crossroads

i don't know what to do with my life.

oh no.

far from the edge

The wait has been known to boggle the mind,
make everyone insane,
drive people to the edge -
or even off it.

Mercily,
my feet is still firmly planted
in the center of sanity.
I laugh more, yes,
but it is not one of despair
nor of lunacy.

I laugh of contentment,
though my situation is far
from perfection.
It just feels good to laugh
and live like life's a dream.

Rantings of the Employed

A lot of people complain about their superiors - the latter's unreasonable tendencies and inconsiderate demands. They rant about how they are fed up with their jobs. They promise that they will definitely, definitely quit soon and look for other employment opportunities where they could spread their wings and fly and be happy and all sorts of crap.

Let me join that roster.

Yes, I hate my superiors. Don't get me wrong, though. I don't hate all of them but just a couple. And like most of dissatisfied employees (let me stress that I am not an employee, by the way), I claim to have valid reasons for my spite.

Let us discuss these superiors one by one.

Superior No. 1:Mr. Loveless North-South Pole
He calls in the wee hours of the morning and late at night to order you around. He does not have any inkling as to what "holy day of obligation", "family day", "rest day" mean. He believes that everyday must be devoted to his whims and wishes.

While it is completely valid to make someone under you to do a job or perform a task preferably within the bounds of that person's job description, that does not give the superior ultimate hold over his/her employee. Unfortunately, Mr. Loveless North-South Pole does not realize that.

He crosses every boundary available to mankind. He orders the office messenger to do personal chores for him. He does not care whether you are at the church on a Sunday (your rest day): you are to go to a particular office and guard the activities which are being done a mile or more away - and you have to do that without any telescopes or zooming contraptions at that. Once you point that measly fact out, you'd get a shout or two from him for your idiotic observation.

He makes you do everything he can think of, without regard as to what really is important and necessary. He expects you to be in two, three, or four places at the same time and if you even protest that splicing yourself will not be a very nice sight to behold, you will be treated to a scornful look and a high-pitched sermon about the important of being in two, three, four places at the same time. His word is the law. (Though it rarely ever makes sense. But that's just your opinion, so it doesn't count.)

Superior No. 2: Mr. Forgetful Breacher

Such an ordinary name for an extraordinarily forgetful man. Yes, he tends to forget things. Often. But, noticeably, he only forgets those items and details which would be beneficial to you and harmful or offensive to his cause. Yes, he wants to downplay your rights and establisheshis idea of howyour rights should be. He calls the shots. He makes your rights. He decides what is best for you. After all, he should know best, being the manager and all.

And he conveniently forgets your agreement. Yes, he is no man of his word. He denies you every point that you both have agreed upon. He denies the existence of any agreement whatsoever between the two of you. He breaches your contract by substituting his template of an agreement for the original contract. In the end, he will be thoroughly benefited. In the end, you are left clutching the remnants of your violated contract wondering what the hell happened and who the hell is this monstrous, wealthy but selfish person before you who is presently pretending you do not exist.


So these are the two monstrosities who are ruining my days and giving me cause to complain and rant and threaten to quit my work. (Oh, and they also fuel my desire to bitch-slap them to my heart's content.)

They are the reason why I do not enjoy working anymore. If not for the other inhabitants of our simple workplace, I would have done a Ruffa Gutierez. But unlike Ruffa G., I do not have the benefit of another employment offer, which will save my hide and ego.

So instead of going hungry and succumbing to mendicancy, I tolerate these vile prejudices against my persona. And I swear to myself that time will come when these monstrous superiors will kiss. my. feet.

Ode to Paranoia

You hug me:
you want to stay.
I breathe in your intoxicating perfume:
I know it will stay in my system for a while,
for a while.

I'm fighting the urge to keep you -
you are bad for me
but I feel safer with you around.
You keep me safe;
you keep me sane

or insane? As I ponder,
you hug me some more.
Too tightly,
as if you are begging me
to listen to your logic.
And I am listening,
though you might be bad for me.

I fall silent
and inhale the reality you bring;
you loosen your hold and Hope springs.
You stand beside each other
and will me to choose.

And I can't.
It would have been easier
if one of you fought for me -
harder than the other.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

And I choose
neither
and both.
I hold my ground
and wait for reality.

two years

Two years.

No, not really. More like one year eleven months and some days. But my thoughts are centered on that day, "two years" from now.

Two years. Not really a long time to wait for someone who had just spent about 21 tedious and not so tedious years of studying. Not really a difficult wait for someone who's supposed to be hell-bent on studying for four months and some days more. Two years until that fated day isn't as nerve-racking a wait than that for the dreaded results of the 2009 bar examinations. "Two years" is nothing, then.

Two years. If I had not looked for you tonight, I wouldn't have known I'd be waiting. For two years. You said you were old. But I see nothing of the years, just the little boy who sings me to sleep, the shy smile, the silent strength. I would not have seen the change: you cut your hair. I don't think much of it. I still see you, a couple of months before. Everything will be fine, I tell myself. Two years is enough time for your hair to grow back. To how things had been.

When I saw you tonight, I immediately felt guilty for being unfaithful to my books. The day pulled me into a haze and I couldn't focus. I did a lot; yet, I did nothing necessary. All throughout, I kept pushing your voice away. And to occupy my thoughts, I did everything and nothing. But dusk carried thoughts of you and your lines again. At least, I thought it did; it is just now that I realized, you and your lines were always with me, like a background melody to a poignant movie. That's why I looked for you.

When I found you, everything and nothing immediately shut down. And out. You reminded me of my purpose, my goal. And I refocused. Two years will do it for both of us. There's no escape for you; I call it a sacrifice, you call it your responsibility. A necessary two year break from the craziness. I think about it and realize: for two years, I'd only be able to think of you, hear memories of you. But not hear from you. (And I'd content myself with that, lest I hear from you and hear... pain.)

It won't be a difficult wait. I have enough of your laugh and your smile to last me through years and years. By the time that fated day comes, one year eleven months and some days from now, "two years" would have elapsed and we will be two changed persons. I will not promise to go looking for you that day. You may not arrive. But I, I will still be here wondering if there will be any certainty to our paths.

I wonder, will this necessary break build me a bridge to where you will be then? No answer for that. But I will do my end of the "two year responsibility". For myself and no one else.Two years, after all, is never a difficult wait for the impossible to happen.

This girl

This girl is just one of those crazy girls who'd drive by you, throw a pie at your face, and apologize with a happy, happy laugh. And all you can do is shake your head and laugh in spite of your pie-smeared face. Yes, this girl likes her jokes and her pranks. She likes teasing you about anything, really. She's after your reaction, and not after any possible smugness a person might have after teasing another.

This girl likes her halo-halo dessert to have a sweet surprise under the shaved ice. She likes hanging out with those people she is comfortable with. She likes laughing out loud, throwing her head back when she does. Laugh. LAUGH. She has a big laugh. And she snickers at almost every imperceptible item in the world. She likes her happiness. She thrives in happiness.

But she also grows in her misery. She writes poetry and believes they ARE poetry. She would call them such, no matter what others might say. And though she'd claim others' perception of her doesn't matter, in truth, it does. But she'd laugh, still. Nothing ever goes wrong with laughter in your life.

This girl loves her freedom, but also yearns to be hugged tightly at night. She likes to have someone open the car door for her 'just because' and not just to prove that chivalry hasn't completely left the world. Yet. She appreciates it when a friend helps her with her gym bag or book bag or whatever big or bulky that she may be carrying. She likes her brunch to have fruits and pancakes and brewed coffee for good measure. She never puts sugar in her coffee and she'd rather have it black, although she'd settle for an instant 3-in-1 when that's the only thing available.

This girl also loves her lunch-outs with friends. One friend, two friends, more friends, it doesn't matter. The conversation will still be good. And conversations get better as the sun sets. Over dinner, the conversations take a lazy but comfortable toll. The talks are easy here. And with beer, wine, and good armchairs, conversations with good friends can never go wrong.

As with conversations with herself, she has that all the time. Yep, a monkey might call her crazy but hey, we need craziness in this life to survive. She's still planning to vandalize someday, nevermind if she does that alone. She wants to make her mark in the world - every big mark that she could ever make. And she wants to vandalize, not just because it's a mark, but because she wants to do something she has never done before, and one that she has already promised to do. A mark on a wall is just a start. She has more tricks and plans up her sleeve. This girl is just bidding her time. She's pacing herself.

This girl will surprise you: you'd think her absence would be a welcome respite. But you'd miss her, too. You just won't understand why.

Oh, but she runs! Not too long, not too far. But she runs while she can. She'd like to do it in the rain, across the freshly-mowed lawns. And when it'd finally be time for her to stop, she'd look back at the direction where she started her sprint and be amazed by the distance she had been able to cover. Yes, this girl would like that.

This girl gets tired, too. Well, she is tired. She wants to just withdraw and crawl under the covers, lie on her cold bed, while hugging her knees to her chest. She'd like to sleep soundly tonight: she had a good day and tomorrow, she'd have another. Possibly, an even better one.

And this girl is tired now. Although she still wants to write a few more paragraphs, her brain is slowly shutting down. A glass of milk and she's ready to call it a night. (And then she remembers an adventure she had just rejected. Yes, just an hour ago. All paths are adventures waiting to happen, you see, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant they seem to be.) She wonders. And she smiles: she made a good decision for a good day. She remembers to pace.

This girl says good night to jokes and pranks, good night to laughter and misery, lunches and conversations with her own self. For now, that is.

Tonight, it will just be this girl and her dreams.

105

You have everything
in you.
Yes, you do.
Drinks and good time,
dirt and shame -
you're a conundrum
of trash and treasures
and you leave me
speechless,
wanting to close
my eyes,
so as not to see
your evil.

Often,
I walk past the threshold
and pray for enlightenment
along the way.
Other times,
I walk with acceptance:
you would be no different
from yesterday
and the day before,
save for maybe
a few more empty bottles
and silent protests
from the distressed sheets.

"Open the door",
you tell me.
I hear a wicked promise
of change;
I am drawn towards
a hopeful drama
of adventure.
I put my faith in
your promise
and prepare for something
magically neat.
But you,
you
you stay the same.

Ugh.