes can be. I guess I overdid it again, as usual, losing my focus in the process. I sought happiness in all the wrong places. I feasted gluttonously on food that I knew would only accumulate in my already gargantuan thighs and cut my life expectancy in half. I spent money on many unnecessary things I found rather comforting (if only temporarily), stacking heaps upon heaps of new clothes on my hamper while helplessly watching as my handicapped social bridges began to collapse one by one and crumble to dust, abandoned and neglected. I can’t say I’ve entirely burned them to the ground but much work needs to be done to repair the damage and rebuild where gaps have now emerged. I feverishly pursued lofty ambitions, the fruits of which are still yet to ripen, sacrificing a great deal of whatever time I had left to deal with what little that remained of my so-called life.
Now, after some thinking, I can say I’ve reached a point of (long-overdue) enlightenment. I’ve realized that no matter how far away from home and from yourself everyday life takes you, it’s important to always find your way back and return to the self, on a homecoming of sorts. At the end of the day you must take the time to pause, breathe and look back inside, learn to let go of the worries and troubles of the world around you. I may venture out and explore every so often, broadening my horizons, but now I try my best to not be too far away and distant from my inner self, my core. As the Zen saying goes, you cannot see your reflection in moving water. It is only in still waters that you truly see a clear reflection of yourself. That is why, I’m reminded, I do not fear the long, quiet journey home everyday, despite the carnivalesque theatrics of my dysfunctional family waiting to greet me home by the doorstep. I relish in it, finding in it the chance to forget the confusion the world outside so easily causes and return to who I truly am. At the end of the long day, shopping and wandering the streets, I’ve learned to sever my ties with the pretentious world and reunite with the real me waiting for me to come home. It’s like taking off a dirtied coat and leaving it hanging outside just before stepping into the door. And the homecoming is always wonderfully warm.
Now I’m home. Again. And this time I’ll try my best to stay as long as I can.
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