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.
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.
Turn on the lights
It has been days of dreamless trance, of waking up without any hint of erratic make-believe worlds of my soulless state. The universe, echoing through my existence, calling for an escape from the living behind the dark curtain of the night, and condemning me to stream through conscious existence.
I turn the light's switch on. Waking up on a Monday morning has been easier for the past two weeks with the prospect of live-streaming Sherlock at four in the morning. It wasn't too much; most won't probably understand the ridiculous amount of time I spend on my fandoms and the gaiety they bring. But I am on my happiest, without the thrill of alcohol and the shrill tinsel joie de vivre of last night's party, I am alive for these moments.
The inevitable, today I went to San Sebastian College to enrol for their bar review classes. My parents, the consistent pressure they were, initially insisted I remain in UP, like I have not spent the past eight years in its embrace. But like any personal decision I have made prior, I have to soberly argue my case until they cave in to the obvious logic of my choices. This living has to be mine.
The day couldn't have been better: cold January breeze, the sun bashfully peeking behind the white sheet slits of the clouds . I equally gloat and suffer for this kind of days: cold breeze like a warm chocolate drink-topped with marshmallow I could not drink. Walking the dirty, crumbling on its own filth, streets of U-Belt, I thought I saw my life finally branching out before me, like the complicated and twisted pavements and mud I was traversing. But it was too early to say, the day almost too perfect to rationalize dispositions. Tough, the next few months will be.
The nauseating abundance of drama of the past weeks was luckily hyped by the season premiere of Girls. I refused to go to work today with the prospects of making some time for myself. It was a compelled triumph with the company of Lena Dunham's brilliant, erratic but most often than not's slap of reality. There is comfort in watching, whether it is a film or a television series, lives reflecting your dull own, lest with more poetic arguments and color-coded sequence.
I gave up doing my thesis a few minutes ago. For someone facing a deadline at the end of the month, this baneful attitude of self-doubt is killing me. Outside, the moon with less than its majestic full self compensates the black robe of the night with its crowning halo, something the scientific mind would see as a premonition of glim days ahead. But for tonight, I will let it shed light on whatever darkness that sleeps in me.
I turn the light's switch on. Waking up on a Monday morning has been easier for the past two weeks with the prospect of live-streaming Sherlock at four in the morning. It wasn't too much; most won't probably understand the ridiculous amount of time I spend on my fandoms and the gaiety they bring. But I am on my happiest, without the thrill of alcohol and the shrill tinsel joie de vivre of last night's party, I am alive for these moments.
The inevitable, today I went to San Sebastian College to enrol for their bar review classes. My parents, the consistent pressure they were, initially insisted I remain in UP, like I have not spent the past eight years in its embrace. But like any personal decision I have made prior, I have to soberly argue my case until they cave in to the obvious logic of my choices. This living has to be mine.
The day couldn't have been better: cold January breeze, the sun bashfully peeking behind the white sheet slits of the clouds . I equally gloat and suffer for this kind of days: cold breeze like a warm chocolate drink-topped with marshmallow I could not drink. Walking the dirty, crumbling on its own filth, streets of U-Belt, I thought I saw my life finally branching out before me, like the complicated and twisted pavements and mud I was traversing. But it was too early to say, the day almost too perfect to rationalize dispositions. Tough, the next few months will be.
The nauseating abundance of drama of the past weeks was luckily hyped by the season premiere of Girls. I refused to go to work today with the prospects of making some time for myself. It was a compelled triumph with the company of Lena Dunham's brilliant, erratic but most often than not's slap of reality. There is comfort in watching, whether it is a film or a television series, lives reflecting your dull own, lest with more poetic arguments and color-coded sequence.
I gave up doing my thesis a few minutes ago. For someone facing a deadline at the end of the month, this baneful attitude of self-doubt is killing me. Outside, the moon with less than its majestic full self compensates the black robe of the night with its crowning halo, something the scientific mind would see as a premonition of glim days ahead. But for tonight, I will let it shed light on whatever darkness that sleeps in me.
Passing
I have been a negative of a person lately. That unending feeling of hollowness, all black, silence. The effect of the past days of festivities had me jumping from being constantly active and broodingly sad, with no established point of origin or end, perpetually alternating driving me mad. At night sometimes, I just feel the need to have someone to pour myself into. But I have been burning a lot of bridges lately. A psychologist I worked with a few years ago suggested I should go talk to a doctor. But I am not wise and rich enough to take pleasure in the luxury of science. I have hopes that the end of the festivities will cure the old brag of my existence. Day six.
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