Velocity

Two thousand nine hundred ninety five kilometers is a long way away. Definitely not the farthest corner of the world, but not such an easily reached one, either. Six weeks past (and another six weeks coming) is a lot of time to be apart for two thousand nine hundred ninety five kilometers.

In physics, distance over time makes for speed, but that's just a magnitude, and I'd hate to think of us as going nowhere fast (or slowly). When it comes to me and you, it's really more of a matter of velocity.

See, I never thought I could deal well with displacement. I am the first half of Newton's First Law of Motion personified:

A body at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an external force.

And you, my darling, are an unstoppable force. You're never afraid to shake things up, to nudge us into new directions. You are the mover and shaker of my world. Inert as I am, I tried to resist by preferring that we both just stay here, two pairs of feet planted firmly on familiar soil. But this time apart has made me realize that those prideful statements about breaking things off are essentially balderdash (thank God for trial runs).

To be honest, I'm still not enthusiastic over the time and distance thing, and I'm hoping to finally have you with an average velocity of zero, back home with me. But if you need to be displaced, then I will be, too. Between the two of us, the math shouldn't be as hard as it sometimes looks. If it came down to a choice between being in motion and losing my guiding force, then I would be off at the speed of light in whatever direction you needed me to be.

(Full disclosure: You know I'm horrible at Physics, so every science-y thing here should be taken with a grain of salt and a ton of artistic license.)

Certificate of Pre-Mortem

Dear Future Self,

In the light of [life catastrophe (e.g., failure to realize dreams, loss of love, debilitating health concerns)], I would like to assure you that this incident has been duly grieved for in advance since [pre-mortem start date].

Over the course of the last [number of] years, any and all contributing factors, appropriate emotions, and feasible courses of action have been accounted for and analyzed to ensure your convenience at this difficult time. The full report is on file in your head, for your perusal during the subsequent sleepless nights.

Your feedback would be much appreciated. Let me know if I missed any pertinent details

...and we'll figure it out, I guess.

You can't say I didn't try. Or that I didn't tell you so.

Sincerely,
An Apprehensive But Slightly More Hopeful Version of You

The Things That Keep You Up

Pictures of Success
Rilo Kiley


Two years and three months is a lot of time to get lost. I took my time. It was great at first--learning new things; meeting new people; settling in to a new stage of my life. But slowly, I was making a habit of shedding the "silly" things in favor of filling my life past the brim with the "serious adult stuff" (you know, the stuff that they say really matters).

Blogs that serve as online journals? Quit that--my writing's too sappy anyway. Better just stick to fine-tuning my emails for that perfect tone. That photo blog? Put a stopper on that, too--I wasn't improving much; more of a hit or miss, really. The only jpegs I should scrutinize are those banners that need to launch tonight.

In a life where 85% of my hours are spent at home or at work, where do I find the time to look at something through a lens and give more than half a second's thought to it? In countless months where I end the day so drained that meeting up with friends feels Herculean, from where do I draw the energy to synthesize my thoughts or feelings beyond Facebook's simplistic, emoji-laden descriptions? Feeling angry. Feeling exhausted. Feeling burnt out. Feeling existentially insignificant.

Today I left 2 hours earlier than (my daily) average to go on a dinner double date, which we extended by waxing nostalgic about our teenage days over coffee. A friend tagged me for a photo challenge, which led to a revisit of my dusty photo blog, which then reminded me of this corner of the internet where I used to spend sleepless hours trying to squeeze substance out of the best and the worst of my moods and musings.

All this time I prided myself on rarely staying up at night to finish work. On some occasions I'd clock in for 10- to 12-hour workdays, but later, at home, the work mostly stops, and I mostly spend my precious remaining hours talking to my family and my girlfriend. Then I sleep. Then I wake up the next day. Rinse, repeat.

But now, I'm thinking part of this aimlessness comes from giving up on the things that keep me up, and the things that used to make me take a moment to observe and admire my environment. They stopped being a part of my life--either through work, or through hobbies. I always thought that I was square enough to be able to lead the generic drone life, but what do you know? Guess I have a much bigger need to be actively creating, rather than just consuming through books, shows, movies, and music. Maybe it doesn't even have to be creative work--just something I feel very strongly for.

As with anyone who's ever been lost, I've been trying to move forward, but maybe part of why I couldn't was because I'd forgotten my compass: the feeling of being so immersed in something that it keeps you up without you even trying*.

*Might not apply to insomniacs

Dissociation

The last seven months have been wildly busy, but that's not my only excuse for being absent from this blog in a while. Truly, I have so little energy left to write anything coherent on most days, but whatever could be mustered is now being split.

I've been cheating on this blog with another one. Not much, really. It's just happened three times so far. My main reason for keeping two separate writing blogs, is that the other one focuses more on...uhh, spiritual stuff, I guess. Not that this blog, in all its angst-filled glory, hasn't revealed too much about me already--I just find that I'm a lot cheesier in that aspect.

It's also a kind of experiment. On one hand blog, there's this angsty kid who fuels the frequently emo and definitely-less-than-holy posts. On the other is the more hopeful, kinder person who drops by my consciousness from time to time. I might've also failed to mention that my other blog is mainly about trying to reconcile my faith with the fact that I'm a rainbow-loving homo. Now, how to manage all that without developing a dissociative identity disorder?

Yeah, this is one of those trying-to-find-myself, what-am-I-doing-with-my-life projects. This could probably count as a symptom of early onset quarter life crisis, but these things happen far too often to alarm me at this point.

Life is a continuous cycle of self-improvement. I just wish I didn't have to be so emo about it.

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If you want, you can check on me at The Closet Christian. Don't tell me you haven't been warned, though.

The Future Is Not Meant To Be Feared

Now that I think of it, I spent a great deal of 2012 being afraid. I started the year with anxiety over the possibility of not graduating on time. Then I graduated and spent the next three months worried about what kind of job I would have--and if I would have any, for that matter. But divine providence led me to a good job, which opened a whole new box of worries--mainly about whether I could do well and face up to each responsibility. This past week, I've been thinking about the future again, in terms of some personal matters. That didn't turn out so well, either.

As much as I hate to admit, I'm apparently more cowardly than I supposed. The habitual worrying, anxiety, and cynicism acquired over the years have all eventually concretized into a fearful, negative view of the future, which I often adopt under the guise of being a realist.

In hindsight, though, all those situations I spent so much time worrying about turned out to be the best experiences of the year. I gained so much knowledge and insight, met the most inspiring people, and even got to know myself a lot better. For those, I am immensely grateful; and this gratitude has helped me gain a new perspective.

Part of that perspective also serves as my mantra for the coming year: the future is not meant to be feared.

I know that the coming days and years will bring new challenges, surprises, and changes, and I'll probably still get nervous and excited about it. But I resolve to let faith and optimism reign in the place of anxious, cynical fear.

Hope is a wonderful thing, and aside from having more of it myself, I also wish I could inspire the same in other people. (Hey, I think I've just found my resolution.)

Cheers to the new year and the great things it will bring!

Photosynthesis

When you were younger and (impossibly) more self-centered, you whined like the world owed it to you to listen. Eventually you learned that happiness should be shared, and negativity, in all its nasty forms, should be shelved. Nobody loves a loser.

Dark Reaction

So you keep the bitter, the sad, and the angry in specimen jars and examine each of them in your spare time, always having to be careful so as not to end up trapped in those jars yourself. 

While you wish you could share them with someone, you almost never do, because you almost never can. Some miseries are simply inexplicable and are thus easier borne by one than by two.

Light Reaction

So you keep on, and remind yourself to smile and laugh about the good things, of which there are quite a lot. In those small moments, the universe is wonderful and everything glows in the light of an idyllic summer sun.

And that light is enough to fuel you, for today at least--and for tomorrow, and the day after that--until one morning you wake up and there's more light than dark. 

And that's how you know you've made it through, and can make it through again.

Bibliophilia

I should really write more. It seems like I'm always holding it off, waiting for that next drift of inspiration. On days like this one though, I remind myself that this blog isn't in the running for a Pulitzer, nor a Palanca--it's my personal blog, so maybe sharing more of my (not overly) personal thoughts wouldn't hurt.

In line with that, I have a realization to share!

That's basically it, sorry for wasting your time. If you found that boring, you can move along now. 

See, I like girls who like books. Almost--if not all--l of the crushes I've had like to read. My girlfriend goes through audiobooks and actual books like they're popcorn. Even my very minor crushes are/were apparently bookworms.

At first I thought it was just because reading is kind of an "in" thing now (my inner hipster slightly resents this), but my crushes are legit bookdorks. They're Lit majors, Booksale hunters, or polygamous readers; the type who'd spend an entire week's budget on books with (almost) no hesitation nor regret.

Maybe this is also due to the fact that I could never imagine myself with someone who doesn't read. That's like half a relationship's worth of conversation we'd be missing out on. And apparently, even for minor crushes, I'm attracted to something other than looks.

On a related note, J and I were at National in Glorietta 5 last Friday night (because bookstore dates are the best). We were talking about the Harry Potter chest set, which I said I wanted for my future kids. She asked "what if you have a kid who doesn't like to read?" to which I objected, since their hypothetical fetus will probably be listening to stories at the first sign of a heartbeat. 

Okay, enough about my hypothetical future bookworm offspring. My point is, literature really plays a big part--not just in my general life, but in my love life too. After all, I was in love with reading long before I was thinking about things like crushes. Also, words are sexy, and girls who read are hot.

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I haven't written such a light post in a while. It feels good to give this blog a break from all the angst!

Ex Post Facto

Somewhere, someone is reading your words and thinking about you. Words are tricky little things--like pieces of skin you can shed and leave lying around. Weeks, months, or years later, you come back to find the molted words and marvel at how something can still be you and yet be so detached from your current self.

Somewhere, someone is steadily growing enamored with you your words, without realizing the pointlessness of pining for something that someone has long left behind. What kind of fool falls in love with snakeskin? And yet that someone reads on, treading carefully so as not to disturb, trying intently to piece the hazy fragments together into something closely resembling you--or at least a shell of who you were.

Somewhere, someone is going through the cycle of your thoughts and emotions, and wishing they'd been able to do something about it. Like anyone could ever keep snakes from shedding, or keep autumn leaves on trees. What's done is done, and someone who has changed is harder to bring back than someone who has simply gone. They fail to see that displacement is most often replacement, too. Snakeskin, autumn leaves--lizard tails, even. It's less rocket science and more 2nd-grade biology.

To be more precise about things, then: somewhere, someone is thinking about who you were, holding on to your snakeskin words--not wanting to bring you back, but simply hoping to be led to where you are now.

Atelophobia

Thank you for your compliment. My brain is currently experiencing a self-esteem error, and kind words cannot be processed at this time. Your kindness has been archived for future consideration.

Hang Time

Because for some reason I like finding themes in things, the current theme of my life is this: hang time.

My previous inspiration post worked; I've finally made it out of college. I spent some weeks recuperating from my final, dazed days as a university student. (The first weeks after I had passed my thesis, I woke up almost every morning with a start, preparing to rush to school and submit my revisions. They say it takes 28 days to make or break a habit; I was working on that research for 10 months.) Then I spent some days in Bicol with my family. When we got back to Manila, I started the hunt.

Basically it's just been 3 weeks since I seriously started looking for a job, but oh, what impatience. There are people to whom things come easy; I am not one of them. I guess it's good training in a way--building character, teaching me to work hard for the things I really want. And work hard, I will. Maybe I'm built for stress, or work stress for that matter. I always like it when I'm working on something, especially when I'm able to understand and be good at what I'm working on--when I'm moving forward and making progress. I've never been the type who was good at sitting around and waiting.

I thought I could at least use this spare time to write, but often, I can't. There are some new subjects and styles I'd love to experiment with, but the right words, right tone, and all that aren't coming to me yet. So I'm biding my time in that department, too.

All those years in school, even when I had to wait for things, I always knew what would come next. For the first time since I've been aware of it, I have absolutely no idea what the universe has in store for me. I have plans, of course. But with these kinds of things, you can only bake your half of the plan so well. The rest is in someone else's hands (or maybe someone else's oven, if you're stubborn about sticking to that metaphor--but it sounds so wrong).

Here's a story: I almost flunked Physics in high school. I usually think of myself as a fast learner, but I was dumb as a rock in that course. Come to think of it, maybe rocks understand the laws of Physics better than I did. The worst lessons for me were the ones on projectile motion. It was a struggle to get half of those computations right. Among other things, I was awful at calculating hang time. I always thought it was little more or a little less than what it actually was.

Maybe this is just me being awful at the concept of time again. Maybe I'm right in convincing myself that there's nothing wrong or shameful about just biding time and having to wait for things. (Maybe the only real shame were my Physics grades.) In any case, I'm just going to have to hang in here, I guess.

Inspiration/Motivation

Inspiration #1: The Things I Miss

This blog, my social life, my computer games, reading books, and all the simple little pleasures in life I've been putting on hold.

And you. Quality, thesis-worry-free alone time with you.

Inspiration #2: The Things I Look Forward To

My family's collective sigh of relief and beam of pride. A graduation ceremony (or two), after five long years. Having a sablay of my own. My dream job, or any good job for that matter. Money I don't have to mooch from my parents. A puppy, come December.

And you. More freedom, more resources, more time to spend with you.

I'm writing these down because hope is elusive, time is going too fast, and things are looking scary. If I can't do this improbable task for the heck of self-pride and a sense of achievement, the next best thing would be doing it for my dreams. (Thesis speak: when intrinsic motivation fails, extrinsic motivation acts as a pretty decent backup).


I promise to finish this thesis by next month and live happily soon after.

Anyone who'll try to tell me how college is so easy compared to "real life" can kick themselves on my behalf. You've probably never met my thesis adviser.

2011 Wishlist Part 1: (Or A Lez Guide to Boring Fashion)

It's been three years (I think) since I last made one of these, but today I figured I needed something to look forward to--hence, a very materialistic wishlist.

This isn't necessarily a Christmas wishlist, and certainly not a list of things I expect/hope other people would give me. (Unless you, dear reader, happen to be a very generous soul--then by all means, make me happy!) Nope, this is more of a list of the things I want to save up for, mostly to remind myself that I need money--thus I need a job; thus I need to graduate already; thus I seriously need to stop slacking off. I took yet another unmotivated schoolwork-day off for this, so I hope it works.

This post's OST: Nickelback - Rockstar

Wistful

Where did they go, those sunrises two years ago, when everything was easy to write and my emotions weren't so complex and unreachable at the same time? Here I go again at a frightening crossroad, with so much uncertainty and pressure, and nearly not enough sleep (often because of the workload; at times of my own volition).

It's yet another rollercoaster year of fun, excitement, fear, self-doubt, sadness, and utter, inexplicable happiness and contentment. In other words, it's life, or a particularly heightened phase of it. But among the many emotions, in this moment--and in many others, when I happen to catch myself--I am wistful.

Contradictory as it is, I've found myself most wistful at the happiest, calmest times. I yearn for things as they happen to me, because every time I can't help but remind myself: in a minute, or an hour, or the blink of an eye--this moment, this experience, and this unexpected swell of emotions will pass and I will never be able to have it again.

Around seven years ago, I was fascinated with cherry blossoms, blooming and falling in a matter of days. Until now this fearful fascination with change and ephemerality has stayed with me. Everything ends; everything passes.

So, often I shy away from any form of trying to capture the moment. Unwritten posts, pictures not taken, words left unsaid. Best left that way, for fear of not being able to do it justice. Instead I opt to keep them in my head, much like series episodes to be replayed when I feel the need.

Other times though, I think I ought to tell those stories--even just to myself--because the time will surely come when I will forget. Perhaps I'll start. While words and pictures may not suffice, they'll help, at least.

Perhaps, things aren't so easily lost after all.

Damien Rice - Cannonball

Vicarious

I'm tired of a life lived through your stories. I'm weary of the details of a good time or an annoying day where I'm always a spectator and never a character; the only reason they matter is because you matter.

You know I love you, but telling me all about a life spent with others shouldn't be all there is to spending your life with me.

Seeker

Somewhere between a summer of new passions and old frustrations; between the thrill of an internship and the lazy first days which will mark my final year in college; between rainy days and John Mayer songs; between rare moments of clarity and my usual pseudo-profound stream of thought—somewhere, the stories I would have told got lost.

I was parked for three hours at a dentist's waiting room while my sister got her braces readjusted. During the wait I reread (for the nth time) Luis Katigbak's insightful first book, Happy Endings (which you guys should totally read). Afterwards, I wondered where my stories went.

And for the first time, I wondered if I would ever find them.

Yes, we (who claim to be) writers can be such bitches about writer's block and our never-ending insecurities about not being good enough, or about not having anything to write about, or not being able to do justice to what would have been the perfect subject. Or maybe that's just me.

That's the difficulty of treating literature like a romantic relationship, I guess. There's too much of an emotional involvement. Sometimes I think I can just call it off, and work on my other (unfortunately nonexistent) talents. But no matter how crappy my work gets, I can't not write.

At the other end of the spectrum, I think about writing for a living. I almost tried—I got accepted for a writing internship at an awesome company, but I didn't confirm my slot. Mostly that was because I was waiting for my dream company (which did not turn out well), and partly it was because I was afraid. To be fair, the company knew what they had coming. I was asked to bring some writing samples (and one or two, I picked out from this blog). I guess they kind of liked it, or found it free of glaring errors at the very least. But I chickened out, because—as with everything else in my life—I'm afraid of not living up to some self-imposed, insecurity-born standard.

(I did end up in an equally awesome company where I had a productive and fulfilling internship experience, but that's a completely different blog post.)

So I guess in reality, this is partly about me and writing, and partly about me and the fears that I have yet to conquer. Well I'd better conquer them fast because I have no room to be afraid. There's quite some responsibility resting on my shoulders this year: an org to dedicate my time to, and a long list of people—with me at the top—who are expecting me to finish that gosh-darned thesis, no matter what it fcking takes, man. Then we'll graduate happily ever after—or at least I'll be happy for no longer than a month. I'm giving myself that much time to take a break, and then I'll find a job.

But that's all future talk. I'll tell you all about those bridges when I get there. Because I sure as hell will keep writing. After all, if literature is a romantic relationship with words, then maybe if I stop trying so hard, the stories themselves will find me.


[That cute little girl in the photo is Yana, my two year-old cousin.]

Woosh

I was looking through my old multiply blog, and look what I found:

The moon is a fascinating object.
The romantic, the mysterious, the unreachable.
But why does everybody adore it so much,
when it's just a 'chipped rock living on borrowed light'?(Gonzales, Sunset Hair)
Why do poets and fools gaze in wonder at the light of dead stars
and still make their wishes,
when they know well enough that there's nothing to grant it?

Maybe that's why we love the unreachable--we set our hopes impossibly high,
so that when they don't come true we can always say "I knew it was impossible." 

No harm done.

But inside we know, for that tiniest moment in between the skepticism...

we closed our eyes and wished
the way a kid does--
right before he blows out
his birthday candle.

Wooosh.

Sentimental shit from my 18 year-old self. I have to admit, though--that it's still accurate for me. Three years, and maybe things haven't changed so much. (Maybe they should.)

Intermission: Make-Over

So after a year or two (or more, I don't really remember), my beloved blog has got a new layout! I was very hesitant to let go of the old one, because of all the meticulous work I've done to tweak it, but I feel like it's time to try something new. Plus, it might make me want to blog more. Ha ha.

Oh my, I'm too bored. Someone give me an internship please, I have 200 hours to complete before classes start in June (sigh).

The Limit Does Not Exist

We've traveled nearly everywhere, it seems--failing at hunting down PUVs and taking cabs instead. We've walked so many steps in the baking heat--I, in shoes too stylish for comfort (failing at vanity, as I often do)--always in danger of slipping on a foot bridge step. I've come so far to find myself parked on a mall bench for three hours, rereading a book which makes my head spin. I've come to be with you, yet I find myself alone (again, naturally--or so the song goes).

I've come so far, waited so long, and felt so alone--to look into your eyes as we talk; to have my hand held on a bus ride, and my face stroked affectionately as we walked along mall stores. All this to feel a happiness so small, yet so full. One that I haven't felt in months, and certainly not from anyone else.

Sometimes I'm afraid to discover just how much I can do for you.

Love is such a boundless thing.

Comforts

Sometimes you just have to step back, and step away from the details that are eating you up, to look at the big picture. That's when you see things clearly, and you get to think as the closest to being rational you could ever get (still not close enough though).

The thing is, often the big picture--and the decisions that need to made after seeing it--can be pretty painful to realize.

Still, it's your life, and it's your call. You choose your own happiness, and likewise choose the personal misery pit you will wallow in.

The only comfort is knowing that there's no rush to this decision.

And that you can always choose to curl up in the comfort of things you've gotten so used to, instead of facing the proverbially harsh winds of change.

(Often, being brazen is not being brave. Sometimes it takes a lot more courage to be what others see as a coward--if it means that at least one person is spared the damage.)

No one will ever need to know that you almost changed your mind.

Questionable Intentions

I never meant to write today, but there’s always something about you that compels me—to write, and do various other things I’d never thought I even wanted to.

I never meant to read, but there’s something about a sappy movie at five in the morning that compelled me to.

I never meant to know, but I now that I do, well I guess I don’t mean to know how I feel about it.

Because really, I never meant to feel anything about it. (It’s the movie, I suppose. I unfortunately am a hopeless romantic.)

And if there’s one intention that I at least got to keep, it’s that

I never meant to tell, and I never did.