Chiaroscuro

Let me tell you about my clothing choices. Oh, no, I'm not going to pretend to be fashion-savvy. Trust me, I couldn't put a fashionable outfit together, even if my life depended on it.

It's just that the other day, I was wearing black, which I almost never do. As of my last tally, my closet contains exactly one black and two dark blue shirts, and about one shirt for each other color. The rest of my tops are white. I don't know when this started, but after four years in college, the white shirts have slowly piled up.

I really prefer white shirts, mostly because the weather is baking like an oven most of the time, and I, unfortunately, tend to sweat profusely and easily.So white clothes keep me cool and comfortable, while also keeping me from perpetually looking like I just came from a jog.

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However, I've been thinking about how there's a lot more to my clothing choice than just comfort. I realized that I actually suit my shirt colors to my mood—and based on that, I'm pretty bipolar, I guess.

Most of the time I'm white; I'm bright. I catch the light, reflecting it, reaching out. This is me in my happiest, most hyper moods. I go out on impromptu drinking sessions, I dance around, and act like a kid with ADHD. This is me in my most sociable, most engaged moments. I laugh at anything and try everything, just for the heck of it. I breathe the air and sunshine in, like a silly sunflower in bloom (and mind you, the concept of me as a sunflower is silly in itself).

But other times, I'm black; I'm dark. I absorb the light, curling up, cowering in corners, shutting out. I refuse to talk to people, spending whole days shut up in my room, watching movies and reading.This is me in my most detached, apathetic moments. I watch anything—to distract me, because I think about everything—especially the unnecessary stressors. The air feels trapped and I feel too tired, too heavy to move. 

Lately I've been alternating between dark and light shirt colors; dark and light perspectives. Too many things going on, and I'm losing focus. As colors signify moods and emotions, I'm pretty much overloading on the whole spectrum every day.

Most days I come home tired and drained, and fall asleep feeling defeated. I wake up the next day hoping for the best; for the nearest I can get to a clean slate. Then the day comes at me again and before I notice, I'm stuck in the cycle.

But it's fine, I guess. I'll find a way around it, I always do.

We are all are light and dark, in our own ways. We all have the potential for goodness and positivity, yet we are at the same time inevitably flawed.

The thing about black and white is that they both are overloaded with the whole spectrum. One simply chooses to reflect it, seeing it as an opportunity to exude brightness, while the other keeps everything in, trapping the light.

Having choices is freaking difficult. And as we've all heard at some point, our life depends on what we choose make of our circumstances. No wonder life is such a pain in the ass. We'll just have to deal with it, then. If we make enough good choices, maybe we'll even turn into prisms and achieve states of rainbow-shitting happiness (very similar to Maslow's concept of self-actualization, except this has hints of substance abuse).

[Okay, I think I just pushed the analogy off the cliff. Don't mind that last bit. Just stay happy, folks.]

Torre Lorenzo

September 1, 2010

I'm in Torre Lorenzo, with a sudden amount of free time. I was supposed to be on an all-morning date, but something came up. Three hours to kill, and nothing to do. I'd brought no laptop, no books—not even paper, save for my psychology reviewers. So I'm living out the ultimate writer's cliche—scribbling on coffee shop napkins, and basically trying look artsy fartsy. 

I'm just kiddding about that last part. I look nothing like an artsy fartsy, mysterious writer—if anything, I look sleep deprived and too small to be a college senior. Anyway, what was going to talk about? Oh yeah, Starbucks Torre Lorenzo.

I figured I've never done a blog about places before, and if we're talking about favorites than this definitely tops the list. I know, Hollywood and the endless stream of rich kids have made coffee shops overrated. But Sb Torre and I go a long way back.

I first became acquainted with the place in high school. I grew up in a school in Vito Cruz, and Starbucks was my usual source of treats for my girlfriend, or of payments for lost bets. Don't get me wrong—I'm no rich kid, though. I still see this as overpriced coffee. (Side note: actually, my wallet /was/ actually considerably thicker back then—now I seem to be stuck in a financial crisis all the time).

I remember this one time, I was with some of our high school faculty members. I'd developed an unlikely friendship with one of my teachers, and I remember how good it felt to be able to talk and laugh with those teachers without being the target of petty gossip. I haven't talked to that particular friend in a while, and Starbucks always reminds me of how much fun we used to have. A love of coffee was one of the things we had in common, and one of the things we immediately agreed on—even though she'd always, always disagree with me, just for the sake of disagreement. Despite the eleven-year age gap, she treated me more or less like an adult, a real friend whom she could trust with real issues and problems. I actually kind of miss her.

Torre Lorenzo also played host to various rendezvous with various friends, even with my college friends. We would take the jeepney ride from Faura to Vito Cruz. Starbucks Rob just doesn't have the same feel—it's always full of foreigners and their "exotic" dates. Dates and meet-ups with my girlfriend also end up here when we run out of ideas, or time, since it's nearby. Aside from the usual dearth of seats, Torre never fails.

But what I love most about this place is the time I get to spend here by myself. During moments like this one, when I 'm bored, I go here. People-watching is always fun. I'd sit at the long tables fronting Taft or Vito Cruz, and watch passerby. I'd think up stories for them. I'd never actually written down any, I just suck at finishing stories. But really, it makes for a relaxing time-killer.

Also, whenever I feel frustrated, I turn to coffee instead of alcohol. It's harder on the pocket, but I'm sure my liver will thank me for it later on. And besides, drinking alone makes me even more depressed. Alone time here just makes me relaxed, then sleepy after a while.

October 17, 2009

Another flashback, to almost a year ago. I'd planned a surpise which had miserably failed. I was worn out from all the relationship stress and I didn't know what else to do. I hung out here for around three hours, until I felt better. I wrote, I read, I texted my friends. That, for me, was the defining moment of my coffee-fueled relationship with this place. Okay, weird. Maybe it's just the coffee—it actually makes me sleepy.

And then there's this last thing about the place—they never get my name right. They've generated more nicknames for me than all my friends and relatives ever have. I've been dubbed RG, RJ, AG, Arjie, Arci, and Liza, among others.

That is, except for today. They finally got my name right. Well, granted that the barista asked me about the spelling, it's still a first. I think my favorite coffee shop is starting to like me back.

Horror Vacui

I've never been afraid of empty spaces. In fact, you know how much I detest crowds and cramped spaces, almost to the point of claustrophobia. There's a certain unpleasantness in having to compete for space and having to get stuck with people I don't know—especially with relationships.

I've always thought of myself as a lone wolf. I manage best on my own. Friends are great, but the freedom of making decisions for myself and not having to depend on anyone appeals to me. In the last couple of years I've managed to train myself in the art of self-sufficience. I've gone from clingy to detached. Don't ask me how or why, but something changed.

Lately, however, I'm starting to become afraid again. Those careless, costly mistakes are taking their toll. I'm running the risk of losing you—and despite my best efforts, I'm absolutely terrified.

You see, you are an exception. To others I'm calm and collected. I laugh and I'm silly, and I care deeply for my friends, but even my closest friends only go so deep. It's gotten to the point where there's an automatic barrier that they can't simply cross. I'm also the best quitter there is—when something annoys or disinterests me, I walk away. I avoid, I resist, and I hide. But you I can never hide from.

With you I'm rash, impractical, emotional; totally irrational. I'm child-like—both when I try too hard to be cute, and when I forget that I'm not supposed to be too vulnerable. I don't know if that's the worst of me, but it's the part of me that drops my defenses. I guess it's also what allows me to feel most contented and at peace when I'm with you.

But with what I've been doing, I've been shutting you out. I apologize for being selfish and stupid and uncaring. It's far less than what you deserve.

It's amazing how you put up with me for the last seven years, when every now and then I have to pull a major overhaul of my attitudes. But here I go again. Someday soon, I'll make it up to you and all that patience will pay off.

I'll make sure of that. Because there are some things I can't afford to lose.

It seems, that the only space I'm afraid to leave empty is the one I've reserved exclusively for you.

image source

Growing Pains

I know it's pretty late to blog about Inception or my birthday. Nevertheless this is a blog sort of about my birthday and it starts with me watching Inception.

I actually watched the movie a couple of weeks before my birthday. It was the first movie I ever watched by myself, and it was an awesome first time, I must say. I loved how intelligent the whole thing was. However, it didn't blow my mind as much, because I didn't think of the many interpretations of the plot when I watched it. Aside from the kick-ass zero-gravity fight scenes, what really struck me about the film was that it showed how easily we could lose track of reality.

The slightly depressing part is, I think I'm getting too grounded in it. This is where my birthday comes in. You see, I turned twenty barely a week ago. And while I don't want to be Peter Pan, I'm a teeny bit worried that I might be getting too caught up with the mundane things in my life. 

Actually, people never believe me when I tell them my age. I'm already used to being mistaken for either a boy, or a fourteen year-old (and on one hilarious instance, I was mistaken for both). I have no problems with acting like a kid either—you know, playing computer games when I'm supposed to be studying for exams, not cleaning my room, that kind of stuff.

But the thing is, I'm afraid I may have forgotten how to dream. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a detective, a ninja, and a magician. Later on I wanted to be a lawyer. Then I started reading the Harry Potter series and I wanted to be J.K. Rowling.

During my last year in high school, I seriously considered a degree in Humanities or Creative Writing. After doubting my writing prowess and having countless mini-debates with my mom, I decided to let it go. I personally settled for a degree in Computer Science, because it was a "serious, real" career—and the salary isn't so bad either.

And then you probably know the rest—I shifted out and landed in OrCom, which I think is an awesome course. It's where I want to be. Now my concept of dreaming is lusting over a job as an account manager for an advertising firm. I'd earn enough and buy my parents a house, buy myself a car, and then get my own place. I want a kid or two (but unless I start gaining romantic interest in guys then I'd probably have to save up for a costly, husband-less procedure, or for adoption). So far off, I know. It probably shows maturity, and having goals is a good thing. But where'd my other dreams go?

Sure, I'm gonna grow up. Who says I can't be awesome at it?

I know stability is a good thing, but I can't help but want to shake things up a bit. I just turned twenty, and now, more than anything, is the time to live life before my responsibilities start catching up with me. I mean, my mom's constantly on my neck about graduating ('cause I got delayed). I already have a family to support, and future hospital bills to worry about. So don't blame me for wanting to be young and reckless and stupid. I just want to be alive.

(Yes, I know that was incredibly cheesy and cliche.)

I guess the first un-adult thing I should do is to stop thinking too much and start doing (fun) things instead. So I'm gonna go now,and I'm gonna have fun. So should you.

Stories

The world is made up of and by stories. I think, that all we are are stories.

Some are happy, some sad. Some are irrational (like trying to carry on with a phone conversation while being ridiculously drunk), and some are well thought out plans. Some we tell, and some we don't.

There is a story that I haven't told you. I want(ed) to, but then there is the matter of whether I could, or I should. You see, I'm still quite confused.

Partly I believe that it doesn't really matter, because the detail I'm leaving out is actually such a tiny bit. Just think of it as a prologue. You already know the stories. They started in the ungodly hours of the morning, over time and space and being strangers, and they drew us closer into becoming friends. They were stories in coffee shops, nearby watering holes, crowded hallways—and once, even on one of those terrifying MMDA foot bridges.

I don't need to tell anything more because the stories are complete by themselves. On most days I'm certain that's all there is to them. [But I probably will tell you, the next time you ask.]

I value stories most, because in the end we have nothing else, except the times we shared with people who mattered. The biggest favor you did for me (which I would like to thank you for) was to build stories with me. The best thing about them is that they will never be lost, unless we forget, perhaps. But you can be sure that I won't forget.

This is not the end though. The next best thing about stories is that they go on, despite time and distance (and the lack of prepaid credits for making international calls).

So take care of yourself. And any time you need someone to tell stories to, you'll know how to find me.