Cups. Drums. Streets. Heat. Stampede. Dancing. Screaming. Paint. People. Party.
We live for days like these.
Sinulog 2013 was beyond amazing!
To the crankiest, moodiest, worst-tempered human being I’ve ever met,
I don’t know why, of the many people I know, I’m writing to the one I loathe the most. I could write to the people who’ve raised me with utmost love, care and respect for the person I am. I could write to the ones who’ve imparted their knowledge with me ever since I learned to identify red from blue. I could write to the people who’ve been there with and for me through happiness and sadness. I could write to the ones who actually stayed.
Yet I’m writing to you.
Actually, no, I’m not writing with consciousness. The words seem to bleed right out of my hands. Maybe that’s because my mind is turning down the spotlight for now. This is my heart speaking. I pray that, for the first time in a very long time, you’ll listen. Nothing has to change. No one is asking anybody for anything more. No one is regretting anything here. The tables have turned and we’re both happy now, but I still think that it’s not good to leave important things unsaid and unexplained just because they were supposed to be said a long time ago. That’s stupid. And cowardly. And downright, flat-out immature. If the heart still beats and the brain still works to put every beat into words, then nothing must be left unsaid.
Just listen. Or in this case, read on. And, please, let this be between you and me, and you and me only.
I think the reason why my subconscious dementedly decides to write to you is it acknowledges the presence of this huge tank of locked-up emotions I managed to keep locked all this time. It just couldn’t bear the denial I’ve set upon myself: that I didn’t owe anything to you. Out of pride and arrogance, I decided that I didn’t. Then I shut my eyes and took a few deep breaths, then I saw that I did. I do.
I owe you one very important thing. An apology.
I’m sorry. For not being the person you expected me to be. For being a thousand times more unpredictable than the weather. For irritating you with my forgetfulness and lesser appreciation for the depth of emotions. For making promises I wasn’t entirely sure I could keep. For wanting to fly away, soar, glide, be free; for not flying towards you, but away from you. But I sang to you, always, even from that distance. I’m sorry you had to fight that hard and hold your breath a minute too long just to preserve whatever it was that we had. I’m sorry you felt like you were fighting alone; like I loosened the grip I held on your hand when I didn’t realize it. I’m sorry I wasn’t understanding or patient enough to put up with you in both your strength and vulnerability. I’m sorry for not being as selfless as you were. I’m sorry for having such a crowded, messed-up head; you had to hassle yourself trying to maneuver through it. I’m sorry I had (and still have) a very aggressive mind and a weak heart– a heart that was hesitant to love you in all extremities for fear of destroying such a fragile, beautiful creature. You were one of the many things I never wanted to gamble with. You were my biggest risk– in all senses of the idiom. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready for the future we thought we could reach together. I’m sorry I didn’t love you in the way you deserve to be loved, because I was young and naive then; because you came into my life years too early. I’m sorry that, of all the many people you know, you had to come across a person whom you never thought could hurt you in the worst way possible. And you fell, broke your crown, then I came tumbling after.
From time to time I think about you, but it’s only now that I decide to actually let out what I’ve been meaning to, because I’m braver and wiser now. I’ve grown up, thanks to you.
Tables will turn again and tides will have to change, but whatever’s said and meant in this letter will stay as it is. By then, I’ll come across you with a weightless heart because I’ve done what I’m supposed to. Wow, I’m nineteen days late for New Year’s. Well, I always am. Late, I mean.
I wish you all the love in the world. You deserve it and more.
PS: If you feel like you have to, write back.
I don’t have a New Year’s Resolution because I don’t want to change anything. Yet.
No, I’m not gonna get you started on all that “I’m happy and contented with my life!” cliche because that is not entirely true. (Sorry for running such an honest blog)
I had it all figured out before hitting the hay last night. The reason I hadn’t lived up to my previous New Year’s resolutions is I didn’t know myself that well yet. I didn’t (and still don’t) know which of my habits kill me slowly and therefore must die. I don’t know which of them comprise the me I want to be, either. I lead a fast-paced day-to-day life. All the details that make up my life are like cars stuck in a bumper-to-bumper New York traffic. I’m not only impulsive by nature, the things I have to do on a daily basis requires me to be impulsive.That being said, I haven’t had time to just calm down and contemplate about the things I need to either stop or continue doing.
Maybe that’s what I should do, right? Maybe I should just lay my head underneath the stars and think, think, think. Maybe feel a little, even if, in the world I decided to live in, that is a civil offense. I should just put my life up on this hypothetical wall and sort it all out, you know? I should figure myself out. That’s the root of the problem–its bull’s eye. I should take it from there, and then I’ll make a resolution. That’s a lot more sensible and, I hope, more effective. Who the hell cares if, by then, the Media Noche will have gone down the sewer already? What’s important is that a resolution is made, regardless of whatever season we’re in. Maybe after that, spring will be more colorful, summer will be more sun-kissed, fall will be more golden, and winter will require people to hug more often than before. (What am I talking about? I live in the Philippines.)
I don’t know, I guess I’m tired of all the mushy things people write on New Year’s Eve. I don’t think any of those are gonna change anything. I think I need something a little more practical and logical. Maybe that way things’ll start improving for real.
But I do wish all of us joy, laughter, success and bliss for the new year, though. All I’m saying is that it’s not enough to just wish for it. I think this time, we have to actually get our hands dirty and act on our wishes. The world is no wish-granting factory. It’s us who make these wishes come true.
So cheers to you, you wonderful human being, the genie whom you never thought had already escaped from the bottle all this time.
Hasta la vista,
Happy New Year, everyone!
God really does work in clever ways. He’ll bring people to you and claim them back or give them to someone else. He’ll let you meet new people and have them go as well. But He’ll let you keep a number of other more important people, so that when the ones who’ll need to leave have left, He’d allow you to run to these people and have them make you realize that life can go on with just you, Him, and them. He’ll send you manna in the most unexpected days. He’ll send you plagues as well, to see if you deserve to reach the land of milk and honey. He’ll send you angels, both nice and naughty, but angels nonetheless. He’ll bring you Santa because Santa brings Him to you. He’ll let you traverse new roads without maps in hand, only to make you realize that He had given you full authority to draw the map yourself. He’ll make you read the Bible, the story of His life, but in accordance to that, He’ll send you another package: ink and papyrus, just in case you finally realize that the story of your life is in your hands.
He’ll be the light that guides you on your way, but He’ll remind you that you’ve got feet of your own, and that these feet will always, always find its way upward; its way back to Him.
It is but fitting that one of the earliest posts I put up here is about Him. This, my folks, is the man I love the most. :)
Hasta la vista,
People ask me when the last time I fell in love was. I don’t remember, really. I’ve been committing the same mistake for so long– the very mistake that crushes other people’s souls as much as it devours yours. I, it seems, have forgotten that love was a promise, a contract that must not expire. Time and again, this eerie little thought tries to sink into me, but it is only now that I’ve seen even the parallel sides of the universe that I entertain this.
Love is such a strong word, you know. You can utter those three words to anybody, nice and easy, maybe even in sticky caps or extra letters if you’re that jeje. But one out of ten people will realize that they weren’t genuinely in love, they were in love with the idea of being in love. They loved the feeling they used to get when they read good morning/night messages, happy-monthsary speeches, teddy bears, chocolates, late night conversations and whatnot. But actually being in love? Like authentic, pure love, which would mean sacrificing your own happiness just to see someone else keep that trademark smile on their face? Without expecting anything in return, no questions asked? That’s big. That’s something not many of us can do. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I am that one awkward penguin out of ten love-bugs right now. I loved to love, but I was never really in love. So no, Krissy and Ericka, not saying hi because I looked away isn’t the biggest mistake of my life. But lying to myself– I don’t know how to forgive me for that.
Now I know why the saying “You’re too young to love” exists. Because people take advantage of the words “I love you” without being aware of what love legitimately is. Honey, love is not a plaything. Loving can either mean holding on or letting go, but for the right reasons, in the right time. Those three words remain on the face of the Earth because it’s supposed to build you up, not let you down. But it’s starting to lose its meaning. Hell, people don’t even remember how to spell it right, let alone mean it. To them, it’s just three words. To us, the ones who actually give a F about the truth, it’s the three words. When these come out as lies, all hell will break loose. We’re humans; we’re very fragile. We get hurt, you know. Really hurt.
I’ll admit to feeling guilty about all this, but that doesn’t mean I’m keeping this to myself. This goes to the people like me: whose chests are being stabbed while reading this; who know what it’s like to be the target and the one behind the trigger. The next time you fall in love, be armed with all the insights you gain from this article.
I promise you, it will all be worth it.
Hasta la vista,
Once on their rocky journey to Yale, Blair Waldorf and Serena Van der Woodsen were asked one stingy question. “If there is a person, fictional or real, living or dead you could have dinner with, who would it be? And why?” Blair ruined Serena’s answer before she could even speak. If you haven’t seen the episode yet and I’d ask you to make a wild guess on what happened next, I’m sure you’d say cat fight. And you’d be right.
They say that every person born into this world bears with him a work of art. All he needs is a little push and maybe some paint, and then he’ll go places. Unfortunately for some of us, our hands seem to be obligated to betray us. Our minds are crowded by so many colorful ideas, but what comes out of the canvas is, bluntly, a disasterpiece.
Art isn’t my thing. Never was, never will be. I do have creative outlets, but not this. Manual work is my danger zone. Crayola is, hands down, the baddest bitch I’ve had to combat. Now that I’m in my third year of High school, I’m forced to do a rematch with it in our drafting classes. I feel miserable sitting there staring at my smudged-up Oslo when all the others’ papers are perfect as gold. Insult my work and I’d throw a party in agreement.
But I know I’m not the only one. Ha!
Leave me your thoughts.
Hasta la vista,
I can feel my brain rising up to where it’s supposed to be: over the heart. Debate taught me one very important thing: when life gets hard, use logic, not love.
When you can’t sleep at night, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re in love. It means that you’re a mildly insane human being highly prone to insomnia who may or may not be experiencing it at the moment but is never unable to sleep just because of the abnormal activities of the hypothalamus.
When you can’t concentrate in class, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re in love. It means that you’re an average high school student whose interests do not coincide with the school’s and who has temporarily shut off from the world by a choice influenced by complete and utter boredom. I mean, come on, think about it. If all your classmates were laughing their butts off, would you still be the awkward lonely penguin staring blankly at the window, playing shallow and meaningless love songs in your head? I think not.
When you feel cranky and aloof after a session of melodrama the night before, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re in love. It means that even though you’re an individual granted by the Republic of the Philippines the right to decide wisely, yet still listens to these so-called “whispers of the heart”. The heart cannot, in any way, shape or form, whisper. It cannot even speak, let alone whisper! Now, what the hell are you listening to? The wind? Your electric fan? The hum of your AC? Casper, perhaps? I don’t know, people. Call me whatever you want, I’d still think it’s stupid. I’ll only be accepting answers that go “The Beatles, because they said to whisper words of wisdom, let it be.. let it be..” Answers other than that are irrelevant.
Admittedly, I was one of those who wish to tell my love story to the birds chirping happily on the window pane. When I realized how gay that is, I thought, “The hell, Iss?”
Look, I’m not being anti-love. I’m being rational. Love is not something you experience when you can’t sleep or concentrate or act the way you’re supposed to. Love is supposed to be a gift. Even when you’re experiencing the hardest of times, it will never cause you to go full-on ghetto on anybody, especially yourself. It’ll drive you to find ways to make things better instead. If what you feel now is not this kind of love, then no, honey, it’s not love at all. But don’t worry, the trial-and-error method works most of the time.
If you really insist on “following your heart”, I’ll tell Krissy and Ericka to move their crying sessions from 12:51 to about a few hours earlier so people can have enough sleep. That’s how much I love you guys.
Hasta la vista,
Mistakes are probably our most irremovable scars. Say you tripped over a gutter and earned yourself a huge, deep wound that bled forever. You bit your lip and screamed your lungs off as you had it soaked in water and Betadine. You wrapped it in gauze and let it sit for a week or two, careful not to touch it, scratch it, or pinch it. Then, when you felt like it was time, you removed the gauze and allowed the scab to heal by itself. The pain subsided, but it left you a big fat scar. Something not only you would see; other people would gawk over it, too, as if it were some otherworldly badly-done tattoo. And no matter how hard you’ve practiced on your matrix-slash-ninja-slash-espionage skills so you don’t screw up ever again, the scar would always remind everybody how much of an airhead you once were, and somehow, in their eyes, you always will be.
Maybe that’s why we think people never change. We close them off completely, shutting off the fact that maybe, just maybe, they would get their heads back together. We think that the scars they wear on their skin fully describe who they are at present. We deny them the opportunity to show us just how hard they’ve worked to pay for what they did, because then again, the possibility that history would repeat itself scares us. Maybe that’s why we complain that there’s never anything good in the world; we don’t allow our eyes to see it.
Others don’t change because we’ve always thought they’d never.
And we’re scared, too scared that things may be too good to be true.
Hasta la vista,
To love and to be in love are two different things.
To love is to genuinely care for a person, to be there for them in times of need, to welcome them with open ears when they greet you with a sob story, and to be assured that they’ll be there for you, too, when the universe decides to do a back flip.
But to be in love is a completely different story. It’s about finding your soul’s favorite companion, your whole being’s supplement, your heart’s missing half. It’s about striving and thriving to arrive at a sense of completion, even when you don’t realize you’ve been looking for that one missing puzzle piece this entire time. It’s about waking up in the morning and fully comprehending why your days are worth getting up to. It’s about coming home to an eerily familiar voice, laughter, scent and warmth that you feel are more like home compared to its four-walled, cemented counterpart. It’s about loving unconditionally, although we know that somewhere within its four atria, the heart wants the love it gives to be requited. To be in love is about being happy when together and not, because in a rather irreversible way, you two will always find yourselves coming home.. to each other.
So if you’re wasting your body’s water supply over an “I will always love you” promise, let it hit you that you got it all wrong. They’ll always love you. They’ll love you enough to care that you’re alive, but they never said they’ll always be in love with you.
Hasta la vista,
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