If there's one item that would describe you, what would it be?

Turritopsis nutricula

The only stupid questions are those you do not ask. So ask!

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?

Musings of an Island Boy

Set my foot on Boracay soil the first time today, as part of the media immersion for one of our company's clients. Not that I was totally excited: while I've heard much about the famous island destination, the reality that this visit is part of work doesn't it make as grand as it sounds. 

While most people think the PR life is a charmed life, it isn't. It's taxing, it's tiring, and while there are a lot of perks to be thankful for (which I am, of course - it's work plus a bit of pleasure I guess, hands down) -- like what my boss said -- the fun is stripped away mostly by the fact that you're doing it for work.

Anyway, I digress from my main point. I was making a lot of observations while on the way here. Probably that's the creative side of me kicking in. I'm absorbing more of my environment since I'm trying to derive inspiration for my next story. I guess I'm amateurish that way, if one is to believe the quote from this book I'm currently reading, Philip Roth's "Everyman" (thanks Gretch!), which goes, "Amateurs look for inspiration; the rest of us just get up and go to work." And so far, there are a lot of interesting sights and sounds along the way, such as:

1.) The Jungle Boys. They were the tribal band that performed during our dinner. My friend Charl noted that it wasn't enough that you had to have musical talent to be part of the group -- you also had to have the body to show off, at the very least, since the guys performed half-naked. (Therefore, fat people = The City Boys)

2.) This ad about A-TVs for rent. Someone wrote, "Wow! You can go anywhere in Boracay!"

3.) The artificiality of the experience. The Jungle Boys playing with microphones and spotlights. 

4.)  How there's nothing majestic about hilly landscapes that give you a panoramic view of the islands when you're drunk and you have to climb uphill (a little inside joke, forgive me)

5.) Drunk muscular men bopping and bobbing their heads at the beach like they worked out all their lives to show off bulging muscles

6.) The DJ screaming "Put your hands up in the air" -- when everybody's too drunk to care

7.) French-kissing teeners in the beach. I really must be old; my sensibilities are offended

8.) How anticlimactic a tsunami would've been tonight

So far, I anticipate other things tomorrow. I am nearing inebriation -- forgive me if I fail to make this entry as ironic as I hoped it would've been. Bah. 

P.S. Thanks for calling me, buster loser. :-)

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. :-)

Pushover

"I don’t intend to lose. You know, I was trained in athletics, I was being groomed to compete in the Olympics for the 100-meter dash event. I was taught that when running for a competition, never look back, even for a split second because that will cost you your victory. That metaphor has always stayed with me. If you have an objective, go for it. The science of consciousness tells you that you cannot break your focus because you will only hamper your own performance." - Nicanor Perlas, 2010 presidential candidate

I was reading an article about Nicanor Perlas the other day, and encountered this quote of his that stuck to me.

Now, before I begin, I want to clarify that I am not endorsing him. So far, I've yet to listen/read about his views on the Reproductive Health Bill (one of the factors I consider in choosing this year's president). Regardless of my support (or the lack of it) however, I have to say this very ballsy quote of his really struck a chord in me.

I admit, I rarely have a single-track mind. I always lose sight of my goal because more often than not, I end up doubting myself. There's always that part where I think that I can't do it -- that inner voice asking, "Can you really?" or "Is it the right path?" or "Will it matter?" Eventually I just lose heart and become disillusioned/apathetic about whatever it is I'm doing.

The problem about looking at the grand picture is that the grand picture gives me a perfect 360-degree view of what-the-fuck. The pessimist in me always sees everything as pointless, absurd, and utterly doomed to failure. It's always about propping the system to succeed, struggling to exist, and fighting for life. It traps me in thoughts on why the universe actually favored life to even happen at all, when all it does is punch the living in the gut with its rules.

And so I end up dismissing everything as useless -- like building sandcastles just so the next bully walking by can stomp on it and kick me in the face when he's done.

But then again, like in my previous post, maybe I just have to go on and do it.

Honestly, it's very obvious that I've been entertaining these thoughts a lot recently. Notice, I've been trying to encourage myself with canned motivational speeches. This is how desperate I am to push myself out of this rut. I'm so afraid of taking a leap and the chance to be somebody else. I fear too much that I'll fail that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But I need to stop this because it's not making me any better. Not that I know what better is, but I'm sure as hell definite that it's not this.

I loathe being too much of a worrywart and pining over things of the past. I must cease romanticizing yesterday. Like that quote from "500 Days of Summer", I should take a good second look on what I had before. It's time I learned the lessons and moved forward with my life. This is a race and I have to win it. Focus like a laser.