We all say things we mean and we don’t mean when we are drenched in pain and hatred. As the pain numbs us and the hatred becomes too familiar, we weave a new thread of hope that things will get better in time and the horror that pain and hatred have made us confront can just be treated as another bad dream. Yet, bad dreams always haunt us no matter the time and distance. I am still haunted by the face of stranger I meet in you whom I thought I have known all my life. I am scared of ever seeing that stranger again. When you finally said you were sorry, I did not intend to accept it, but I did. People might call it cowardice when I did not do what I was supposed to when you ate all your despise of me the moment you said you were sorry. I want to call it a shot for a clean slate. I never want to remember nor be reminded of how awful it had been to amount our feelings to hatred. Neither do I want to fake my true feelings at the moment and make you feel that I have strong regard for you when the truth is, I cannot even bring myself to force a smile feeling threatened of what could trigger again the horror I never want to face once more. The truth is, I cannot afford to be loving at the moment. I just want it to be over and start anew and in starting anew I mean having no feelings at all. No love. No hate. But you will never know that. It is a thread I shall weave for myself not knowing what happens next. You will continue to believe what I offered you was a chance although to me that chance has erased all memories of the past, good and bad. You have turned me into a stranger. I hope it shall be nice to meet you again. I hope we shall find the love we have lost somewhere. But we really do not know…
What is it with 7 and luck?
I’d rather be grateful than lucky.
Yes, I talk to the universe and all, especially when an awful fist of luck knocks me out like a domino falling, hitting me hard one blow after the other…or when nothing seems to be going my way no matter which way I go…or even when everything is dead blank and pitch dark yet and still the stars are too flicker on me…mostly, during the times I have to have something to blame and I could no longer force the blame on myself or to anyone. Yes, I do talk to the universe when I feel that I am the unluckiest earthling alive. It would seem like I am believer of luck. I may seem to be. But luck has never been kind to me. I even doubt if it ever exists.
Maybe when the universe is being less of a bitch and is starting to force a ray of good luck upon me, I am really not lucky at all.
Luck is too random to believe in and the universe is too bitchy to be nice to a random and insignificant earthling like me. But there is a stronger force, greater force behind the universe that makes me feel grateful instead. I am ever grateful, oh yes, I am, that as days fall off, I may falter but I don’t end with them.
Today marks the 7th day of my new year. With or without luck, I am grateful. With or without stars, I am grateful. I am grateful because I am alive to count up to this day that is about to end.
Tomorrow is another shot at winning fist fights with the universe.
Bring it on.
Some people live beautiful lives and they take pleasure in being wanderers. Some people live unfair lives beautifully and they find joy in being loiterers.
The first time I encountered the term ‘loitering’ was when I was a grader. All over the hallways of my school back then were reminders stating “NO LOITERING ALONG THE CORRIDORS” and student leaders took the rule seriously by dragging to the office of the Principal whoever was caught staying along the corridors. I have always thought loitering as illegal, a bad thing to do, a violation. Today, loitering to me is salvation.
To loiter is to stay in a place for no reason at all…to lag behind…to stop idly delaying something…It isn’t a crime at all as I used to think of it when I was a grader. At the moment, loitering is saving me from overthinking, stressing over and worrying about fickle matters.
Days have been passing me by and each passing day I seem to lose a part of me to frustrations when I am fully aware that there is a great deal of joy I am putting away just so I can bleed over the wrong decisions I have made in the past. I carry the weight of the past around allowing it to slow me down to where joy truly is and weighing me down instead of being strong enough to afford a simple smile. Short or long, the days have left me depleted, drained and devastated. Until one day, I decided to walk aimlessly. Then I decided to keep still. That was then I knew what I have been missing.
Walking aimlessly may sound like I have gone nuts or something. But the real score is, I have been walking around, sometimes chasing, running and leaping for things I would never have the power to control, and I have never given myself the opportunity to see myself in the very things that I just allow to pass me by, like the days that were supposed to have been spent with a better purpose than just having to get it over and done with. As the passing days consume me, I do not even recognize myself anymore. I have lost me.
So I have stopped and stared at familiar and unfamiliar places alike, hoping to find myself again. There are pieces of me everywhere and I have been too busy brooding to notice that even broken pieces show a beautiful story. I am everywhere, and I have to be a loiterer to be able to attract back to me the wondrous pieces I have thrown out because I do not want to be reminded of how unfair life is (truth is, life is really unfair, but someone told me that life is unfair but is still beautiful, and I believe him). In stopping by without purpose, stepping back a bit, staring while in senseless stops, I have seen once more how beautiful this life can be.
Even though I cannot promise myself that I will never have to lose my way again, I know that I can never be completely lost. Even though I cannot promise myself that I will never have to slice pieces of myself up, I know that I am not beyond repair; I can be fixed. That is the salvation from being a loiterer.
Some people live beautiful lives and they take pleasure in being wanderers. Some people live unfair lives beautifully and they find joy in being loiterers.
So just let me stop and stare.
“A hospital alone shows what war is.” -Erich Maria Remarque
I was the watcher. I was supposed to watch over my patient. But I did more than that. Actually, my patient did not need much of my ‘watching’ because he slept through the entire waiting time. So what I did was quite a retaliation on my part because I did not want to be there. I did not put on a fancy black dress to pace back and forth on the tiled floors of the emergency room. All I wanted was to have a peaceful Sunday morning, have a quiet breakfast, hear mass and sleep through the entire afternoon. But I was there. I had too. I did not have a choice. That was my choice though. To be there. And so I had to make myself productive. I watched then. I watched every single drama in the emergency room. I was bored, but I was being moved by the things I was seeing out of watching.
I could not imagine to be in that mother’s shoe: being blamed by her husband and her mother-in-law for missing a wink of watching over her son, and just like that, her son got hit by a tricycle and bled on the ground. She was trembling as she was trying to explain how everything that fast could happen, convincing her family, but more so herself, that she did not mean for the accident to happen. Of course, it was an accident. I saw the blood on the poor boy’s forehead. It was a sight that would have had me unconscious if that boy were my son. What a torture it is indeed to feel blameful for something you did not intend to happen. I mean the last thing you wanted to do is to hurt the one you love, but it happens and it breaks your heart why it should happen. Is it really beyond your control? You begin to question yourself. That is the thing about accidents I guess. My heart goes out to that poor mother.
I saw half a dozen sick babies at the Paediatrics today. They were just babies, and yet they were there, crying, but not entirely understood what was causing their pain. Many times we want other’s attention for the pain we feel and yet they don’t seem to understand, and really, all we can do is cry. Like babies, we cry. And these mothers? They kept on explaining to every doctor, every nurse, every random staff attending to them, what had started the pain their babies were enduring, and yet, no one could really pinpoint what was wrong. They could only guess. Yes, guess. This pain guessing game is really complicated, right? Why can’t we just admit where and why and how we are hurt. It is not like we are babies who could not speak for ourselves. But then we are all like babies sometimes. We let other people second guess our pains, and all we receive are second-rate antidotes for our pains. Babies continued to cry. One stared back at me for a moment, stopped crying, and then started crying again. The crying might never stop.
She looked like one of my teachers before. I smiled at her, waiting for a recognition, but maybe she just resembled her because she smiled back without the recognition I was waiting for. She was out of breath while seated on her wheel chair. She did not have anyone with her. It might have been terrible to catch your breath, alone, without a hand to hold as you try to fill your lungs with air. When we are out of breath sometimes, we yearn for somebody to breathe with us, to remind us that life goes on. But sometimes we are too busy worrying where else we can get a breath of new air and fail to notice that we have been on life-support all along by another person’s breath of air. Why do we worry so much? A sigh itself is a waste of breath, but we let go of it in despair, and complain of being out of breath. I did not know much of the lady’s case. I did not have time to talk to her. She barely had enough air to spare for herself than to engage herself with a casual conversation with a bored stranger like me.
Three stories. I have more actually. But I am too overwhelmed by all these realizations and yet, for a moment there, I thought I would really break down.
I was bleeding, crying and barely-breathing. But I must be lucky I was not on a hospital bed.
I guess I would last another day.
People get hurt. People get broken. People feel pain. I get it. What now?
I want to understand why being hurt, being broken, being pained, have to be addictive. We are drawn to these bad feelings but we shed silent tears trying to endure for as long as we can the unfair torture these crappy feelings give us when in fact, being relieved from these undesirable feelings is our choice. I don’t think we don’t have a choice here. I don’t think we are clueless as to what remedies we have for our brokenness. We just love the feeling of being hurt, being broken, being pained, because crying to get over the shitty feelings give us a different kind of rush.
We forget we can turn our backs from these feelings. We forget we hold the cure for these feelings. We forget that we can turn our brokenness around.
We have allowed ourselves to be broken and forget that the great fix is something we are really best at. We mislead ourselves into believing that the one who breaks us is the one who is supposed to fix us. That is just a whole lot of crap. People break us without regard for our broken pieces. They are too preoccupied expressing their own pains upon us when they break us, unconscious where they might have left us bleeding or incomplete. That is the truth about breaking someone, a truth more painful than the motive.
We fix ourselves. Who else will?
We don’t wait for others to fix us. Others too, can’t wait for us to fix them. Their better knowledge of themselves renders us inferior in matters of fixing. So might as well, we comfort our own hurting feelings, embrace our own brokenness, pay attention to our own pains. We can never be disillusioned that others will be more comforting, more caring, and more attentive than we are to ourselves when it comes to our hurt, brokenness and pain.
It is a bit disappointing that we still cannot let go of the hurt, the brokenness and the pain. Even if we know we can. Because living with brokenness is more convenient than wearing crunches to show we are healing. Yes it is true. We are too proud to go through healing.
I still don’t get it. So what?
But then again, I can never talk myself through all these brokenness drama while I am still broken myself. I can’t do anything about your brokenness too.
The thing is, no matter how true or fake words are, only you have the power to sift through the half-lies.
I am never a fan of truth. But I am confident in its power to change one’s perspective of truth as truth should be. I mean, whose truth are we really looking into as valid, your truth or his truth? This life is a big mystery, and only your truth will ever clear that cloud of doubt that keeps you from giving your trust and taking a risk.
Most of my truths are denials. Most truths I hide behind denials are accurate. They are so accurate that I cannot afford to let vulnerability to destroy my faith in my truths. I am capable of lying just as I am capable of telling the truth. Most of the time I am capable of hurting other people whenever I do both, but it will never be for the intention of hurting them but for making them wounded enough to realize their own truths—their truths that would either make mine a lie yet the kind that sets them free.
So call me a liar, a big fat liar. Well whose lie is true anyway? I think it is a matter of perspective that we see through what people say to us. We can never take credits for what people say that have gotten us fixed. The thing is, what other people say to us must allow us to evaluate our own judgments and principles, and not make us realize they are right, but more like make us realize what we have been believing in all along, but we have just failed to connect the chains.
Perhaps the most accurate thing to say here is I do speak my truth. It is mine. It is up to you if you believe in it. If you do, then you have been enlightened by my truth. If you don’t, then your truth might be a stronger version of mine. It might turn my truth into a lie for you, but still that does not make my truth any less real. Your truth might enlighten me, too, but still that does not make my truth any less real.
Through all these struggles with the truth and lies, the power to subdue the confusions lies not int THE truth but in MY truth, YOUR truth.
So tell me, what is your truth?
What was it really like when I was growing up? Or did I ever grow up?
The music I listen to, the series I follow, the movies I watch, the books I read, the artists I stalk, the pages I browse, the places I admire, even the food I eat, might send a signal that I don’t really act my age.
I admit I don’t.
I am stuck somewhere in the dead of years that I suppose I haven’t gotten the most of the bliss of satisfaction. Or maybe my myriad of interests is not something that gets into satisfaction at all. How can one ever grow tired of sweet escape? Or life might just be another routine you put up with. I can’t handle that.
And so I cuddle into the same excitement of that of a five year old, the same thrill of that of a fourteen year old, the same high of that of a twenty one year old, whenever I claim the time I set aside for myself to time travel to anywhere but the decade and one reality aging has forced me into becoming, that I may be able to feel the age that I exactly want to feel.
Getting lost in another age stuck inside me somewhere has become an antidote to the decaying adult I become each day. I have nothing against growing all mature and old and wise, but being detached to the things that once had made you more alive and interesting and driven and wild and bold and exciting and happy and risky and free? I think that is suicide. Yes, I might as well hang myself to next string of sanity that is left in this very demanding world.
Others say it is a sign of dissatisfaction. I guess it is. But it is not the dissatisfaction that comes with the negative feeling of being unhappy with could-have-beens and would-have-beens. It is the kind of dissatisfaction of being extremely happy that you are not even second guessing that there would be more to the bliss than what you have had before. That kind of dissatisfaction. Because it is the ‘more’ that fuels you to hold on and move on at the same.
The truth is, we can never be the age we want to be. We can either let the years rotten us with all the bitterness we have against time we can not win over, or let the years rotten us with all the pleasure we can get with time, taking decay as a way of shedding off the bitterness.
We can only allow ourselves to feel how it’s like the age we want to feel if we choose to. And I am glad with the choices I make.
So let me be.