(Post within a post)

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.

This, Again

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.


Leaving and other sessions

Leaving and Other Sessions

It was her 5th nap of the day. Her rumbling stomach—satisfied by a trip to the convenience store this lunch—woke her up. Eating, unlike other days, had been more of a necessity than a whim. Waking up, on the other hand, had been more like a choice than a routine. Days like this gave her the benefit of choosing when to wake up, where to wake up.

She finished half of her beer the day her day job walked out on her. On happier days, she could finish half a case—even better when prodded by a good company, greener jokes, and fake guts. On drunker days, everything is magnified: punchlines are funnier, friends are dirtier, and everything else, including the sentiments some try to nurse, becomes an open wound wanting to be healed by brewed malt. She thought she could trade one day of soberness for one bottle of beer. (She doesn’t need much of it anyway.)

The weather in the city is a combination of tasteless smell, cold breeze, and polite gestures of TVCs urging dwellers to worm through the malls and waste money. Christmas has been a favourite season. Everything else changed when her dad passed away.

Computer shops, to her surprise, still existed. Oftentimes, she’d found herself sandwiched between a high school kid playing video games and a middle-aged woman logged on to Skype. It had been two weeks since her internet connection at home had been cut. Friends, those that she shares intangible elements with, had been tossing out guesses in her absence. Some hypothesized death (dark humour, she believed), some thought elopement, while others, the ones closest to her, knew it was just one of those days when she would disappear without goodbye. Sometimes, absence has a way of knowing who remembers.

Leaving had been a habit—a dangerous one, to some extent. Alternating her routes in an attempt to avoid some people proved to be the best antidote. For the past years, her life had been had been about that: moving from one’s space to another’s, planting feelings to some place she arrives, leaving them unwatered, until it withers and she’s ready to move on to another. “Disclosure” is a word that needs breathing space in her vocabulary.

B is back. As wrecked and fucked up as her life already is, she still had the balls to welcome him back.

still 22 on the 24th

I am a very sad girl writing on Christmas eve. Sadness becomes even sadder when everybody else is happy. This is my second breakdown for the year. Everything feels heavy. It had been about bad decisions invested on the wrong people and wrong timing and overthinking. Believe me, I want to be happy–and am trying to be one. The routines, the cycles, they are haunting me. I want to disappear. I want to die. I want to dissipate into tiny bits of moist like what happens with the rain hammering on the road outside this house tonight.

Like the past years, this will be a cold Christmas.