Not there.

Yesterday, my youngest sister finished junior high school first in her entire batch.  A few months from now, she's going green, heading to that bourgeois university in Taft- all smiles from the ecstasy of moving to the city, leaving traces of wasted youth, yet still carrying the burden of proving herself to the people she will eventually leave behind. There's this certain pressure, so haunting and skin-deep, nobody talks about in the family. To parents, relatives, family friends we only know by face, church members who think they know us because we used to sing to gospel, and even random strangers who my parents used to teach- we are trophies. We are but self-operating robots surrendering to the ons-and-offs of the makers, subjected to their will.

At 8, after Sunday school in the church, people would flock over Jay and his treasured achievements while I sit in the corner being asked questions about him in class. On the way home, comparison was inevitable, and I crumble deep inside only to mask the frustrations and agony by watching a quiz show on the television until the maid calls me for lunch. At 12, when people started realizing I have something ahead of me, I expected a truce, a plateau. Instead, I get more of the shitload. I only got a runner-up trophy in a provincial competition when last year, the school's representative won the grand prize. That's great, you were good, not just good enough. At 15, I wanted to take film, but no, there's no money in that craft. No one is spending thousand of crap for an art so unappreciated in the country. You're wasting your life, they said. I can always shift, I said. There was negativity in the air, coming up with the compromise that I take a course they want, in turn I get the electives I prefer.

Ten years ago, I left the silent, suffocating sanctuary of my parent's home for the city. But the lingering echos from all the talks and expectations still resonate from one hundred miles away. It was so ingrained in my system, and it seems that there's no escaping. I used to ask my sister every end of the academic quarter her standing in class. Now, the question, rather, focuses on what she did not get. It is easy to blame my parents, all the shitty people who made me feel worthless, who instilled this self-imposed mantra of always proving myself better than what a crappy cousin said a few years back. But at twenty five, there should be no excuse.

Two weeks ago, both my grade school and high school invited me to give their graduating classes commencement remarks. I gave the lamest excuse- taking advantage of this new job, the pesky persistence to please the new boss, to blend with the crowd. But I know. How the heck can impart wisdom to the unadulterated yet stubborn minds of today's youth when I am on the peak of questioning the decisions I made in the past, so abrupt and uninspired, that make me doubt whatever glint of prosperity possibly lies ahead. No, I cannot move others when I am stuck. And the pit is so deep, it will take a miracle to get out of this hell hole.

An attempt at austerity

I cannot even maintain this blog. But hey, I made a new one where I attempt to review movies, television shows, books, music, and whatever that has gay content in it. This is an attempt to deviate from the usual lawyer life I am on right now. So there, visit containsgay.blogspot.com if you have time.

Unfolding.

I am good. Except for the sore throat and clogged nose, I feel no The Little Prince as the pale red shadow of the setting sun cover my view. I am crossing the roads of Batangas for a weekend with the family, a task I find no optimism and thrill. Work has been pushing my limits lately I crash when Saturdays and Sundays come.

The last post I did was January of last year, almost a year and a half. Back then, I was seeing this college guy from my university, cramming my law school thesis, and navigating the in betweens of solitude and panic.

Now, college guy is already happy with another guy from his field. We are still good friends contrast the cliche ending where we should probably just forget each other and move on with our lives. I won't go as far as saying the five months with him were full blast love affair. But it was a good time.

I graduated from law school, something my parents expected. I don't have an elbow room for failure, something my parents imposed. But at least it was over. I went through the grueling six months of bar review. I go from full blooded bar reviewer to full time slut at night. I am not proud of where and who I've been during the period, but all is well. I took the bar and passed. (Ah, short and sweet)

I am still my usual self: broody, something Plath and Van Gogh would make their art from. Nothing new. I am seeing this guy for seven months. I started working for a law firm. I am unfolding a new chapter, one may say.

But I am good.

Hiccup from hell

It was the confirmation that I needed. All the emotions and possibilities and longing cramped inside of me for so long that when I actually found someone to whom I feel I can really pour myself into, the word and actions were so rusty and ugly and feeble and meaningless from all those years of isolation. Why was I even shocked?

Typical malady

It was a constant reminder that we are irrelevant, one minute piece of convoluted atoms. My ridiculously weak, uncoordinated body has taken its toll. The schizophrenic weather, so apt for Janus, the two faced creature to whom this month is named, affirmed my theory that I get sick when the all exams are set and all papers and pleadings are due.

The thing is, for eight years, I've been getting by on my own. If I hadn't called my mom when I was sophomore in college, I wouldn't have gone to the hospital to find out I had dengue. But it has always been a thing of mine. I get my semestral dose of coughs and colds without me caring anymore. Once the symptoms kick, the slow burn reaction seems fine. I take, with utter disgust, a combination of doctor-prescribed medicine and herbal dose courtesy of relatives' insistence on a natural way of living. A few blue days of rest on my own, with rolls of tissues not just for jerking off; gallons of water consumed. All the shit. It was inevitable, and it is in this predetermined fate, that made me prefer the burden alone.

Contra to my sister's case, who unfortunately acquired the remnants of the pesky viruses that once insulated my body. We were always taught, intricately raised by our parents, to survive without relying on others. But not last night. The lights were turned on at one in the morning, the uninvited sound of kettle brewing, and a few minutes after, of her girlfriend forcing her to take a dose of some medicine while patting her with warm towel to ease the burning temperature. A completely different picture. The cynicism in me will never leave, but there was relief in seeing the comfort, the affection despite the glim conditions of the room.

The sentimental dose was luckily interrupted by the my earphone, streaming Looking, the latest venture of HBO on gay-themed show (And yes, Sex and the City is gay.). It is, as the story progresses, to be a tale of being gay in the warm atmosphere of San Francisco, the psychotic circus of finding a significant other, the struggle of keeping one when found. The first episode was promising, probably because it was familiar. Or probably because I marvelled over the previous work of the director and producer. Or maybe because I think it's time to step away from the malady that is self-despair and over-thinking, the consciously inflicted isolation. Hopefully, tonight's dinner is step one.