I can only be good at one thing, at a time.

 Once upon a time I read from somewhere that humans are incapable of multitasking. What really happens is the brain switches on and off between tasks. 

Between work, social life, house chores, bills, family drama, tennis, gym, ballet, dance, and scheduling future tasks, I realized I can only be good at one thing, at a time. And it's usually intentional. I internalize what I wanted most and focus all of my energy towards that, while the rest suffers at mediocre. The following week, that focus shifts. And I toggle between tasks just like that. 

For example, during the recent weeks, I've noticed that my progress with choreography has been sluggish. I barely show up to classes, and when I do, I'm mostly distracted. So, I made a plan. I told myself that I needed to take dance seriously again. It's like an on switch. And immediately. I noticed the difference. I could memorize choreographies quicker and execute them better (though far beyond excellent). I'd show up to class excited.

However, it comes with a price. I have attracted stagnancy in tennis. I haven't been improving in the pacing that I expected. I've been lazy. Most sessions, I feel frustrated. I feel like I stopped growing, sometimes I even believe that the more I play tennis, the more I get bad at it. So now, my mind is telling me to focus on tennis. When I do, I bet you some other skill of mine will hit a brick wall. It will call for help, but I will have to intentionally ignore it for a time until I have tended the others.

It's admirable how the brain works. You can literally order it to do anything and it will. 

I always knew I could tune out what I hear, see, absorb, think, and believe. Ignore whatever I choose. Focus on whatever I want. When I was a kid, I called it my superpower. As I got older, they invented a word for it - neuroplasticity.

Imagine if I decide to run the world, maybe I will. Ah but alas! I might change my mind the following week. There goes the off switch. 

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So, from time to time, I would freak myself out

 One time, my brother and I were so bored we scoured one of the balikbayan boxes. There we stumbled across my Mom's tarot cards. She had two or three, some even unopened. My Mom's always been into the occult, astrology, and psyche. Naturally, I found it interesting too, but devoid of necessary dedication to actually pursue it further. But it's always there, lingering. 

I've always had a natural connection with nature. My Mom would argue my birth sign, which is, unsurprisingly... Pisces. I am the gift of intuition, curiosity, and empathy. Animals gravitate towards me. I'm sentimental and a romantic, although at times, seductive and wicked. Some would say manipulative. I can read the room before I even enter it. Not only that, but I can also actually feel it. I can tell someone's true intention behind a smile. Before they could even finish their sentence, I could already tell what they were talking about. My Dad would spend 10 minutes explaining something to me, but I already understood it on the first minute. The whole 9 minutes to me is agony.

Going back to the tarot cards, I never actually believed in such things, not as truth. But I'm curious.

As a joke, I read my brother's deck, and mine. We both got goosebumps on how accurate it was. Both freaked out, we told our Mom about it then I proceeded to read hers. Her reaction wasn't as I expected. She was, instead, quiet, as if she was thinking. And then she told me to keep the specific set of tarot I used. She said I "connected to it", having previously untouched.

So, from time to time, I would freak myself out.

Today, I did just that.

I read one card, just one.

I got the Ten of Swords. The card spoke of betrayal coming from a father figure, and spending eternity in angst and revenge. It spoke of rock-bottom, martyrdom, and severing ties.

All of which spoke literally of my Dad.

It reminded of the time I most felt betrayed, in a sea of betrayals he threw at me over the course of my life.

He called me over for a conversation. He prefaced it, "Just in case, I want you to be prepared. I'm getting older, who knows what the future holds." He began giving notes, just in case, he would say. And I was dumbfounded by what he said. He told me what to sell in case he ends up incurring costs at the hospital. He literally told me to sell everything. To give him everything I've got. Everything he left behind on "paper" included. He wanted ne stripped naked. He was okay to leave me alone with nothing, as long as I do my best to keep him alive. I've always known my Dad was selfish, but never to this extent. Now I know. At the end of all things, he would always just choose himself, over his own flesh and blood.

Quite in contrast, my Mom once told me what to do in case she ends up on a lifeline. She told me to pull the plug. She didn't want to suffer, more importantly, she didn't want me to suffer. She didn't want to prolong the agony for both of us. Although I was against it, because naturally I would have given her everything, I understood the assignment. It was the complete opposite.

Ask me for everything and I will give you nothing. Ask me for nothing and I will give you everything. The only perquisite to the latter is if you gave me something. 

My Dad may have given me things, but he never gave me anything of value. My Mom has not given me anything, but even that she gave with value.

My Dad will be the death of me, I'm sure of it. We'll see each other in hell, bound by some curse we must have owed the world some lifetime ago.

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I packed up my breathing alerts and left

 When health tracking devices like strava, oura ring, or simply the apple watch started to boom, I was among the first people who bought one, specifically the apple watch. Coincidently it was also the time that I started going to the gym so naturally I convinced myself that was an investment piece. And I wore it every single day.

However, one day, I decided I wasn't going to wear it anymore. Maybe if I was a runner, I would have stayed on the bandwagon. I remember exactly when it happened. I was seated when I got the alert on my left wrist. On it says, "Remember to stand up." or something like that. It felt like an obligation. Like a chore. None of things I did for the watch feel organic. Anything that is forced never sustains itself. No matter good I feel for achieving a goal I set up for the watch, I knew wasn't sustainable. The lifestyle I wanted for myself, I wanted it to be natural. Something I don't need to think about. If I need a reminder to do that, it's not a lifestyle, it's a to-do list.

So, I packed up my breathing alerts and left. Just like that.

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Dear dance class,

I’m just going to express my opinion here, in an attempt to escape condemnation from that community.

When choreo class just started, there were just a handful of us. I was in fact worried that the class schedule we fought so hard to get wouldn’t stick after all. I always believed, however, that people stay for one thing - a sense of belongingness and community. Each of us tried desperately to encourage casual gym goers to attend the class with us, in hopes to build hype and attendance. We got to know these people, talked to them, continuously motivated them, despite their own fear and insecurity. Learning anything at a beginner level is always hard that’s why most people give up. But if you have friends to suffer with you, it gets a bit bearable. That was my intention. So I stepped out of my comfort zone myself. I talked to people and entertained small talks, which I used to hate by the way. Maybe it was a bit selfish of me, but I wanted that class to stick.

Like every other community, overtime it built its own culture. We’ve reached the point where the class itself is self-sustained now. No one needs to feed it anymore. It will continue to grow. I’m very proud of that by the way. So I took a step back. 

But one thing is for sure, the tradition we started then held up to today. Each new face and new member, is always treated with a warm welcome, almost as if saying, “No one will judge you here. You can look stupid here. We accept you here. You belong here.”

As long as that intention remains, I can rest my case. But the community got bigger and bigger that I’m worried one way or another there might grow some inevitable friction. So I always looked out from afar, watching for any sign of potential misunderstanding, and maybe stop it before it happens. Thankfully, there hasn’t been any.

Aaron initiated pooling funds to gift to the teacher, as a thank you for extending extra time and effort to teach the class. The goal is gratitude. The money is just an instrument.

The idea is anyone could pitch in, in whatever amount they can, just to help out. The gift was supposed to be anonymous, given as a unit to cover those who may not have the capacity to give, for whatever reason. The credit shall be given to the entire class, not single people out. The former nurtures appreciation, while the latter nurtures favoritism. Although I am confident it will not lead to that, however, I’m scared it might result to an awkward dynamic. For the others who couldn’t give, humiliation. And for the teacher, discomfort. It negates the very intention reserved to the community we’ve built. I wish for the group to remain as one unit where everyone stands on the same footing. Whether you are a seasoned dancer, a beginner, or a returner, here you are unlabelled. That’s the mentality that kept the community together, at least that’s where it started.

Either way, I respect the majority’s opinion. I am still very confident it will not lead to such misunderstanding. I just hope it will not open backdoors where not everyone will be welcome, or worse, where only the seasoned members are welcome. I realized that I always favored special treatment to the newcomers because my intention then was to build a bigger community. More importantly, a stable one. One where each member is treated with the same enthusiasm, despite what skills or how much they can contribute to the team.

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It starts with nothing

I used to dream of the day I stand on a helicopter pad,

now I dream of the day I stand on debris.

Keeping together a collapsing building for years 

exhausted me.

Watching it fall apart before me,

I thought I'd crumble along with it.

Bruised not broken.

Because what I actually felt,

is freedom.

Motherfucker take your bullshit dreams with you.

I'm starting a new dream.

And it starts with "nothing". 

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The last voyage

She nested her ship with an anchor made of sand. She watched as the sand disintegrated into the open sea. And so, it goes. The legend of the once formidable ship. People watched with intense curiosity as this ship gets violently dragged farther and farther away from the docks. Whispers tell the story of the once mighty ship. And so, it goes, vanishing into the horizon. Vanishing from history. Once so brave, it faced the wrath of the seven seas. It carried unlimited stories of triumph and adventure. Until one day, the captain realized... she nested her ship with an anchor made of sand. She watched as the sand disintegrated into the open sea. And so, it goes. The legend of the once formidable ship. Now on its last voyage, towards its last destination. 

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In my dream I was assaulted

 I just had the craziest dream. Dreams I claimed were crazy before has nothing against this one. Let me tell you. Mind that it's been a couple of days since so I may have forgotten some details.

It started when I met this guy (I would call him Bob henceforth). If I remember correctly, Bob was an employee of some store I was in (I can't remember which). He could be a security guard though, I can't tell. What I do remember was that he was nice. Nice enough that I trusted him with my house keys. I think he suggested that I change my lock and I took him up for it. I accepted the change of lock without hesitation. He handed me my new keys and I thanked him and left.

Then I got home. And I saw him outside my door. I realized right then what was about to happen. After all, I change out my lock to the one he gave me. He has direct access to my house. How stupid, right? Then a thought came over me. I could lock myself in the bedroom. After all, I only changed the front door lock. So I hurried to the bedroom, locked the door, and watched him seamlessly unlock the front door. But then I realized, I lent him my keys. All of my keys. I figured he was smart enough to make duplicates because he was gone for a minute when I gave it to him earlier. I was right. He got inside the bedroom. 

And I changed my demeanor. I tried to shove fear aside and maintained my composure. I didn't want to spook him. If I appear scared or angry, he might do something right away. I needed to buy time. Instead, I treated him like a friend coming to visit. I entertained him. I sensed that he was scared too. Being an empath allows me to read the room and I was reading him. He's not violent. I don't think he's there to kill me, or to purposely hurt me. I think he was genuinely just looking for connection. He wanted a friend. He wanted to be understood. So obliged. In my head, I concluded that he was just an insecure loser. I could flatter him to buy some time. I could listen to him complain about his life. 

I was right. He calmed his nerves. He was happy that I listened. I served him food and offered him a seat in the living room. I listened and he talked. He talked a lot. I can't remember what he talked about. It was daytime when he arrived, and it's close to night time now. I remember that in between all that flattering I managed to sneak in phone calls and text messages, desperately asking for help. I called Aaron first but as expected, he didn't answer. I texted him but he didn't reply. I texted a few other people (Can't remember which people), including one of my best friends. I didn't call this friend. I knew he was a new father. I didn't want to take up his time. I just texted him that I was in trouble and that he should get in touch with Aaron so he could help me. I was confident that this friend would read my message and inform Aaron. All I had to do was wait some more time.

Suddenly it's night time and nobody has come. In my head I just kept buying some more time but I knew at some point Bob will get impatient. Whatever he came there to do has to be done. I'm not going to go through the details even though this part is so detailed in my head that I couldn't forget about it to this day. All this time I was just hoping Aaron would finally arrive. And I imagined Aaron killing Bob if he caught us in the act.

I let him in. And it hurt.

But I didn't show Bob that I was disgusted and hurt. I wanted him to remain calm and collected.

And then the following day, maybe. Or probably just later that evening but the sun's out anyway. (Weird, yeah) 

I may have suggested to go out on a date. I remember texting Aaron to meet us in ATC because Bob and I are going there. While in ATC, I treated Bob like a boyfriend. We walked around like it was just a random afternoon. Then I remember I would make eye contact with everybody I would bump into. I would make signs of help but nobody would stop and inquire. I bumped into another friend. We locked eyes and I forced myself to cry. I thought if he saw me crying, he'll probably figure out that something is wrong. But he didn't say anything. He didn't do anything. He knew I was faking it. "She doesn't cry", he's probably thinking.

Finally I saw policemen lurking around. I knew Aaron sent for them. He's probably somewhere in the mall. Bob saw them and tried to avoid them. I was still in his arms at this point when we finally bumped into them. I didn't even see Aaron.

This part was hazy because I don't remember anything else. I just remember THINKING. I just know that they didn't have a case against Bob because the law's excuse was that I let him in. He didn't force his way. I gave him my keys. I allowed him to duplicate my keys. I used the change of lock that he gave me. And when he came, I treated him as a guest. Nothing was forced. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't panic because all that time instead of reacting, I was strategizing. I was buying off time. Always just buying off time. But nobody came anyway. 

I remember thinking that I was completely alone in all of this. That nobody will come to my rescue in the end. That only I could save myself. I also remember people telling me "Why didn't you scream? If you screamed, your neighbors would have heard you. They would have come and saved you." Would they? I stopped and cried. I broke down. Will the neighbors come? Why didn't I just scream? Why didn't I just cried? I felt suffocated. Nobody could understand why I did what I did. People just questioned why I didn't cry. Why I didn't scream. That all I did, all that meticulous planning and observation was unnecessary. But the worst part is, nobody gets it. Nobody understood why I did that. I suddenly remembered the book "The Stranger" by Albert Camus, when the protagonist was charged of murder and instead of reading the evidence, they were asking him why didn't cry at his mother's funeral instead.

I woke up and I was scared that all this THINKING, all this PLANNING, all this BUYING TIME, is pointless. Nobody will fully understand my thoughts and I'll spend an eternity explaining it in vain.

Maybe I should just let the world burn. 

Let the fire consume me.

Let the pain hurt me.

Maybe if I embrace being hurt, I'll cry.

And if I genuinely cry, maybe people will finally listen to me.

Once they do, maybe they will understand.

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I refuse to abandon her

2025 is when I found my cup full. I'm seeing things from a different perspective like an ambush I didn't see coming. I've glorified her existence in my life like it's my lifeline. Take her out of the equation and I would crumble. That was my narrative.

But she wasn't a variable, she was the whole equation. She was the mathematical question I couldn't solve. It was the plot twist to the story. A battered soldier rising in the ranks coming to save the day but doesn't. 

Now I'm supposed to take her out of the story but how does a story work without the hero?

The pain comes in trying to find a role fit for a disgraced hero. I have no idea how to write the next chapter. I refuse to abandon this story. I refuse to abandon her. 

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My suffering wasn't conditional, it was infinite

 I think about what's changed recently. What's added weight? The baggage I used to carry, I carry to this day but somehow the cart feels heavier. I still think back on my psychiatrist's question, "What do you think triggered this? Is there anything stressful you're dealing with at the moment?" My words stumbled, unable to form legible sentences that would make sense. When you deal with anxiety every single day, it becomes a noun, no longer an adjective. It becomes your life. 

I think I may have found an answer. I graduated law school recently. By recently I mean last year. But since then what I used to carry, now I drag over. I used to believe that my suffering has an end. There is a reason for my misery. I have been holding my Dad's umbrella ever since my Mom first left. To stay dry it's become my responsibility to hold the umbrella. That was my role. Although I despised the task, I accepted it. After all, rain stops when the sun shines. Rainy days come and go. One day, I actually believed, that I need not hold the umbrella anymore, not for anyone else but me alone. All I had to was. . . wait. I thought rain will finally stop when I graduate from law school.

It didn't. It kept pouring.

And my suffering turned into agony. Now there is no end. There is no hope. I will take this weight with me to my grave and that uncertainty in time, overlooking an endless road, stuck in a loop of endless pursuit, is my future. And it doesn't look promising. Why then should I still care about it. Why then should I worry about it. The rain will never stop coming. And now I'm doubting why I hold the umbrella in the first place. Maybe if I get wet, I'd stop feeling so cold. My body will adjust to the temperature and I can finally stop worrying about the god damn umbrella.

My suffering wasn't conditional, it was infinite. Waiting is futile. 

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Defer

 I'm deferring the 2025 bar exams. I know, not the ideal route. I can't find myself clinging to hope when in return I'll have to face Lilah Gran once again. Who knows what she'll say to me. She might even decide to loop me in, forever. She seriously scare the shit out of me. 

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Brace for impact

 I'm scared. I'm so scared. I don't want to go back to my cage. It was so dark. The wall echoes my deep unspoken thoughts. I panic. I couldn't see the exit. I couldn't see anybody. And my thoughts, it scares me. I don't want to hear my thoughts. Too quiet. Too eerie. But my thoughts, it's loud. What used to comfort me found power beyond my control. It's unstoppable now. I can't stop it. It keeps growing, bigger than me. The weapon I crafted to protect me, now controls me. I don't like to hear my thoughts anymore. It's a monster. It doesn't comfort me anymore, it owns me. It scares me. I'm scared. What if she comes back? I don't know what to do. I don't remember the way out. I just got lucky. But she will come back. I know it. She's coming. She's lurking. She's waiting. She's watching. 

And I'm standing in the millisecond, stretching time beyond logical. The fear that should only last a millisecond, extends to hours. A multitude of hours, an illusion of mathematics defeated by science. It's that split second before a tsunami when the water pulls back and knowing that death is inevitable. But that split second is equivalent to my millisecond. I'm living in the millisecond before a tsunami. I've placed a bed there and slept comfortably. I pretended everything is a framed portrait, frozen in time. But the water is still coming. All at once. Brace for impact.

I don't understand where it came from, this fear. The serpent has paid a visit today. A cursed consciousness. I see the pictures moving, slowly and then rapidly. A glitch. Some people call it reality. 

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Buying books lately literally healed me

 I had a rough past month which caused me to lose momentum. I was sick, wasn't eating and sleeping well, and as a result I lost a lot of weight. People would often tell me I look great. But really, I don't feel great. It's frustrating. But I'm learning to be kind to my body and my mind as it goes through changes. What else can you do in these situations anyway, but keep going.

This whole ordeal made me realize one important thing about myself. Living without expression killed something in me. I can't even describe it. I felt hollow. Perhaps if I could compare it to an emotion it'd be homesickness.Yes, that's the closest thing. It's not pain. It's not sadness. It's emptiness. Maybe even depression? I didn't care anymore about my body. I stopped "looking pretty" and "dressing up". I enjoyed that feeling of hunger as if it was my revolt. I enjoyed punishing myself because I hated myself. I lost my will to live because I felt like it wasn't my life anymore. Everyday I hoped to meet my death. And being conscious of that thought sunk me deeper. I spend days watching myself do things against my will. I internally ridicule myself every single day. I was getting less and less sleep and even when I was supposedly sleeping I was still mocking myself. I entertained myself by the entertainment that has become my life. It was seriously scary. 

I don't know how I managed to get out but if I were to take a guess, it'd be at the moment I realized why I reached that plane in the first place. No matter how hard life gets, I always rise above it. I would write about it, paint about it, read about it. This time however, I didn't even have the time to do that. Even if I did, I was too physically exhausted to even bother to pick up a book or a brush. I reached the conclusion that if I stay in this plane for even a little longer, I'd be miserable. Who knows where my thoughts would lead me. I can't let that happen. 

To summarize, living without expression is going to kill me, and the wheel of expression is time, which I didn't have. Perhaps all of this is temporary. The root word being "perhaps" is my deciding factor. Perhaps things will lie low. Perhaps I'll get used to things. Perhaps they won't. I'd rather not suffer through before I figure it out. I'm getting out. I'm de-loading the train. And it begins with quitting my job.

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I almost missed my flight

Thought I’d immortalize this experience because well, this is a surreal experience for me.

Here’s the synopsis: My flight to San Francisco got delayed for three hours. I almost missed my flight to Manila.

So there I was enjoying my book, my sandwich, and my newly bought water tumblr, when all of a sudden I got a text alert from FlyUnited.

My flight is originally scheduled at 6pm. Since my connecting flight is still at 11:35pm, I have ample time to explore the San Fran Airport - 3.5 hours to be exact. Have dinner and shop a little, I have it all figured out. 

The first rescheduling was at 7:52pm, with est. time of arrival at 9:30pm. I made the calculation in my head. I still have enough time. So I went back to my book.

The alert says air traffic/ congestion. It happens. 

And then around 7pm, I got another text alert, my flight is further delayed.

Current departure time is now at 8:37pm, est arrival time at 10:16pm. I check my SFO>MNL boarding pass. Boarding starts at 10:45pm. Window is too tight but it’s a window nonetheless. I began to worry but dismissed it outright. I can still make it, right?

In front of me passengers are lined up for rebooking. My mind races. This new schedule should be final, right? Because if it gets further delayed, I’m screwed. I definitely can’t make it to my Mnl flight. 

And then I got an email alert, they said there was runway construction in SFO.

The ground staff added, “Limited aircrafts are allowed to land in SFO because of strong winds”. 

So what should I do? 

I’ve travelled domestic and international alone. I think by now I’ve travelled alone more times than I travelled with company. I’ve met delays before, rebookings, cancelled flights, being absolutely clueless at foreign airports, there was even a time our plane couldn’t land so we had to fly back to the origin airport, there was that time my suitcase was destroyed upon arrival, that time my baggage didn’t arrive at the carousel, or that time the plane went back to turmack because they forgot to load baggages right when it was about to depart. All of which are stressful situations. But law school prepared me to handle stress. Stress is normal after all. I was stressed, anxious, but not once I felt genuinely scared to the point of crying. I closed my eyes briefly and like a kid with a birthday cake, I wished I wasn’t alone.

The difference this time is, in the problems I’ve just mentioned, there is always one solution, THE ONLY SOLUTION. In my head I can always rationalize and justify my decisions and choices. That’s where the confidence comes from. And with confidence, you get less fright. I stay loyal to my decision and cut out all the what ifs. Delay? Wait it out. Rebook? Approach the kiosk lady. Cancelled flight? Go home and refund. Clueless? Explore. Learn. 

Then I realized, this time, what actually scared me is the fact that I was faced with two possible solutions, neither of each weighs greater than the other. Neither of which proves to be right. And in these rare occasions, I couldn’t trust myself. I couldn’t trust my decision. I can’t trust my thoughts. I felt like a child.

Option A - As long as I don’t get any further delays, I can still make it to my connecting flight. But I have to risk it. If the problem is with the weather, it’s a huge risk. We might end up idling on air and unable to land. And if we do land, I would have missed my flight already.

Option A.1 - Rebook my flight to Manila. But my problem is, United only has 1 scheduled flight to Manila, and it’s always at 11:35pm, so if I missed my flight, I’d have to stay 24 hours at SFO airport. Not ideal. But survivable.

Option B - Assume I’ll miss the flight and rebook all of my flights including my LAS > SFO and ask my fam to pick me up.

This is all happening in my head. In the end, I chose Option A. But I wasn’t confident in my choice. In fact, with all the facts considered, there was a big possibility that the plane will idle before landing, eating more time. But I risked it. I knew deep down in my gut it wasn’t the logical solution. It wasn’t the safe choice. Staying behind is. Perhaps even the best choice because well, there’s no risk involved, plus I get to spend more time with the Vegas fam. 

But idk, I just prayed to the Gods that that night, I was lucky. So, with gritting teeth, I picked the unsafe and unlogical solution between the two and hoped for the best. I didn’t trust my decision but went with it anyway. And I can’t believe it worked!

All thanks to the crew and the pilot. I remember One distinct announcement from the pilot, “We’re maintaining our fastest speed so we can get you to the airport as quickly as possible”. And then right as we’re about to exit, the FA’s made us raise our hands, those who have tight connections, and made us leave the aircraft first. I ran. I really did. The plane didn’t leave at exactly 8:57pm. It left at 9:11pm. I was nervous, but there’s nothing else I could do at that point. The pilot even said, “Let’s hope your connecting flight gets delayed a little too, as all aircrafts are experiencing the same problem in SFO”. He said, “Only one runway is working for all flights”.

The plane landed at 10:16pm (surprising yes) and I was able to exit the aircraft entirely at 10:25pm. I exited Gate E8 and dashed for Gate G2. I wasn’t alone. People WERE RUNNING. I got to my gate 5 mins before boarding time. My nerves calmed down. I took the liberty to freshen up a little. Except I didn’t eat dinner and I’m STARVING. I wasn’t able to eat at Las Vegas because I was too anxious to eat. Plus, I needed to stay around my Gate so I get real time updates. Thank goodness my Mom told me to pack protein bars. Mom saves the day.

And you know, nothing compares to the comfort of being surrounded by kababayans, all speaking the native tongue. I’ve overused my english in this trip so I’ve notice I’ve consciously been using “po” and “opo” more. As if my saying, “ok po”, instead of the lonesome word “ok”, is a declaration that yes I am one of you. And I’m going home with you. When the FA said to me “Welcome po”, it hits different.

Nothing defeats the sound of cheers and laughs of Filipinos in congregation. Even the elderly ones prematurely crowding the gate is comforting. You notice the absence of white men in suit glued to their laptops and airpods. Hearing Tagalog after entertaining the idea of staying 24 hours in SFO alone is such a blessing. 

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Tea this morning

I've always wanted to write a meaningful book, like the ones I like to read. A book geared towards philosophical, pilgrimage, and introspective. Everytime I compartmentalize my thoughts and what I've learned so far, I get so frustrated. I always give up because it's too hard. I get a migraine and I put it off for another day. But it's always been there, the ideas. In the book Siddhartha written by Hermann Hesse, he talked about wisdom as something incapable of being shared, taught, and put into words. I totally understand. I sit here trying to put my wisdom into words and I can't find the proper way to do it. I get stuck in between numerous ideas, all battling against each other. I still haven't found the answer. If I do write this book, it won't be purposeful at all. It will just be me, documenting what I know so far.

Robert Greene said, one of my favorite authors and brains, stupidity is defined by half-knowledge, not ignorance. When you know a subject half-heartedly and you preach it like a master, then you are stupid. Stupid people, according to him, causes more world destruction than evil. I quite agree. Because once you have reached mastery, you prefer silence. Not because you are wise, but because it gets too tiresome to argue. After all, there's a constant argument inside your head. Saying it out loud requires another set of muscles. How do you explain things when you don't understand it yourself? That confusion between sides. That's where I'm at. I know too much to make counter-arguments against my own thoughts. The brain doesn't work 9 to 5. It never shuts down. Hence, I'm in this state of perpetual tiredness. I'm too tired to speak. I don't know where to start. This dilemma, I'd like to call wisdom. Wise people don't advise. Instead, wise people listen and organize thoughts. Wise people only ask questions, to be certain which folder to file information in. And by asking questions they encourage thinking, which transcends. Hence, the other person believes s/he has received answers. This ability to understand both sides, causes the ability to love both sides, which in turn causes the inability to choose sides. This inability, confusion, or dilemma, is where I'm at. A tormenting place of interwoven thoughts on war, sparring against each other but nobody winning.

This torment, I once mistaken as gratification. I was taught all this time that going with the flow is weakness. Life shouldn't be easy. Being shy, soft-spoken, and all round pleasant, is wrong. So I spent my early twenties denying my talents and instead pursued what's on the other side. This stubbornness and curiosity is what lead me here, at war with myself between what I know and what I am. And I took pride in it. I was a game master. I enjoyed this torment because I thought this is what life is about - hard, that's how our parents taught us. Life should be hard, otherwise, should you call it life?

A few years ago, I met someone that changed everything. He allowed me to accept both sides as a worthy part of me. The good and the bad. Once I saw my weakness as strengths, everything changed. Instead of war, they're sharing tea. Instead of discarding ideas I thought were weak, I filed it amongst the thoughts I thought were strong. They share one file room now. And suddenly, my world expanded and my vision intensified. I have more weapons at my disposal. Useful in life, I suppose, but not in writing a book.

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Bottle of secrets

I am a bottle full of secrets. Put pressure and I will explode, and I will take my secrets along with me. Nobody will know.

I wanted to rise above this but right now I can’t see a finish line, just a continous and unending loop of events.

I want help but the people I can run to for help are running their own marathon. I hate my weak heart. I always sympathize and sacrifice. I never take anything that isn’t mine of the consequence is another person suffering. I’d rather carry that burden alone. Seal it in my bottle of secrets.

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To give, provide, serve

I’m used to a love that gives more than it receives. Maybe the famous line “You accept the love you think you deserve” is wrong. Maybe what is true is “You accept the love you recognize”.

I give because that’s all I know what to do. That’s all I’ve been asked to do. Give. Provide. Serve.

A selfish soil grows a selfless flower. The flower exists to give nutrients to the soil. Forever trapped in the pot, dependent on the soil that gave birth to it. No matter how much it blooms it will remain unseen, unheard of, unspoken. A secret. A hidden potential.

It gives until it withers, deprived of its sense of identity and freedom. It is only taught how to give, to provide, to serve. That is the flower’s version of love.

That is the love I recognize.

Nobody will put me first. I live so he lives. If it means dying, I’ll probably come to save him first. I can compromise. He expects me to compromise. Because he owns the pot, the garden, and the very soil that made me a flower.

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The colors as vivid as your duster dresses

It's always the details that matter. That's why it's easy to track liars. They never get the details right. Storytellers are better liars, because they have mastered the details. I've never thought of it as a talent, much less, a skill. But I can always remember the details. I remember the smell, the weather, the mood. It's always so vivid in my head. That's why forgetting to me requires excessive effort. Never believe when I say I don't care. I do. Most of time, more than you do. But I will never admit to that. I am not indifferent. The reason I am mostly detached is because I get mostly attached. So I am careful where to put my attention, because my attention is always my greatest enemy. My attention equals my motivation. I choose which detailed memory to remember. Because I always remember.

Naturally when Inang died, I remember the details the most. I remember her smell. I can close my eyes right now and give you all the layers. Ivory soap. Faint lavender. Baby oil. Sweat. Newly ironed cotton. Sour. Very sour. But addicting sour. Baby powder.

I remember the white polo shirt. Collared. Adorned with pink flowers. She gave it me. She was proud and excited. She loved that shirt. I hated it. She made me wear it on several occasions. I despised it. Now I wish I have kept it. Now I wish I still have it.

I remember the way she walked. Very slow, but stable. She would make this sound, a shoosh. It's her slippers, brushing against her linoleum floors. She would hold my hand very softly. She's very careful not to grip. Her fingers barely folding. Like air. Like paper. Afraid to crease. It's always cold, but thickened through years of house chores. Her nails are groomed. Clean. Sophisticated. Never painted.

I remember her face, at war with time. Fighting hard against sagging. Her brows almost untraceable. Her lids drooping like she's sleeping. Uneven shape of the eyes. One slightly bigger, but mostly chinita. Her smile. Rare and usually comes with a fake dismay. Like she hates the world, but because you're in it, it's bearable. Her nose small. Small round nostrils. Shy bridge. Freckles scattered. Misplaced, some would call it. Her face shape, round, but like ice cream on a hot summer day, it's melting. Gravity has marked it for traces of aging.

I remember her paksiw. The smell of vinegar in her kitchen, followed by the sound of deep frying, and the smell of grease. She'd make a batch of pritong bangus for me. Like a symphony, it ends with an exclamation. An announcement. Zet, kakain na. It's not an invitation. She will eat without you if you don't come within the next ten minutes. She will not be sorry. And don't bring anything to the table except for your appetite. She does not accept phones as a mode of distraction.

I miss you, Inang. When I do, I remember the details. That's when it hurts. Because I can see it all, like a picture painted in my head. The colors as vivid as your duster dresses.

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Everything operates by choice

My neighbor was listening to music earlier and let’s just say that the volume was not subtle. It was not exactly top ten hits either. As I was curling my hair, I can’t help but to listen to the lyrics. This particular line exactly “Bakit kung sino pa ang s’yang marunong magmahal, ay s’yang madalas maiwan ‘nang walang dahilan?” I keep wondering, what does love have anything to do with that? Love is not a social butterfly. Love is not outgoing, an extrovert. That love, to be effective, should be reactive. Love does not seek reward.

These days, people are used to unrealized efforts, love as an introvert. But not in a sad way like hopelessness, but realism and acceptance. That things don’t always get reciprocated and in that absence, you are not degraded as a person. You are not a victim.

People these days are beginning to see that life is not a matching set. Set A does not correspond to a definite answer in Set B. Sometimes there are excess answers, or not enough questions. There are no definite answers as there are no answer keys. Everything operates by choice. Choose your answers. Choose not to choose.

Having the ability to choose far exceeds the ecstasy of having the ability to be loved.

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I am strong enough to be exhibit A

Maybe I’m seeing this all wrong. Maybe all of this is happening not to teach me a lesson. I’ve learnt it. Many times I’ve fallen and risen. I have mastered it. I am strong enough to recover, to understand. Maybe some powerful deity is out there trusting me. To be strong. To keep strong. Because the lesson is not for me. The lesson is for people around me. My friends in particular. Maybe this is happening to me because they needed to overcome it. They needed to be okay with leaving me behind. They needed to understand why their path does not need to pace with mine. I’m sure it’s hard for them. Maybe in some way, I’m the one making it difficult for them right now. To keep going. To deal with the guilt of going first. Maybe I’m not the student anymore. Maybe I’m the teacher. I’m supposed to teach them. Because that’s the only way this all makes sense.

After all, life lessons does not only come from failures, even in successes they teach lessons. Maybe I’m supposed to be the object, not the subject. I am strong enough to be exhibit A.

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Your incompetence is not my responsibility

I don’t understand disorder and how some people not only survive in it but also triumph in it. Maybe I’m just anti-social and/or I hate going outside. Even that I schedule because I have to have a ritual of some kind before I can interact with people. It’s the eye contact that is dreadful. Ideally I don’t want to talk to anyone unless I choose to. I choose the days I talk to people. Even the unforeseen, I have foreseen. Maybe I’m just some crazy person who has some behavioral abnormality or whatever. But I just hate it. Hate it.

I hate it when garbage disposal in my community does not adhere to schedule, if it even has one. It just comes and go at anytime and anyday it pleases and doing so not only disrupts my routine but it also guarantees improper segregation because you have to rush outside and make sure you grabbed everything in your household that needs throwing away. That’s not unforeseen at all, that’s just incompetence. And I hate dealing with that the most. Everytime I do, I feel like it takes away a piece of my brain that I never get back. My attention.

I mean, think about it. What’s the point of garbage bags when the truck is about to miss your house? Just dump it directly to the bin and hope to God they don’t catch some disease that could potentially cause another pandemic.

It’s not my fault, it’s yours. Your incompetence is not my responsibility.

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