He makes me want to learn more--to yearn for things that I can’t possibly do in so little time and with so little skills. I want to overthrow this dictature government. I want to see more meaningful films in the mall. I want to write like Lourd de Veyra. I’m supposed to be studying for Physics but I’m writing this. And he’s sick and asleep and I just can’t stop thinking about how much he cared about the P500,000 allotted for the Belen and the Christmas tree by the main gate. But all I thought of was how much I wanted to see the pretty lights.
I want to see pretty lights when somewhere down under people just want to see their mother and father—their sons and daughters alive—or if not, at least for the last time. They just want to see the light of the day. They needed food, water and shelter. And I wanted pretty lights.
Christmas wouldn’t be the same without that bright tree—but will anything ever be the same for those people who lost everything they had? Is there even a life after the storm?
He should know that when I slept in that small house in the suburbs of our city, I met this old man who smoke cigarettes before sunset. Hitting on something that has the power to kill him before he sleeps--how ironic, but it was no metaphor. He was too thin and his lips were chapped. At his age, he’s at risk for a couple of heart ailments and organ malfunction but who am I to talk about things like that? I am just a seventeen year old pre-med student. I can’t even remember half the things I studied in BIO3 so how can I warn someone that he’ll be seeing the door of heaven soon?
I just want my nothing box.
He said there are things that he’s content of not knowing—like why his father left or where he is now—and I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to know about that. I guess that was the same thing with me—I was content with being just one of the thousands of other ignorant Filipino teenagers who dream too much selfish dreams.
I wish I never met him.
But there are no mistakes in life—only fate.
"A psychologist walked around a room while teaching stress management to an audience. As she raised a glass of water, everyone expected they’d be asked the “half empty or half full” question. Instead, with a smile on her face she inquired, “How heavy is this glass of water?” The answers called out ranged from 8oz to 20 oz. She replied, “The absolute weight doesn’t matter. It depends on how long I hold it. If i hold it for a minute, its not a problem. If i hold it for an hour, i’ll have an ache in my arm. If i hold it for a day, my arm will feel numb and paralyzed. In each case, the weight of the glass doesn’t change, but the longer i hold it, the heavier it becomes.” She continued, “The stress and worries in life are like that glass of water. Think about them for a while and nothing happens. Think about them for a big longer and they begin to hurt. And if you think about them all day long, you will feel paralyzed - incapable of doing anything.” Always remember to put the glass down."
You are a butterfly, she said. You are purging, hiding—growing so that tomorrow you can fly. Beautifully, she added and winked like we shared a private joke.
I didn’t see the funny part.
This stage is painful. I feel like a snake shedding its skin, like a phoenix disintegrating into flames, an eagle plucking its wings—I feel like I’m sinking rapidly in my own muck—resurfacing to breath every once in a while.
I know the allure of wanting the past—the unattainable phase of time you cannot change, only cherish; like a peach that grows sweeter as it gets older. If people could pick the ones they’d love with the way their hearts beat inside their chest, I would have chosen that man. I would have spent evenings laughing over the phone, singing cheesy love songs and talking about books we read. Screw the miles, I would have done that and more. But I realized that you can teach your heart who to love. And in a world where the options are limitless—where making memories is just a question of who, how and why, I have to abstain.
It’s too mechanical. Too cold. Too dark. Too repulsive to even consider.
Do you believe in soul mates?
Yes, I said. Aristotle once said that love is composed of one soul inhabiting two bodies. And I ‘m willing to bet that when you find that person, that other piece of your soul, nothing will ever be the same.
We were walking on a steady ground, there was no heaven or earth. Just this strange in between where we have our hands hanging by our sides, had them brushing each other lightly, but not quite wanting to hold on either as if to say I just want to know the feel of your skin without bursting into flames with your proximity. But it happened a lot of times and sometimes you have to ask yourself—when will it be real? When will it ring true?
One, two, three beats.
One, two, three, four.
You can teach your heart.
It’s not a very good student.
"You have my permission not to love me;
I am a cathedral of deadbolts
and I’d rather burn myself down
than change the locks."
"…Kids, you may think your only choices are to swallow your anger or throw it in someone’s face. There’s a third option: You can just let it go, and only when you do that is it really gone and you can move forward. And that kids, was the perfect ending to a perfect love story. It just wasn’t mine. Mine was still out there, waiting for me…"
Hey. I feel the same :( I keep asking myself, "What happened to me?". I get really introverted sometimes and I can't remember the last time I felt amazed by something/someone. I'm either lonely or empty. But thank you. Because I know now that I'm not the only one.
It’s okay. I think everyone feels this way from time to time. The important thing is we understand ourselves enough to push through with our everyday life and to not let these inconsequential things bring us down. :))
I made this blog when I was a second year in high school and I had this thing going on with my best friend where we keep playing and singing Avril Lavigne & Paramore songs with matching head banging and screaming. I thought I was a crazy rock star or something. Haha. And even though I’ve outgrown that phase, I can’t find it in my heart to change my url. XD
Nikki Giovanni once said, “Writers don’t write from experience. Writers write from empathy.”
I was the kind of introvert who spends most of her time locked up in her room, studying lessons from school and reading fiction books. But I listened a lot when I had the chance. And I remember everything. I remember all the moments that I’m outside that box. I write about the things I felt for my friends when they were telling the story of their almost lover—the pain, the disappointment and the goodbye. I felt it a hundred fold and poured it all out as a jumble of words that immortalized that fleeting moment of weakness. I write about the loss of someone—of the fear of things I can’t imagine. I write about making colossal and irrevocable mistakes like I made them myself. Because back then I could still feel. I could still hear their words echoing inside my head long after I’ve closed my eyes each night.
Now I just don’t. I can’t feel anymore. There are these things that are going on in my life that’s supposed to make me cry or at the very least put me in a pensive mood. Now I just don’t care anymore.
What a load of bull.