Some kind of a year-end report, so to speak.
- Unfortunately, writing has made a fugitive out of itself, and is far long gone for almost a year now. (Feb 12, 2011)
- I’m starting to think that Digos was made for leaving. Everyone just passed me by. (Feb 24, 2011)
- Sometimes I have this urge to pull off a Jay Gatsby and just go away to find myself. (Mar 01, 2011)
- In two year’s time I should be changing careers. I don’t want to stay like this in the long run. It’s true, I want to Continue reading
I have broken the sanctity of my entire trip, which was originally planned to be a “Thoreauvian escape”, by constantly checking my online accounts. I had just traveled an appromixately 2,300 miles from Davao City to Bangkok, with an intermediate noon flight stop in Manila in between.
The intention was to ultimately free myself from the stress of work but the internet has become so indispensable that by the time I arrived in my destination all I ever had in my mind was to come in contact with my boss and still continue working on some of the tasks.
So in the next few days I would have to oscillate between having fun touring around the place and working under pressure at the same time.
For as long as in the end I’d get to cross the River Kwai, I wouldn’t have to make such a great deal out of this. Two years ago, I have read Pierre Boulle’s novel The Bridge Over the River Kwai and subsequently watched its 1957 film adaptation (“The Bridge On The River Kwai”) directed by the infamous David Lean, and felt that the grandeur of the story, as shown both in the novel and film, was both overwhelming and transcendent.
From then on, I promised myself that the only thing left to do is to visit that historical railway.
There are times when suddenly you realize you’re nearer the end than the beginning. And you wonder, you ask yourself, what the sum total of your life represents.
– The Bridge On The River Kwai (1957)
Strange how I find this night pleasantly humid as though I’ve been waiting for the rain to wash away the sticky feel in the air tonight. I had just finished my writing assignments for the week – a very exhausting job – and now I can feel the after effects of the regular finger cramps.
I’m given this generous time to write in my journal tonight; mom wants to turn off the lights already and I gently protest as that alone can hamper my regular nighttime writing routine. I like writing in this journal – I don’t have to follow rules, I don’t need keywords, and I can even end this entry right now. I feel that sometimes my daytime job corrupts my ability to write about the things that really matter to me.
I’m preoccupied by few things that left me confused at times, yet I don’t have the confidence, the necessary boldness, to write about them. Some trivial things I just can’t accept. And I figured out that someday, when I get a little older, I will truly feel that insecurity is a word to which there is no cure, only acceptance. I can feel simmers of it but I cannot perceive its true smell, its real scale. Perhaps I may write about this certain disconcerting feeling in retrospect, in the future.
As of the moment I will feel all the positive energy around me and appreciate the good things that was given for me, even if that means perceiving a humid night as something pleasant, when it’s not.
I don’t know if it’s just me, but I think starting all over again from the very beginning is kinda frustrating. But it yields a much deeper insight on the past mistakes that you have made, therefore giving you a sort of preview of what’s going to happen in the future if ever you’ll start treading the same path that you have taken.
In any other case of such situations, if these are necessary, it’s not time to wallow in one’s misfortunes. Let’s start all over again then.
THE ROAD TO Barangay Kiagot Hills is not easy – it is exhausting, painstaking and a one of a kind uphill ride. The roads are not yet cemented, you’re walking – teetering – literally on the edge of a cliff and it’s hard to even get by aboard the motorcycle. A number of people have been killed by accidents, others, especially women, were molested and raped due to the fact that the place is dangerous at the onslaught of night – no lights along the way, and the place is shadowed by haunting trees and grasses. The place has only a few stores that provide only the barest basic necessities. If you don’t know Continue reading
It was half-past six in the morning and I was walking in the school corridor sometime in March. The air was full of fragrance of freshly bloomed flowers. I stopped for a while and smelled the familiar fragrance of someone quite akin to those flowers.
He caught up with me, and greeted me with a casual good morning. A passing glance – but still I couldn’t find the right words to say straight to his face. I never thought talking to someone like him could be this complicated. I felt desperate to say something in the crucial moment. I saw him clutching his guitar. “You have brought your guitar.” I casually said. He just nodded and Continue reading
One morning I woke up to find the stem of my plant dangling.
It was accidentally cut off, probably. I placed all my potted plants back at the veranda. I looked at the stem hanging loosely. Who could’ve done such thing? I imagine my mother’s voice in Continue reading
Pre Valentine Post
I still don’t understand how love works.
Or whether it works, or just stay stagnant for quite a moment.
What happened between us is something that might happen to all the people in the planet. It’s just that we’re the ones chosen to undergo this kind of painful experience. We both knew it doesn’t work out, we felt love can be an abstraction, it’s a false idea uphold by many. They think love can thrill them to the core – yes, it can – but it doesn’t happen to everybody at least. But there is a certain kind of interconnection that we share with each other, a silent understanding, a touch of hand, a passing glance.
In the riverbank, I’ve decided (along with the rows of acacia trees and santan shrubs) that things between us should be over soon. It was never easy to come to grips with each other, especially if at the first place, we didn’t understand where should we place ourselves in line with the others. We don’t know. We both fear emotional confrontations. We just love being with each other, and dangerously, it breeds the kind of connection that is unstable. Our faults. We were much too young. And that is why I agree with Kahlil Gibran when he said, “Much of our pain is self-chosen.
I don’t know what to do about this. I love him so much. But I think the kind of love that I have for him isn’t enough to save our relationship.
I felt that this ride was the longest ride I have ever taken with him. He was pedaling the bicycle very smoothly across the rough unsteady road. Probably because of his firm grips. Too much basketball really helps. Birds flew over us. Plums flew everywhere. Trees swayed. All in one ride.
We passed through the field without even talking. I was seating behind him, clutching his shirt. It reeks off sweat and smell of his bathing soap. The smell is really unique to him. I knew it for such a long time.
And I wish the road was endless. We may find sometime to talk while passing by. The wave of feelings swept across us, making us mute. Hopefully, the same breeze would brush over our tomorrows, should we forget.
At that time he used to hold my hand whenever we’d sit in the grass at the park. His sweaty hands enclosed mine so tight, (like he did, many years ago) pressing my hand gently minute by minute, as though this gesture was the only thing he could do. I didn’t bother to look at him straight in the face – I felt that holding hands together was too much of a connection already, and eye contacts would be unnecessary. I didn’t even bother to lean on his shoulders, nor would he, for that matter. We knew for a fact that things like these were only real for the meantime, and holding on too much to these (more than what should be) could be fatal for the both of us.