Weekend Love

First of all, let me just declare the surge of pride I feel for my friends: Mae for passing the NLE and Cherry for doing her best. When I first found out Cherry didn't make it, I swear I almost cried. It's one of those heartbreaks that's a tad more painful because you don't know what you could do to make your friends feel better. I figured being there for them and showing them that I'm proud whether or not they get professional licenses is enough.

Mae invited us over to her hometown in Bogo, Cebu for the whole of Sunday. See, Monday was a holiday, but since we follow American holidays and Sordy had to report for work as well, she and I initially planned on leaving ahead of the group late in the afternoon. However, because we had too much fun and our friends did such a good job of persuading us, we stayed and slept over with the rest of them.

I can't even begin to explain how much we enjoyed ourselves! Of course, it would have been more fun if we were complete. I feel bad for saying this, but all of us are kind of used not having Godece, Patette, Mikko, and Ged around. I wasn't particularly disappointed when none of them came with us. I did however feel really sad when Paul texted me he couldn't make it (but I am done over-analyzing my feelings).

We also made new friends: Darren and Nina. Darren was the guy who offered us a ride. He's really nice and he certainly gained our yes. We've met Nina before but we got to mingle with her closely this time. It was a little awkward during the car ride to Bogo because we had just met Darren and didn't know exactly how to handle ourselves. He however proved to be easygoing and we ended up laughing and talking until we got to Mae's house.

I am also very proud of Jodie. He had been reluctant in going because of the beef between him and Mae. He said he was particularly worried about Mae's mom, but we convinced him anyway. It was time they made up. Seriously, it broke my heart when they fought. I loved them too much to even take sides, so I was really happy when they finally became friends again. Now we can hang out without all that tension and awkwardness!

Aww and the food! We must have eaten a whole week's worth of chow! There was lechon and chicken legs and shrimp and fish and gaaah I could continue for hours! None of us ever felt hungry during the day.

Mae took out her new camera, a gift from her parents, and we took LOTS of pictures! Here is my favorite taken in their living room:

We slept a little before we headed out to Medellin. Mae had been raving about this tarzan jump; she told us we would all thank her after we tried it. I wasn't really looking forward to this because though I can now confidently do zipline without feeling wobbly, I'm still scared shit of heights. The tarzan jump will have you swinging back and forth toward an open field more than 20 feet high. Nina wasn't crazy about it either; she looked really pale when she saw the whole contraption. But I am at that point in my life where I absolutely have to try new things regardless of whether I fear them or not. Besides, I've discovered that the more I am afraid of things, the more fulfilling it feels after I've conquered them.

Jodie went first, and everybody watched him like we were in some sort of sports show. It was hilarious watching him! I almost bust a gut laughing. Of course I knew I'd probably do worse, and I did!

My legs were shaking uncontrollably and I held on to those rails as though I would meet my doom if I let go. I screamed "Mommy!!!" all the way until the swings slowed down. I must have sounded annoying. The rest of them pretty much did better after Jodie and I had our go. Nina though took forever to jump. She was even more scared that I was! We cheered her on until she finally mustered the courage to take the plunge. She looked so red though!

After tarzan, we decided to try the zipline as well because we needed more adrenaline. The zipline wasn't at all high, so it didn't really pose much of a challenge:


We took a couple of pictures more before we headed home. These are my favorite snaps:





The love I feel for these people is unfathomable. We have been through phases in our relationship but we've managed to stay together in the end. There are people in our circle who come and go but we don't need official membership to be friends. There are a number of people whom I love who aren't in these pictures. It doesn't mean that I love them less. In fact, I miss them terribly—like I probably would miss a limb if I lost it.

What I want to say right now is that my heart is overflowing with happiness. I have been looking for this kind of magic for 7 months since I started working: to be with familiar faces in an unfamiliar place, to re-forge old bonds with new experiences. This is what real adventure is. This is what it feels like to live. ☺

Facing the Abandoned

My friends and I are no stranger to performance arts. As literature majors, we were asked now and then to see plays, visit museums, witness live art performances, and once in a while, involve ourselves directlly in these activities. Though I've always kept a fondess for theater and visual art, I've never actually witnessed a performance art show, which I've learned is a rarity here in the Philippines.

I have heard of Russ Ligtas as well. One of our teachers suggested we see his show "Buto" a couple of years back, but for some reason I missed it. Maybe I never really understood what performance art meant then. I've always thought of it as a subtle form of theater, akin to what I could only label as "interrpretative dancinng." But tonight, I was proved wrong.

I will not attempt to confine Russ Ligtas' performance by defining it because honestly, I can find no words to accomplish this. To say that it was haunting or beautiful or philosophically arousing is probably not enough---but isn't that the greatest attestation that his performance succeeded? In its rudimentary sense, isn't this what art is supposed to do anyway? To leave its audience speechless and awakened and more curious?

The performance was formatted as in an exercise, which was cleverly stylized in the information handout as "exor[o]cized," implying that there would be some sort of emotional purging during the show's progress. And in fact it's not in the progress at all. The whole show itself is the emotional purging. Russ Ligtas strips himself in front of us, magnified by the webcam connected to a projector, without the slightest hint of embarrassment and even actually showing hints of smugness. For me, that meant shedding off his worldliness, his agenda, his fears, the established perceptions society has clothed him with. He then produces this box where he takes out two skirts: one red and one white, a wig, a powder container, and a flower band. He proceeds put all these on him, morphing into his alter ego, B. Niyaan.

B. Niyaan sounds phonologically familiar because it is. It is a clever destylization of the Cebuano word biniyaan, which means abandoned. Taking two and two, Russ Ligtas puts Russ Ligtas aside to finally go back to the things and feelings he has abandoned. He becomes the personification of his secrets, his desires, his frustrations. He deconstructs gender by giving life to an entity that is either man or woman but at the same time is neither. We can literally see his pain, hear his anger, feel his catharsis. We remember his memories. We look at his soul and in the process of seeing it, see ours.

I felt like I held my breath during his entire show, and my skin crawled with his slightest movements. The venue, cozy and small as it was, felt like it was closing in on me even more until there was only me and him in the room. I could still hear the jeeps screeching outside, the utensils clanking downstairs, and the the air-conditioning harmlessly humming, but they were all rendered unfamiliar by the silence in the room---the silence I, and every else, unconsciously embraced. And it was that silence, only penetrated now and then by sharp notes of an unfamiliar opera, that allowed us to forget ourselves and identify with B. Niyaan who was in pain and bleeding.

For two hours, I had lost my soul. What was sitting there was the me that belonged to the world---physical and corporeal. When B.Niyaan personified pain, anger, and catharsis through physical movements, music, and lights, it wasn't just his. It was the same pain, same anger, same reconciliation of feeling that I keep to myself. After he made us affirm to his transformation by making us chant with him, he finally dressed back as Russ Ligtas and put B. Niyaan back inside the box. The final instruction of the exercise say, "repeat when necessary."

I know I'm not obliged to analyze his performance or any other form of art for that matter, but something about tonight tugged something hard inside me that I never even knew existed. As I walked home with the streets fresh from the rain, I found myself thinking of the things in my life that I have abandoned and when the right time is for me to face them again. And when that time comes, I can only hope to be as brave and as honest as Russ Ligtas.

On an Ironic Slump

I've been fairly lazy these past couple of weeks. I haven't changed my sheets in over a month; my laundry heap is almost at height with my portable closet, which is now starting to fall off; I can't concentrate on my job for more than an hour; and I feel stagnant and stuck in a muddle of boring constancy.

A friend asked me last night if I believed the world would end in December. I told her a part of me does. Why else would I feel so restless about my job that isn't even stressing me out? Why would I suddenly feel anxious about seeing the world and ticking things off my bucket list? And why do I find so much significance in the fact that I was born on a Thursday, my birthday this year is on a Thursday, and the world will end exactly the day after that? And today is Thursday, I might as well add.

Last weekend I was in Palawan with a friend. The trip was everything (well, sort of) I imagined it would be. I needed that break, but inasmuch as I hoped it would magically rejuvenate me back to being office-inspired, it didn't. It probably made me worse. I am getting less and less productive every day, and I feel bad about it. My company and my client deserve better performance; they had been so understanding and gracious about my whims.

I don't exactly where or how I would attribute this condition. Maybe it's the work; I've always known office work is never going to cut it for me. Maybe it's the loneliness, but I have long given up about him and me that it doesn't really bother me anymore.

Or maybe it's the disappointment.

Of all the people who congratulated me when I graduated and tried to tell me what I should do with my life, I was the one with the biggest expectations. I wanted to try the little jobs for a while just to see if I could do it. And I'd learned that I could, but with so much doubt and weight and lethargy. I am meant for something huge, of this I am sure. I guess I'm just really tired of figuring out what it is.

So now I'm trying to look for distractions. Archery? The cello? Kenjutsu! Maybe even boxing.

Thoughts of a Twenty-Something-Year-Old

When I was eleven, I always thought that when I became twenty, I will have had a high-paying, stable job, a boyfriend, a substantial amount of money in the bank, and a particular degree of certainty in my life. Now that I'm almost twenty-two, I look at my life at a safe distance and realize these things: 1) I don't have a relatively high-paying job, which is fortunately stable at least; 2) I'm still frustratingly single; 3) I'm broke, and 4) I'm unsure, insecure, and pathetically lethargic. 

Being over twenty is sitting on a fence between two space-time continuums. On one side, there's the hissy teenager I've left behind a long time ago; and on the other, the responsible adult I'm still not ready to become.  So where exactly am I? 

I'll tell you.

I am sitting on a swivel chair made specifically to gradually deteriorate all the structures of my spine, which will eventually lead to early osteoporosis. I am rapping on a dusty keyboard, writing things about motor turbines and energy rating systems and heat transfer. I try to drink a different brand of instant coffee every morning to try to convince myself that every day is different. I censure my own lack of motivation because I know that I'm lucky to even have a job when so many others don't—even if it's not the one I imagined I'd be having right now.

That's the thing about being a twenty-something-year-old. There are so many places to go, so many things to do, so many people to meet that we ironically end up in a slump . We settle for the hackneyed process we undergo every day, and we tolerate the mediocrity we once despised. We are at that time where we could be anywhere we want to be and do whatever the hell we want to do, and yet here we are—in a poorly insulated office, staring at a blinking cursor and making up excsuses for being unproductive.

I know a lot of people expected great things from me when I graduated. Believe me, I did too. But all I can really do is just have faith that the day will come when the person my eleven-year-old self imagined will somehow grow out of the impulsive, prone to platitudes, lazy mess that I am right now. After all, I can't rush greatness. Whether I'm just conceited or it really is meant to be, I know something big waits for me out there. I mean, God didn't make me acutely aware and smart to make Powerpoints forever, right? Right. 

So I better stick to his plan and just live without overthinking the concept of living. What did Miguel say to me again when I left Xlibris? He said life is a cheating bastard, and I have to beat it at its own game. So life, you have met your bitch.

Regret

I am imagining myself five years from now.


 I am sitting at a train station somewhere in Europe, waiting to be transported to God-knows-where. I look at the strangers passing by and enjoy their strangeness. I catch myself and realize that I am the strange one here. I am like a shrub horribly mixed up with gigantic trees. I look like an Asian junior high school student lost in the metropolis and can't hope of asking help because she doesn't speak English. But I speak great English, probably better than most people here. Perhaps I'm in Belgium. Or Brussels.


I heave out a sigh and revel in the visible puff of air that comes out. It's cold, so it must be nearing winter or something. I search the faces before me, and I see him appear like the dream that he always was—fragile and susceptible to dissolution. A feeling creeps all over me, overriding the alien feeling one is wont to get when they are million miles away from home. I smile at the association and realize that I still love him after all this time. His cheeky, awkward self.


I want to remember memories that lovers remember when they're apart: walks while holding hands, kisses, gentle touches, the whole compendium of the clichéd and the romantic. But another feeling washes over me, something sharp and heavy and painful. I don't remember us ever being lovers. We were just friends, always just friends. I feel my eyes sting with tears, and I let them fall because I deserve it. I deserve to cry over our could-have-beens because it's partly my fault. 


The feeling ebbs and slowly fades, giving way to the numbness that has allowed me to be here and pretend that I'm happy being alone. The word that I don't want to say hangs on my lips, begging me desperately to let it go. I decide against recognizing it, but it's there. It's there when I eat in a restaurant by myself. It's there when I sit on a park bench and unintentionally observe lovers being lovers. It's there when I look at pictures and remember conversations over beer and cocktails. It's here now, sitting on my chest, suffocating me softly. I open my mouth and my tongue hesitantly slides against my palate. 


"Regret."


The train finally arrives, and I am back on a swivel chair, rapping on a keyboard.

My Writing in Retrospect

Reading my blog posts from way back in 2006 makes me cringe. I wrote just like a child—so immature and foolish. Who would blame me anyway? I was in high school, and my hormones were starting to realize what they're for, and I had every right to make disgusting blog updates about puppy love, bad days, and food. I can't believe how much profanity I used! I wrote in fuck whenever I had a want for the proper adjectives to make the proper purple patches. I wrote about my childish romantic feelings, which all seem so ridiculous and stupid to me now. I wrote in sticky keys. My ideas were a mess. My paragraphs were obese and visually appalling.

I can't really say I've improved much over the years. I still can't find the right adjectives to form the right purple patches. And I've sort of given up and have decided to be a follower of Wordsworth's "rural subject" and "plain language." I find that I like writing using simple words because then I don't have to pretend to be really good when I know that I'm really not. I'm not the type who can use the big words like lacuna or antidisestablishment. Even though they're at my disposal, I can't seem to bring out pinnacle or endemic when I need them. This sometimes makes me wonder if I really can write at all. I don't (or ever will) write in sticky keys anymore, and I have had training in copyediting, so my punctuations are more or less groomed. I have managed to trim down my paragraphs too to a sexier appearance.

But are my ideas really there? Am I present in my words? It sucks to admit that I don't have the answer to that. When I read other people my age, my words don't hold a candle to theirs. Mine seem too bland and just mediocre compared to theirs that contain long and difficult adjectives and lively expletives.

Someday

She feels the weight of the backpack as she walks steadily under the gaze of Persian pyramids, holding a map that points to nowhere in particular—perhaps to a noisy market or another crowded street. She looks at the strangers working around her and wonders about their life. How many kids do they have? Where do they live? What is their mother like? Do they like dogs?

She inhales the air thick with sweat, goat manure, and humdrum labor. And she exhales her freedom. Nobody here likes to speak English. Some Farsi words are too ancient and lenghty to pronounce all in one breath, so she doesn't speak at all, reveling in the homely boisterousness of the people's domestic routine.

Where would she go from here? Her steps are calculated, her fingers snapping subconsciously as they are wont to do when she gets nervous. It feels like summer. Maybe, maybe it is.

What Makes You Happy?

On this random Monday afternoon, I came across a question that has haunted me all my life: what makes you happy?

Wise men say that happiness is a choice, a state of mind—slightly like freedom but a little more tangible. It can come from the strangest things, from the most random moments, and from people we've known all our lives but still sometimes feel like strangers.

I am happy when I write. When I am lost, and somewhere in that vertical axis of nothingness, I am found. I am happy when I get reconciled with ideas and when I discover the right words to bring them to life.

I am happy when I hear people laugh because it is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.

I am happy when I hold someone's hand— to be reminded that I'm grounded and that I'm still here. I am happy when I am embraced and kissed.

I am happy when it rains and there is good music and coffee to keep you warm.

I am happy when I don't have to wake up very early in the morning.

I am happy when he's with me, even if we're just friends. Yes, I can be happy that at least we're friends.

I am happy when I am in the familiar presence of my family and friends.

I am happy with long and meaningful conversations.

I am happy in a four-walled classroom, in a vandalized chair, with theories that deconstruct the world around me.

I am happy when I get some time to think and immerse myself in the necessary pointlessness of life.

I am happy right now, with the miracle that is a new morning, a brand new chance to change and do something.

So be happy.

Thank You for the Music

I feel resolutely happy today. And I haven't felt like this in a very long time. So thank you, Rachmaninoff. Thank you, music, for bringing me back to myself.



It just makes you feel thankful and takes you back to why you're here in the first place. Everything exists for a reason. There are no coincidences, just miracles. Little touches of the divine. Something to let you know that it helps to smile every morning and remember that every day is special.

Thank you, God.

Downing the Bottle

I don't think I can put into words exactly how bad I feel right now. It's partly because of the embarrassing situations I have again managed to get myself into when I got drunk last Saturday night and because of the post-effects on my Sunday.

I'm above pretending to be drunk just to see how much people will make fun of me. I've proved that they will laugh at you but then take care you after. I actually like lasting longer in drinking sessions because the conversations take on really interesting turns, and I wouldn't miss out on that. But I can't help it if I get dizzy after three shots. I've always been a cheap drunk . . . and a bad one too.

I wouldn't have minded waking up yesterday with a major thumping headache; I've been in that sheet one too many times. But this time, this time, I missed something that I was looking forward to for three weeks with someone.

My 10-kilometer marathon with Hannah.

Thinking about it breaks my heart in pieces. The first thing I did when I woke up and found out that it was almost seven was cry. I had to cry. Drinking all that lethal combo of Gatorade and rhum wasn't worth missing the marathon. It just wasn't worth it.

Give Me Music

This is one of my favorite songs. It reminds me of so many things all at once.

Life News

Gained three pounds since last week.

I blame coffee and the nice old lady who knocks on our office door every 2:30 PM selling snacks that look too inviting to ignore. I usually buy two bananas, but they are dipped so generously in caramel that I might as well have bought two doughnuts. And it isn't only for the sake of eating that I indulge myself with an afternoon snack; it's mostly to ward off sleep—which took up a lot of my time at work last week. Thankfully, I was so well rested last weekend that I could probably stay up for one whole day.

Plus, I'm really broke (this doesn't stop me from eating though) from the theft last week and from that trip last weekend. It has me a little worried about that trip to Palawan. I'm thinking of pawning my class ring, but I honestly cringe at this idea. If all else fails, however, I guess I will have no choice.

I am currently in the state of pushing my lifestyle down a notch. No parties. No shopping. No movies. No pigging out in plush restaurants. No out-of-town trips. I realized that it feels strange and ironically enfeebling to stay in all day when you're so used to being out and about on Saturdays. It doesn't help either that on weekends I miss him very terribly. This will sound corny, but I truthfully feel more complete in his company. And my weekends, regardless whether they're awkward, silent, or generally confusing and painful (for my heart), are now irrevocably tied up to him, dependent on his invites and lack thereof. I've been so used to his company that I just can't enjoy being alone anymore. And it sucks because I don't like feeling lonely when I'm alone. Before we started going out on dates (I don't know what else you'd call being alone together for most of the day), when I'm at the mall and watching a movie by myself, I don't feel sad or pathetic; I feel independent and empowered. Now I feel aimless and deficient.


Going back to my considerable weight increase (considerable because it's not easy losing it again dammit), I am subscribing to Fr. Rex's homily last Sunday, at least those that I remember.

1. More walk, less ride.

Would do it willingly if the office is but a walking distance. Unfortunately, it's two-rides far, so I'm applying this advice on other circumstances. I love walking anyway, so shouldn't be hard.

2. More deeds, less words.

Hmn, I'm really more of a words kind of person, so I'm not sure how I'll go around this. Probably, shut the hell up when you don't need to speak. Or don't make promises (especially to yourself) that you won't fight for to keep.

3. More chewing, less eating.

This is good advice! See, according to this book I've read, taking twice the time to eat your food makes you full twice as fast. I'm a fast-eater, so I tend to eat more to get satisfied. I tried that this lunch. It's a little hard when you're feeling ravenous, but getting yourself distracted, for instance texting or watching TV, will help make you chew your food longer, and hence make you feel full sooner.

4. More prayers, less worries.

This one's my favorite. I felt really awful last Sunday missing church because I was feeling lazy. I've also noticed that my prayers aren't that solemn or long anymore. It's like I'm giving God words out of a template. Sometimes, I'm ashamed to admit, I just resort to "Our Father" or "Glory Be." I know it's not really wrong if you mean it, but God deserves more than a pre-made prayer. He deserves something personal and heartfelt. When I'm tired, my heart falls asleep before it can begin to open itself to prayer. But I'm always praying—when I talk to myself (to God, really), I guess that's some sort of prayer. And it does lessen your worries because you know that you don't have to face them by yourself.

Now I feel awful cursing. Oh but I guess I'm allowed to some degree of profanity.

Get your ass back to work, bitch!

Stop Smiling!

He talked to me again today. No, actually, he made a joke that I didn't even hear. I know I should have laughed anyway, but I was so caught off guard that I just stared at him like a clueless dork (I was wearing my glasses) and half-murmured, "Huh?"

And he said, half-laughing, "That was a joke." And I just half-chuckled because I wouldn't want to be over-responsive like last time when he said "good morning" quietly and I practically screamed my good morning back. That was embarrassing!

He's quite tall too! When we were struggling to fit ourselves in the narrow pathway of the kitchen, he towered over me with his probably almost 6-feet height. Oh, but his voice! And that childlike, weirdly familiar laugh!

Okay, I have to stop smiling. Stop smiling, I say! And get your ass back to work.

Endless Morning

Just beyond
the thunder
is a slow pluck of a
guitar string
and a finger
heavily pressed
against the black
keys of an old
piano.
I sit there
remembering
a little girl
who once danced
in the rain
and her dog
whose fur
licked sunshine.

Compared to Rocks and Mountains

“What are men compared to rocks and mountains?”

It was Elizabeth (Pride and Prejudice) who said this, and I knew then that she was right. Nature gives you a different kind of romance that is more peaceful, more pure, and more profound. It’s a love that transcends the physical and is almost paranormal—like somehow you’ve been touched by something divine.

This weekend, my friends and I went to a remote village to try their new adventure park. It was quite far from the city; we felt like we passed around ten mountains or so. But when we got there, the seemingly endless road trip was well worth listening to annoying kids sing Justin Bieber songs and narrate their life story to friends who were obviously not interested.

The whole park was, according to our very friendly guide, 133 hectares wide and is owned by a Chinese family whom we had the pleasure of meeting that day (such a lovely lot). They offer several activities that satiate adrenaline and adventure highs that some of us are wont to look for after being stuck in constancy for so long—a price that comes with living in the city. The adventure rates and packages are quite reasonable as well, so it was a perfect getaway.

We did trekking, caving, zipline, and horseback riding. I had the most fun during the zipline and horseback riding. I’ve always wanted to ride a horse and see if it feels good like the movies make it appear. The truth is it hurt! I couldn’t feel my legs for three minutes after I dismounted. I think it was probably because my legs are too short; my feet didn’t even reach the frickin’ stirrup! But all was well.

I also discovered when we were walking toward the cave and during the caving activity and especially during the zipline that I wasn’t that afraid of heights. My stomach turned a couple of knots of course, but I wasn’t dizzy or nauseous like I’d normally feel when I’m climbing a high staircase. I think my fear of falling isn’t triggered because I know that when I fall, I’m going to land on soft ground. In contrast, if I fall on a staircase, I’d hit my head on concrete and get brain damage or die.

The weather was cooperative too. The sun would be smoldering for one second and be covered by nimbus clouds the next. It never rained on us, which was great (but then I secretly hoped it would). Ah, how the air smelled good! It just makes you want to roll on the grass until gravity takes you somewhere nice.

We got home that day with little cuts from the grasses but with memories that we bragged to everyone on Facebook.

On Sunday, Hannah and I joined an eco-marathon whose proceeds are going to a team of engineering students who will be building a car that doesn't run on petroleum. We ran the whole six kilometers; it was so much fun! And I'm sure my body appreciated the sweat (which was offset by the pounds of food I ate after *groan*).

But the best thing about this weekend was the part where I walked drenched in the morning rain. I felt so beautiful—like I was meeting nature for the first time after being separated for who-knows-how-long, like meeting an old friend. The streets were empty too, so I was at liberty to smile and close my eyes without having to fear about people thinking I'm some kind of wet lunatic. I got home that morning feeling a special kind of happiness, the kind that words will never be able to describes, the kind that only God can give. It's the happiness of knowing that God is there, holding me with the rain, whispering to me through the wind, loving me by opening my eyes to the beauty that he made just for me to behold.

What are men compared to rocks and mountains? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Hasta la Vista

I am alarmed at the rate of madness my mind has been running on these past couple of days. I want to try everything! I just booked a flight to Palawan for god's sake, and I don't even know how I'm going to save money for that trip! But the feeling is majestic--yes, that can only be the word to describe it. For the first time in my life,I made a decision that was just me. I didn't even gave myself room to rationalize my choice; I just frickin' made it! And it feels wonderful.

I don't know why I'm suddenly feeling the urgency to live my life this year. I want to learn a language, travel, meet new people, fall in love and be hurt again. And even though I don't really have the money to do all those things, I feel as if it doesn't matter as much as my willingness and enthusiasm does. I'm high on freedom, on life, and on the things that are waiting for me in places I've never been.

They say March is the month of growing things. So I'm going to grow in the best possible way I can--in places that will not hold the certainty that comes with comfort and with people I will just have to trust.

Wish me luck then.

A Rose for a Thought

Today I asked my workmate LJ if I could have the rose that someone she probably didn't like gave her on Valentines. I feel a strong attachment to that blooming huge rose and those white rosebuds. Even if they aren't mine, I'll make sure they live until they outgrow their beauty. I love flowers. If I had a garden, I would spend whole day planting.

Wardrobe Malfunction

My portable closet has been falling on me for a week. I told it to wait until I get my next paycheck, but it really collapsed for real this morning. I sneaked in looking for used closets yesterday while working but found they were way beyond my wage capacity.

I fought myself against asking Mom for money, but I don't really have much choice. Moreover, it's Valentines and I need to do something (like shopping for another portable closet) to distract myself from feeling a little lonely seeing all those happy couples.

Someone always manages to give me flowers on Valentines, but I won't raise my hopes today. I'll probably buy junkfood later and enjoy the Leverkusen-Barcelona game on YouTube.

I meant what I said that I'm not bitter today, that I am happy despite the things that are missing in my life. But when everything reminds you of that deficiency, I guess it's normal to feel a tad bit sad. All singletons earned that right, just like couples can bury themselves into each other's neck today without fear of being judged.

Oh well, I guess happy Valentines then.

Drop a Heart

I guess I'm wont to admit that I expected this year's Valentines to see some kind of improvement. If going on five unplanned awkward dates that end up in me trying desperately to convince myself not to read too much into it counts as an improvement, then I guess I must have done something right. Or maybe not.

My girl friends and I watched Something Borrowed yesterday, and I hated myself for clinging to that hope that I might be reading him right after all, that somehow at some point, he might have felt the same way for me. I am just so tired of waiting and hoping and pathetically expecting more from this complicated thing between us and being disappointed every time.

I hate that I feel happy when people mistake us for a couple. I hate it even more when he becomes all defensive and immediately corrects them with "We're just friends." It sucks to be "just his friend." It's fucking heartbreaking.

But I have learned to be absolutely casual around him, to act unbelievably platonic and loud when we talk because I know somehow that the silence will sound haunting, and it will create some sort of awkward distance between us.

In short, I will spend this Valentines as I always do—alone with some plausible excuse to ward off people, especially myself, from feeling sorry for me. But underneath those layers of being too fucking smart, being happy, being okay with being single, being afraid of relationships, being "just" a friend—I am vulnerable like all other girls really are. I want to be able to blush and be disgustingly sweet in public places. Because the truth is I don't really hate seeing couples being couples on Valentines. I don't hate seeing girls bringing bouquets and chocolate boxes. In fact, I revel in those sights. I love the gooey looks and the soft kisses and the gentle touching of hands.

Though it makes me want to have someone to call special even more, it also reminds me that someday, somehow, it will be my turn to have something as special as the reason why Valentines, and all other things in a philosophical perspective, exists.

Coffee Stains

Thank God it’s Friday. Really, really thank God.

I need to catch up on some sleep. My body is not yet used to waking up deliciously early in the morning, and it still wants to sleep late at night. It might be a contributing factor why I’m still not yet completely well. I just consumed three rolls of tissue (none of them Kleenex, I might add), and I wake up in the middle of the night thankful that it’s still in the middle of the night and I don’t have to really wake up yet—and disappointed that I even woke up in the first place. It’s been like this since Monday. No straight sleep.

My fruit diet never includes coffee, but I’m almost always sleepy at nine in the morning—at work no less. And I can’t afford to recklessly doze off because 1) my boss has made it a habit to pass by my station every 30 minutes, 2) I have to maintain the good and “timely” work that my client says I’ve been doing, and 3) we’re just five in the office and I’m sure my workmates will notice if I unconsciously bang my head against the computer monitor.

They also gave me a mug, which I’m sure was a freebie from the tissue company. (Because it has “smooth bathroom tissue” magnanimously splattered on its front.) It looks outrageously boring, but it does a good job of keeping me alive and warm. And I like how the coffee stains look splashed against its dirty-white roundness.

I’m glad I don’t have to say “it’s just another day at work.” They give me different things to do every day, so I am kept at suspense until I open my mail. It has been a good—more than good—first week.

Now back to work, woman!