I'm not special: of this I'm sure. I'm a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me, and my name will soon be forgotten, but I have loved someone with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.
-Nicholas Sparks
Friday, June 15, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
Crash into Me: Of Fear, Of Faith
Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.
I have always feared that possibility. The fear actually replaced my prior one of getting pregnant at the age of 16, being thrown out of the house by my father, and having the sperm-donor forsake me as he learns about my pregnancy. I made sure that didn't happen. And it did not. (I'm now 22.)
Then comes the new one. Compared to the unscheduled pregnancy fear, this one is much harder (and takes longer) to avoid. Whereas, then, I was just focused on getting past my 16th year here in this vice-filled earth with a flat tummy and a pristine womb, my new fear is more likely to linger until God knows when - either until the family I have successfully established with the person I had vowed to love for the rest of my life crumbles and falls apart (proving me right in my pessimism) or until I breathe my last, leaving my entire family mourning for my demise. Now in the second scenario, I would be proven wrong: my fear would cease to exist since I can be sure that the broken family curse didn't stay on with me. But more importantly, I would also cease to exist alongside that fear.
I can never be certain about where the roads will take me. Sure, I may know where I want to go, where I'd like to end up and with whom but the Skies may not share my dreams and preferences. It may rain on the day I scheduled a trip to the mountains. A car may hurtle from across the street and crash into me as I walk to school one fine day, erasing all my plans.
When I was younger, I tend to dream about all sorts of beautiful things and believe I can actually have them in, say, 5 years. Time passes by quickly and... my dreams remained as they were. That also means I never let them fade away. Yes, still I dream of being happy and stable someday, sans the tiara and the Beauty/Belle yellow ball gown: me, happy and secure with a good family which will never be broken by worldly factors.
It's strange that when I'm in my world, I tend to be more confident about the future. I get to have the strength and the hopeful disposition of 10 Sara Crewes; I know for certain I will be in the top spot in the near future. I believe that my dreams can and actually will materialize before me anytime soon.
Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.
But when the line comes out of another's lips, I'm left speechless. My courage leaves me; my dreams crumble. I fall.
It was not my fault that circumstances drove my mother away from me. I didn't assign myself to be brought under the care of yayas for about 78% of my life. I didn't wish for my father and mother not to marry each other and raise me as a normal child in a 'complete' family. It wasn't my choice to make and I shouldn't automatically have that fate, too, all because of the decisions my ascendants made during their time (or what the Skies made for them, whichever is more apt). Whatever happened to due process?
A preacher then told me to have Faith. Faith. It's such a small word for something so difficult to cough up. Why will I trust in something I couldn't see? How can I believe that things will fall squarely into their places when others' lives are such a mess? Does God play favorites? People tell me God will surely be good to me but how can they even say that? How can people know that they qualified for a happily-ever-after trophy?
Faith. The word ricochets all over my consciousness. I've prayed for it over and over again. I've willed myself to succumb to the Skies and its Map. Faith's wall had taken me quite some time to build, only for it to crumble and turn into sand by that same preacher's demeaning swipe.
Now, I long to sit on the pavement and wait for a car or anything heavy and deadly to crash into me. Maybe then, Faith will be there when - if - I open my eyes.
I have always feared that possibility. The fear actually replaced my prior one of getting pregnant at the age of 16, being thrown out of the house by my father, and having the sperm-donor forsake me as he learns about my pregnancy. I made sure that didn't happen. And it did not. (I'm now 22.)
Then comes the new one. Compared to the unscheduled pregnancy fear, this one is much harder (and takes longer) to avoid. Whereas, then, I was just focused on getting past my 16th year here in this vice-filled earth with a flat tummy and a pristine womb, my new fear is more likely to linger until God knows when - either until the family I have successfully established with the person I had vowed to love for the rest of my life crumbles and falls apart (proving me right in my pessimism) or until I breathe my last, leaving my entire family mourning for my demise. Now in the second scenario, I would be proven wrong: my fear would cease to exist since I can be sure that the broken family curse didn't stay on with me. But more importantly, I would also cease to exist alongside that fear.
I can never be certain about where the roads will take me. Sure, I may know where I want to go, where I'd like to end up and with whom but the Skies may not share my dreams and preferences. It may rain on the day I scheduled a trip to the mountains. A car may hurtle from across the street and crash into me as I walk to school one fine day, erasing all my plans.
When I was younger, I tend to dream about all sorts of beautiful things and believe I can actually have them in, say, 5 years. Time passes by quickly and... my dreams remained as they were. That also means I never let them fade away. Yes, still I dream of being happy and stable someday, sans the tiara and the Beauty/Belle yellow ball gown: me, happy and secure with a good family which will never be broken by worldly factors.
It's strange that when I'm in my world, I tend to be more confident about the future. I get to have the strength and the hopeful disposition of 10 Sara Crewes; I know for certain I will be in the top spot in the near future. I believe that my dreams can and actually will materialize before me anytime soon.
Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.
But when the line comes out of another's lips, I'm left speechless. My courage leaves me; my dreams crumble. I fall.
It was not my fault that circumstances drove my mother away from me. I didn't assign myself to be brought under the care of yayas for about 78% of my life. I didn't wish for my father and mother not to marry each other and raise me as a normal child in a 'complete' family. It wasn't my choice to make and I shouldn't automatically have that fate, too, all because of the decisions my ascendants made during their time (or what the Skies made for them, whichever is more apt). Whatever happened to due process?
A preacher then told me to have Faith. Faith. It's such a small word for something so difficult to cough up. Why will I trust in something I couldn't see? How can I believe that things will fall squarely into their places when others' lives are such a mess? Does God play favorites? People tell me God will surely be good to me but how can they even say that? How can people know that they qualified for a happily-ever-after trophy?
Faith. The word ricochets all over my consciousness. I've prayed for it over and over again. I've willed myself to succumb to the Skies and its Map. Faith's wall had taken me quite some time to build, only for it to crumble and turn into sand by that same preacher's demeaning swipe.
Now, I long to sit on the pavement and wait for a car or anything heavy and deadly to crash into me. Maybe then, Faith will be there when - if - I open my eyes.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Labyrinth
This is the point
where you close your eyes
and let the brown walls seep through,
calming your nerves.
Open your ears to the constant strums
rhythmically filling
the tiny cocoon
as the aroma of freshly roasted beans
wafts through.
No one says anything -
the words all but soothes
the silent lips:
this is the place
where you ought to be mute
in order to feel.
Beyond the glass panes,
the crowd bustles about
excitedly, doggedly,
routinely taking their paths.
You,
in your cocoon,
you hear not the ticking
of the clock.
Time is merely Time;
you do not grow old.
You are not trapped -
any moment, you'd have to step out
and join the moon
as it changes its orb,
inevitably.
For now, it is a comfort to remain,
benign and serene,
in your earthly abode,
away from the strife
of motions, of noise.
Within the world,
yet apart from it.
where you close your eyes
and let the brown walls seep through,
calming your nerves.
Open your ears to the constant strums
rhythmically filling
the tiny cocoon
as the aroma of freshly roasted beans
wafts through.
No one says anything -
the words all but soothes
the silent lips:
this is the place
where you ought to be mute
in order to feel.
Beyond the glass panes,
the crowd bustles about
excitedly, doggedly,
routinely taking their paths.
You,
in your cocoon,
you hear not the ticking
of the clock.
Time is merely Time;
you do not grow old.
You are not trapped -
any moment, you'd have to step out
and join the moon
as it changes its orb,
inevitably.
For now, it is a comfort to remain,
benign and serene,
in your earthly abode,
away from the strife
of motions, of noise.
Within the world,
yet apart from it.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
A Wanderer's Morning
The Sun's rays has never awakened me more. New days always begin with a question of your existence: who are you, and who are you going to be today? But on this particular day, it was 'why'?
There's nothing special about either the question or the way sunshine streams through the white lace curtains hanging by the east windows. That has always been the occurrence on sunny summer mornings. But the question itself on this summer morning led my eyes to the ceiling in a prayer. I have always tried to understand the world by bending into its palms without any further thought or resistance, voicelessly floating amid its reasonings.
Why?
The ceiling doesn't answer and I fade into a trance, mesmerized by the faint lines of cobwebs that face me. It is true then - Time exists even for non-believers. The Clouds fade into the Sky without any warning or any modicum of sound. Men fall and turn into worms that search for more life. And we, the drifters, do not feel all these happening. We float away in time for another tryst with the insignificant unknown.
Morning. Mourning. The thoughts confound me like the silence which only an overcrowded beach can give - populated but most private. I am naked but clothed enough so as not to shame myself. It is blasphemous to reveal Weaknesses but more blasphemous to reveal Truths.
Why?
I get up and fix myself a cup of coffee. Black, bitter, but still with a hint of sweetness even without a pinch of sugar. A new day is before me, a continuation of life. Another chance to be spent walking, dreaming, and just feeling the Earth beneath my bare feet. There is nothing to rectify nor retrace: there shouldn't ever be. The air is there for you to breathe. It cannot hear your confessions; it cannot disparage your guilt.
Why.
And the word hangs on.
There's nothing special about either the question or the way sunshine streams through the white lace curtains hanging by the east windows. That has always been the occurrence on sunny summer mornings. But the question itself on this summer morning led my eyes to the ceiling in a prayer. I have always tried to understand the world by bending into its palms without any further thought or resistance, voicelessly floating amid its reasonings.
Why?
The ceiling doesn't answer and I fade into a trance, mesmerized by the faint lines of cobwebs that face me. It is true then - Time exists even for non-believers. The Clouds fade into the Sky without any warning or any modicum of sound. Men fall and turn into worms that search for more life. And we, the drifters, do not feel all these happening. We float away in time for another tryst with the insignificant unknown.
Morning. Mourning. The thoughts confound me like the silence which only an overcrowded beach can give - populated but most private. I am naked but clothed enough so as not to shame myself. It is blasphemous to reveal Weaknesses but more blasphemous to reveal Truths.
Why?
I get up and fix myself a cup of coffee. Black, bitter, but still with a hint of sweetness even without a pinch of sugar. A new day is before me, a continuation of life. Another chance to be spent walking, dreaming, and just feeling the Earth beneath my bare feet. There is nothing to rectify nor retrace: there shouldn't ever be. The air is there for you to breathe. It cannot hear your confessions; it cannot disparage your guilt.
Why.
And the word hangs on.
Monday, April 2, 2007
The Happy Pill
We look far and wide for that laugh, that warm moment. We scavenge so much that we forget to stop and just survey our surroundings at that precise moment. Happiness happens every minute, everywhere. It is that vision in the eyes of a child, that bundle of joy in every mother's arms.
Happiness is that pink marshmallow that's left of your rocky road scoop, that tiny (seemingly) insignificant detail that sweetly melts in your mouth. Happiness is that sixpence in the pudgy boy's pocket, which he cheerfully gives to a little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar on a cold Christmas day.
It is bobbing for apples and carving pumpkins for the second-grade twins. It is thanksgiving, roast turkey, and the apple pudding grandmama always brings. It is that first time ever to sit on Santa's knees and ask for a bicycle, a doll, or a new baby brother.
Happiness is that quiet smile that wakes you up in the morning, the same smile that tucks you in at night. It is your Winnie the Pooh fleece blanket, your room, your comfort zone. Happiness is the night and its jewels that shines above you. It is the Makati skyline, the hidden lake with the tire swing.
It is that little feather that floats in the breeze but has the effects of a butterfly's wings. Happiness is that light feeling you carry with you as you go to work. It fills you up and gives you that bounce in your stride. Vitamin E could never make your face glow as much.
Happiness is that natural high. So don't look so far. Happiness is just around the corner. In fact, it lives there, there within your heart.
Happiness is that pink marshmallow that's left of your rocky road scoop, that tiny (seemingly) insignificant detail that sweetly melts in your mouth. Happiness is that sixpence in the pudgy boy's pocket, which he cheerfully gives to a little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar on a cold Christmas day.
It is bobbing for apples and carving pumpkins for the second-grade twins. It is thanksgiving, roast turkey, and the apple pudding grandmama always brings. It is that first time ever to sit on Santa's knees and ask for a bicycle, a doll, or a new baby brother.
Happiness is that quiet smile that wakes you up in the morning, the same smile that tucks you in at night. It is your Winnie the Pooh fleece blanket, your room, your comfort zone. Happiness is the night and its jewels that shines above you. It is the Makati skyline, the hidden lake with the tire swing.
It is that little feather that floats in the breeze but has the effects of a butterfly's wings. Happiness is that light feeling you carry with you as you go to work. It fills you up and gives you that bounce in your stride. Vitamin E could never make your face glow as much.
Happiness is that natural high. So don't look so far. Happiness is just around the corner. In fact, it lives there, there within your heart.
Friday, March 30, 2007
picking up the brush again
Walls shouldn't be left naked
or the cracks will show.
And when men turn into angry boxers,
there'll be nothing to hide
the cuts with.
Though weak, foundations
should appear sturdy,
vibrant, constant.
It shouldn't age,
it shouldn't move,
it shouldn't be damaged at all.
Paint does that:
it hides the age,
the imperfections,
the inconsistencies.
The painting had stopped
for a moment
and the artist's eyes
were led to believe in permanence
and rosy intricacies.
But men always turn into
fickle boxers,
who crash into the walls
and through the dreams that cover them.
Soon,
the walls are blank,
they're naked and weak
once again.
The Painter is back;
go find your walls.
She needs you to cover her in dark hues
to mask her stained, bruised face.
or the cracks will show.
And when men turn into angry boxers,
there'll be nothing to hide
the cuts with.
Though weak, foundations
should appear sturdy,
vibrant, constant.
It shouldn't age,
it shouldn't move,
it shouldn't be damaged at all.
Paint does that:
it hides the age,
the imperfections,
the inconsistencies.
The painting had stopped
for a moment
and the artist's eyes
were led to believe in permanence
and rosy intricacies.
But men always turn into
fickle boxers,
who crash into the walls
and through the dreams that cover them.
Soon,
the walls are blank,
they're naked and weak
once again.
The Painter is back;
go find your walls.
She needs you to cover her in dark hues
to mask her stained, bruised face.
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