Copy-pasting some random blabberies i wrote when i was jobless and had no internet connection. Things tilted a bit since i wrote this–for better or for worse, I still have to figure.
Three words to summarize this year—just another cycle. I guess that’s what we are most afraid of: repetition. We are afraid to make the same fall again, in the same breath, in the same frame. Our appetite for repetition is our double-edged sword. We learn things through exposure—habits, routines, osmosis–stuff like that. By the same token, we make ourselves susceptible to fucking up because we are used to it. ‘Immunity’ is one word that comes to mind. And this year has been about that: failing, indulging in some hope, getting some things done, setting everything half-baked, and then failing all the same. In the same breath, in the same frame.
My nine-month love-hate affair with my day job ended in November. While I saw it coming, I have to admit the conclusion was quite abrupt. One simply does not get jobless when bills are piling up and there’s a grumpy landlady ready to knock on the door every end of the month. Not when Christmas is just around the corner, not when everybody is rumbling about their 13th month pay. Here’s the thing, for nine months I chose to stick with my low-paying job because I thought something bigger might happen along the way. There were days when I would spend more than I would earn–but that was okay, because someone in the office said something like “sacrifice.” I had my mishaps and shortcomings which I tried to counter in the most beneficial way I could. But as I would relate to my friends in the most subtle way possible, there was just no reciprocity of investments on both ends. Someone drew the last straw, someone had to leave. Parting ways with that job is not really about stripping myself off of a title. Who cares if I turned from being the Cyber Account Marketing Strategist to the Nap and Laundry Projects Coordinator? Parting with that day job actually means saying goodbye to 9-am MRT jam, solemn walks on the bridge way, presentation jitters, and coffee jelly in Ministop. See? Routines cause us emotional baggage that should not be there in the first place. So here I am, stuck with my bed undone, gorging on a canned tuna and daydreaming with my embryonic hope.
They say, between love and career, only one is to survive. I do not know what happened to me but I fuck up on both. The guy who makes me smile a sheepish smile at the oddest hours is the same guy who caused my bulging black eye bags. Tears have a habit of making out with sleepless nights, I say. It has been an on and off relationship with B; sometimes I think it’s worth it while most of the time I think it’s suicide. There’s only one thing I realized in this—that the only time you can say that you’ve moved on is when the former flame comes back to you, begs you with let’s-start-again-and-i-missed-you’s pegged a la One More Chance and all you feel is nothing. Not a thing. Probably not a tinge of elation. Not that feeling you get when he texts you to come over and you turn up in no time ditching your biggest presentation for the next day just to be with him despite, and maybe because of the consequences. When one more chance is not worth a second thought, you have moved on. I was one hair strand away from completely moving on but when B came back—poof! I could have as well prepared confetti and balloons just to welcome him back. But I am in love so what the heck.
Two years ago, I was jobless. Two years after, I still am. Three years ago, I thought I was in love with B. Three years after, I know for certain that I am. Sure, life happened in between and under—I got a job, flirted with other boys, did rackets, and almost made out at the movie house–but things are the same. Going back to square one is becoming a habit.
I am in this, again. Maybe it’s time to create my own version of pitfall.