Of Letting Go and Moving On

Once again, things are changing. The wheel is moving once again and I've chosen to be in another place. 

The realization came to me while traveling to work. I suppose I've never really thought much about the choices I've made the past few days, only picking what I thought were highly interesting, like a kid inside a candy store choosing the most colorful sweets. I guess I've never really confronted the gravity of my choices, not until the recent ride struck me with an epiphany that has now left me with an unsure smile on my face.

I am happy with my decision. For the record, I do not regret having decided on being part of yet another adventure. Brave new frontiers are always exciting -- unfamiliar landscapes, foreign cultures, a different set of people to mingle and talk to: all these things make the journey worth it. Yet, going to the next chapter of my life does not diminish the value of the last. If anything, I think the past two years have strengthened me enough to face the next challenge. 

There are always regrets. Things I've done, things I should've done, things I shouldn't have, people I should've been braver to confront, people I should've been wiser to avoid -- there are always things that will make me feel bad. It's foolish to even think that there is nothing to regret about. But when I summon all the courage to say "no regrets", it is in the belief that regretting will only hamper my growth. There are lessons waiting to be learned and that's what I should focus on -- the wisdom I can take away from the craziness and impulsiveness of the past two years.

I've met people along the way and I hope I made positive contributions in their life. Some of them have already left for better opportunities; some are staying because they believe it is where their fate lies. Regardless of their motivations or reasons, I sincerely hope that I've affected them in ways that they will cherish for life. Not to be sappy about it, but then, we all hope for anchors to affirm our existence. In the end, perhaps there really is no good or bad, only nothingness and the peace of emptiness. Faced with that, I fervently wish that at least I've caused happiness in one way or another, or have atoned for my faults against them, whatever these wrongs may be. 

The struggle really is in the daily details. And struggle, I have -- the cigarettes I should've thrown away, the cruel words I never should've uttered, and many other things. But what is done is done and one cannot do more about it except go on and be the better version of one's self. And I hope that's where I'm heading -- being the better me. As corny and as "Eat, Pray, Love" as it may sound, I just hope that I'm becoming better and I'm learning my lessons well. Although I staunchly affirm my disbelief of a deity that proportions each of our lifetime's lessons, I still believe that everyday challenges allow me to understand more about this life.

Anyway, among the many things that remain to be me, I still am afraid to be shallow (whatever that is) and I'm still scared of being a nobody (again, whatever that is). I still am very, very awkward. One of the things I've become that I'm not very proud of is how I've unleashed more meanness than I ever thought I was capable of. Maybe it was the attempt of fitting in, or reinforcing my self-esteem. Whatever it is, I hope that I don't end up becoming the person I once loathed (and still do).

Enough of the drama. Just thought of getting all these out of my system. Here's to a new career, a new life, and new lessons. 

Two Years

Traveling along the same route I have grown familiar with two years ago, I asked myself -- while the van trudged on the asphalt road -- if two years had really been that long. 2008 was like another lifetime altogether -- a lifetime built on escaping from a heartbreak that threatened to lead me to the brink of utter self-destruction. Two years ago was founded on vignettes of airports,  hallways, jeepney rides, trolleys, nights inside a room alone, reading by myself, silence at six AM waiting for no one, tricycle rides at nine AM, provincial lights, laughing as an ache rent one's heart, uncertainties, facades, waiting for messages that never came, longing for greetings that never arrived, failures, frustrations, a sad return, and more goodbyes.

Two years ago I promised myself it will be you, always, forever. Two years ago in the darkness of the night I told myself that this was what I wanted. That was two years ago -- two years ago when I foolishly believed that faith indeed moved mountains, that someone heard my pleas. I say foolish now because I know that there is no one out there dispensing favors for miserable mortals. There is no salvation apart from the one that we ourselves craft for ourselves. And I had to learn that lesson the hard way. 

From one heartache to another I hopped. And along the way I discovered that somewhere along the way I lost heart. Or maybe, just maybe, I grew up. Maybe disillusionment is truly an unavoidable circumstance. You earn your pragmatism with every experience you gain. 

Only the sheltered will live in their candy clouds and rainbow castles -- never harboring shattered dreams in their heart. But I refused to be sheltered. I still refuse to be. Two years ago I might have believed that there is happiness awaiting in the end of it all, you waiting at the corner of this madness, ready to take my offer, willing to hold my outstretched hand. I was a fool. But you see, I've learned. Pain somehow does that -- force you to learn the lessons of self-preservation. I snapped along the way. I got fed up. I snapped. All the drama -- enough. Yes, I think that was what I said: ENOUGH. I didn't deserve this. I was my own hero, I was my own messiah, I am my own martyr. I am the dashing prince out to rescue myself from my dragons, I do not need to save anyone but myself. In the end, I had the power.

Who would have imagined that who I am now is starkly different from who I was two years ago? Maybe not on the outside, but I know that deep inside me, there are avenues and paths in my heart that have become cul-de-sacs. 

And who would have imagined that, two years after all the hurt, all the dreams I've now given up will come back to me?

A Pig in the Cage with Antibiotics

In an attempt to jumpstart the mood and get myself in the writing zone, I'm back here, blogging on a lazy summer Sunday. The air is suffocating me with thoughts of beach getaways, but here I am, stuck instead at home, trying to finish a 4,000-word primer for a competition our company is joining.

Bah, adult life. But I'm not exactly complaining right now. I am too tired of whining -- note that this is merely an observation. 

I've never been the most responsible person on Earth, to be truthful, and adult life isn't exactly the best experience for a 24-year old boy who refuses to grow up. Mornings, like when I was a kid, are still the most horrible parts of the day -- waking up is still a drag. I still make a mess inside my closet every time I pull out clothes to wear. I still doodle when I'm forced to listen to long-drawn blabber -- just like in elementary, high school, and college. I am forgetful as always, yet I continue to resist making notes if only because creating reminders make me feel like I'm such an organized worrywart, which takes away the fun of spontaneity and surprises. 

Yes, I am inefficient. I am the gear that creaks and squeaks and goes all wonky. But somehow I'd like to believe that being this crazy, kooky person that I fashion myself to be makes me a whole lot interesting. I don't know when my aversion of becoming a bore began, but for as long as I can remember, I've always been that kid who tried to cross the line. Never mind if I ended up falling in a deep pit (which by the way was difficult to lie about at home, after I showed up with soiled clothes, bruises, and all),  or got punished for challenging authority (elementary days, discipline officer, nipple-pinching -- don't ask). 

The attempt to challenge the flow stems way, way back to my childhood, when I was forbidden to go outside and play. Our helper would lock the gate so my brother and I wouldn't be able to escape. But we were smarter (or stupider, take your pick): we'd scale the walls like the monster brats that we were, unafraid of jumping the height for the promise of the large playground that is the outside world. It was an ecstatic, rush-of-blood-to-the-head feeling. The defiance of imposed limits using ingenuity and lots of balls became a fruitful pursuit that led to fulfillment. It fuels my existence -- from then until now.

However, it doesn't make me a decent, respectable adult in the eyes of snooty companies and an uptight society. This is a world of rules, and I am trapped to slave away for the remainder of my days until the pension kicks in and I'm stuck in some senior citizen's home, waiting for Death to knock on my door at 2 in the morning with chloroform in my soy milk and arsenic-laced oatmeal cookies.

LOL. Happy Sunday everyone. :-)