The Bayonologues @bayonologues - Tumblr Blog

I was supposed to post this on Instagram as a caption but it felt too personal. So I’m sharing this here instead.

just realized it’s 20 days before my one-way flight to bacolod. i’m feeling dizzy and my heart dropped to my stomach. i had a lot of time to prepare and slowly detach from the life i built here in manila in the past 11 years, but when you put a number to it, it becomes all too real. suddenly, it’s not a plan, a concept anymore. it’s all happening!

the good thing is that i am fully aware of my numbered days. amidst all the uncertainty, i know each day that passes from here on is a day closer to a departure. there’s a quote from the office that describes my sentiment – i wish there was a way to know you're in "the good old days", before you've actually left them. this is the gift i gave to myself when i made difficult decisions a few months ago - time. i bought myself time to be consciously living in the “good old days”, and it has been nothing short of immense, quiet and private joy. but the knowledge of my limited time has also brought me constant bouts of sadness and grief. this is, after all, the life i know in my entire young adult years. i started this journey as a teenager, graduated college, and started my professional life in this little nest of a life. i am tempted to rebook my flight to a week later, just to hold on a little bit longer to the comfort and familiarity, but i keep reminding myself not to be a coward and to face the difficult parts of life head-on. but even so, goodbyes will always be a bitch. uggghhh. i hate this part.

05272020 at dawn

Because 3 am is essay-writing hour inside my head, here’s a thought I’ve been revisiting over and over again ever since I had time to reflect about my twenties while in quarantine... For people like me whose passion is closely linked to a career, which consequently relates to one’s self-worth, I spent ALL years of my twenties trying to look good, competent and valuable to other people. Maybe if I stayed for longer hours, they’ll see how indispensable I am. Maybe if I revise it a hundredth time, they’ll be impressed. Maybe if I behave according to their liking, I’d win their favor. In truth, maybe I wasn’t really trying to win them over, but instead, I was trying to convince myself that I like myself - that I’m valuable and special and worthy of recognition.

Yeah, fuck that.

Now that I’ve been in quarantine alone for nearly 3 months and practically doing bare minimum career-wise, I feel the most loved and valuable in my entire twenties. I have friends and family who have me in their mind and hearts. But more importantly, I like being with myself. I love sitting with my thoughts. I love feeding myself, laughing with myself, crying and drying my own tears. I am nothing and everything.

Moving forward into my 30s in less than two years, I’d like to reexamine my definition of a good life. I have always taken pride in my path of chasing after a passion because it felt like I was doing bigger things than the average person. But ironically, I also always felt envious of the contentment and peace of mind the average person has with his/her average life. Like the saying goes - something to do, someone to love, something to look forward to. Maybe in my 30s, dreams are no longer lofty, shiny and ~up there. Maybe I can just be happy, content, and perhaps little, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I won’t die if I don’t see my name in the big screen. Maybe I’ll blend in the background and take up just enough space to love the people and things that make me feel alive. Maybe that defines my next new passion.

Whatever I decide on, I won’t take it against myself if I suddenly stop this train and get off. Maybe I don’t need to reach that pinnacle destination. I moved to Manila and started this journey when I was 18. I think I’ve become three different people in the span of ten years, and now I’m approaching my final form in this phase of my life.

There’s a quote in Lost In Translation that stuck with me ever since I first saw the film in my teenage years. “The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.” It was Bob’s answer to Charlotte when she asked if it gets easier. I yearned to get to that place where I know myself enough to figure things out. At 28, I think I’m getting closer. I’m almost there. And from the way things are panning, perhaps I do need to get off the train soon.

PS. I wrote the first four paragraphs drunk on May 27, revisited this post today and finished writing it. It was my first time writing drunk. Fun.

At what cost?

Any form and kind of good writing is really quite strange because it requires a certain amount of pain. I'm calling it - good writers are masochists. You go there - to that place - where you pick yourself apart and cuddle with your demons in order to manipulate your creative spirit to write the best damn sentences. You repeat the whole process of wounding yourself and prying the scab open until you reach that final punctuation mark.

I only started writing professionally three years ago. I haven't done much to be honest. I don't have a produced script, or any published work yet I am so fucking exhausted sometimes.

Three years ago, I was shamed during a workshop for not having enough pain in my life to become a good writer. I went home that day thinking that person was right. Maybe I haven't lived enough, that I don't bruise my knees too often and wear my heart on my sleeve.

Three years later, I lost a dear friend, had my first heartbreak, and experienced betrayal in the family. I haven't cried so much in the past year. Do I have enough tools to make me a good writer now? I am allowed in the table and have a piece of the cake? Yet I dread going to that place and open a can of worms just to put in a day's work. All of it seems like a self-absorbed emotional masturbation!

The truth is, I don't want to feel my pain. I don't want to pry myself open and walk stark naked with my scars and scabs on display.

I want to get out of the woods and lay peacefully in a rainbow surrounded by butterflies. I want to build a wall so high and sturdy, the monsters can't come to find me.

My pain makes me cry at night even if I don't want to. My pain withdraws me from loving my friends and family properly. My pain is a blindfold keeping me from enjoying life.

I don't want to go to that place. It is lonely and terrible and has my face plastered all over it. That place is an enemy and avoidance of it is necessary to get by.

But despite all these conscious cowardice, as long as I continue to write in this context, I will always be made to go wandering to that place.

All good writing also require honesty and vulnerability. Sadly, I can't seem to express both as freely as I should. Everything good has a cost, but my peace of mind is too valuable as collateral damage.

#personal #writing #writings

For Karl

I was googling Keanu Reeves the other day and I saw his and River Phoenix's actor profiles side by side. Keanu's photo showed proof of life. He looked like his age, early 50s. River's, on the other hand, has preserved his youthfulness. He died at 23. I figured this is how it will be with Karl and I. While I grow old, he will always be 26.

Today is is his 40th day, and as I write this, I am bawling my eyes out like it's the first day. Prior to the passing of Karl, I had a vague concept of how losing a loved one feels like. The closest were that of my distant grandfather, and of my pet dog, Gambi. Grief didn't fully demand itself to be felt back then.

I can't really begin to describe in words how losing a dearly beloved friend feels like. People tend to write about grief in poetic terms. In the many times that I have tried to write about Karl, I'm guilty of this. How do I talk about him without sounding so melodramatic? How do I write about his passing without being so damn depressing?

But the ugly reality of it all is it is so damn depressing. You think it gets better as time progresses but the sudden episodes of crying and bawling don't actually stop.

In plain words - I will never see Karl ever again. I will never be able to talk to him. I will never be able to hear the sound of his voice again. I will never be able to feel the comforting pat of his hand. Never.

We throw around this word, never, in casual everyday conversations. But when you use it in the context of death and permanence, it holds so much gravity. Never.

Karl now exists in my memory, in my recollection. I keep him alive, always. I try to remember how he looks like, how his voice sounds like, and how his presence feel like. I try to mention his name in normal conversations even if people find it uncomfortable and awkward. Society has yet to find a way to process grief without making everyone else in the room feel uneasy. And so we move past the topic, and the memory slowly fades into a small footnote in history.

But I won't allow it. Karl will always be remembered.

It's not easy to make friends when you're an adult. Once you find a rare gem of a person who somehow understands you and sees you, you tend to latch unto them and make a comfortable nest around them. That's how my friendship with Karl was.

Few people know me like how Karl did, and I think I'll never find another one like him.

I guess this truth is what hurts the most - that I found a truly special and beautiful person in my life, but I lost him too early.

And so I don't have any poetic words or positive conclusions out of all these ramblings. I just really wanted to say that I miss my friend, and how I fucking wish I could have him back.

#personal #writings

02/01/19

A local movie, Alone/Together, came out with its trailer tonight and its tagline says "Remember what great love looked like."

To be honest, I can't. I never had a great love. Perhaps, not even the lesser permutations of love. All I know are tiny moments of life when the possibility of love had a chance.

But I don't remember much about how they looked like. I could, however, recall how they smelled. Funny how our olfactory system can bring back memories through the fleeting existence of a scent that cannot be held nor felt.

There is the scent of Bench baby cologne which I wore back in high school and it reminds me of anxious romance over hushed phone conversations that lasted until 3 AM with the first guy I had formed a deep infatuation for. At night, we were trustworthy confidants, but when morning came, we were nothing more than strangers walking past each other in the school corridors. We didn't address the elephant in the room until he asked me to dance with him during prom night. Still, we never fully put into words why our feelings didn't come to fruition. That was all there was to my false assumptions - inches apart, hearts beating faster than cannonballs, our clammy hands around each other's waists, nervously moving to the beat of three songs that I swear lasted for three hours.

There is the aroma of Benguet coffee, which reminds me of reciprocated feelings and calculated mistakes with a guy I liked alongside the dry, summer air. Caffeine was one of the few things we shared in our systems and we ran on it like a shot of espresso that promised a fatal crash. We bought a coffee maker together, and I made him coffee with as much certainty as a day-old barista. As fast as coffee goes from fresh to stale, we quickly knew we were brewing something out of nothing. Nevertheless, the aroma of Benguet coffee continues to bring me back to those pivotal months that changed me - a recollection not out of bitterness, but with a sense for a wakeful state of living.

And then, there is the smell of pine trees, of freshly cut grass and of sea salt which take me to certain moments when I think strongly about you. There are no memories nor stories to tell, yet. There is only a semblance of that olfactory pleasure when our "someday" becomes some day - when pine trees, freshly cut grass, and sea salt become witnesses to what our great love would look like.

Certainly then, I’ll remember.

#writings #personal

26 was weird

01 November 2018

I'm a few days shy of turning 27 and I feel like I have to write something. I have this self-imposed expectation that I have processed the past 12 months of being 26, and now, I will have to arrange my takeaways into a tiny package with a red ribbon around it and present them to my public blog.

The truth is - it's been a weird, confusing year. But it's my favorite life year so far. This year dragged on a bit only because I actively participated in life. I have a tiny calendar on my office desk and I cross out the days that pass by. Not a single day came and went without etching its mark in the tiny corners of my consciousness. I felt every single day.

Maybe it's been a weird year because I'm finally owning up to becoming a fully-fledged adult. I know we're a generation that is hell-bent on staying young and nursing our Peter Pan syndrome for as long as we can. But there comes a point when the same old narrative you tell yourself since you were a fresh grad gets old - you know, that idealistic "the world is my oyster, you can't dull my sparkle" story the voices in your head tells you. But like I said, shit gets old. Some of things you hold on to so dearly won't quite hold much weight and bearing as you get older.

One day you think you’re going to be hotshot independent filmmaker, the next day, you’re faced with your average skills and limited resources. Over time, we come to terms with the reality of our lives and gradually let go of pipe dreams that don’t seem to be as pressing and as important as they seem.

Once you reach a certain age, and watch enough Hallmarky films, you're going to realize it's time to start thinking about a life that doesn't only contain yourself. I've seen A LOT of Hallmarky films and engaged in A LOT of Hallmarky conversations this year and they all uncovered my secret desire to be *drum roll * a great mom. I can't be a great mom (by my standards, someone who has a good career, but is also emotionally available, domesticated and can exchange secrets with her kid like Lorelai and Rory) if I don't embrace adulthood with open arms. Great moms hold responsibilities with real life consequences. AND they process government paperwork without shrugging their shoulders the entire time.

So, that's one. I woke up my maternal instincts.

Another thing? I openly recognized my depressive and anxious personality type and I am actively doing something to keep it at bay. I am not clinically diagnosed, but certain episodes have sent me to a black hole around mid-year (when I thought I could be a lawyer and quit a creative career entirely HA-HA). Do you know what saved me? MEDITATION. That, and exploring other schools of thought, specifically Buddhism, Stoicism and countless Ted talks.

I have never really understood what "peace of mind" meant until I could hold myself down to do an unguided meditation session for 40 minutes straight, and actually love it.

It's becoming apparent to me that Catholic teachings further fan the flames of my inner demons. Heck, maybe getting indoctrinated by them for 18 years of my life even helped form those demons. So that's also one thing I decided on this year - I'm not ascribing to any organized religions anymore. Of course, I believe in a Divine Being. I mean, there's got to be Someone running the show right? A sunrise just couldn’t exist without a Master of colorful hues, beauty and vitamin D creating it. But I'm not quite sure Who could He/She be. Plus, I agree with Ari. God could really be a woman (?!).

You see, five years ago, I would never entertain this thought. I’d beat myself for even having doubts. But at 26, I explored the big, scary questions that I can never have answers to. Yep, the unexplored life isn’t worth living.

I guess... the existential crisis never goes away. It transforms into a different kind with each passing year. The same goes with loneliness. (Yep, that was my attempt at a smooth transition)

This year was the year I decided to actively put my heart on my sleeve. I made a few attempts, but like what most stupid boy penises can only bring, I cried myself to sleep listening to soft boi music (I'm looking at you Lauv and LANY). It was fun, and emotionally tormenting and it briefly ruined my life. But did I mention that it was fun? I want to repeat the process all over again - all the good, bad and ugly parts of it.

I'll never get used to loneliness. Love is all that it's hyped to be.

Last part of this rambling blog post goes out to my friends. I will always remember one particular Ted talk that taught me that the good life is built on good relationships. My best relationship are my friendships. Thanks for seeing things through with me even if I sounded like a pathetic loser wallowing on her own puddle of tears on several occasions. You were there at my most vulnerable, and you were there when I emerged as a stronger woman with her perfectly-threaded eyebrows in check. I can't remember how many times I tweeted - I love my friends - this year.

So that's about it. That ends my 26th year on Earth.

I hope I make better choices (okay, a few stupid ones are still permissible), spend more time outdoors, learn a new language, read more books, and give a fuck to people who matter on my 27th year.

I love my life, to be completely honest. And that's a big declaration.

“I've been floating idly in the remaining days of my 25th year on earth. I can't tell the days of the week apart. They're all the same - spent lying on a nimbus cloud hovering over the gentle nudges of my childhood, the distant silhouette of an elusive future, and the heavy existence of now.

I may have gotten a serious case of the birthday blues.

It's been a month since I stopped writing. Work has been quiet, maybe a little too silent that it has rendered me deaf. The absence of noise has led me to wander in the black hole of my mind, and I'm falling - fallen - in the rut of the whys and hows of life once again.

I crippled myself in the fall, and it is only I that can pull myself to stand up again.” (Written on 30 October 2017)

#personal #birthday #writings

In My Head

I watched the original Sabrina (1954) and I was struck by a particular scene. Sabrina and Linus are on a boat, and Linus tells Sabrina how he almost jumped over a ledge due to a heartbreak. Earlier in the movie, Sabrina had a similar attempt for the same reason. It was in that moment that Sabrina started falling for Linus. Vulnerability connects people on a deeply emotional level.

I remember when we were driving down to a personally special place. I wanted to take you there because I wanted to let you walk down the streets and corners that shaped me. On the way, we were talking about the darkest times of our short lives, how you felt hopeless at one point but luckily found a silver lining to pull you out of the rut. I understood you because I felt that too. And I thought to myself - I never wanted you to feel that ever again.

Sometimes late at night, I still play different scenarios in my head. I rearrange all the best moments and watch them again with rose-colored lens. In my head, you read the email and replied. In my head, I was the only one. In my head, we were good for each other. In my head, it had the same bearing and meaning as much as it had for me.

I liked it better in my head.

But in reality, I skip a song that reminds me of you. In reality, there are questions that will never be answered. In reality, it probably didn't mean as much as how my head wants to retell the story the way I wanted it to be.

When we were in Quiapo, I lit a wishing candle and hoped I'd get to know you more for the rest of the year.

I didn't know it would happen all in my head.

#personal #writings

The longest audition

When I was working as a PA for TV shows, a part of my job was holding auditions for talents to play bitplayer roles. Usually, it was for kids who would play the younger version of the lead character. I would send out a group message to talent suppliers the night before, and despite the short notice, around 30-50 kids would show up the following afternoon to audition for the same single role.

These kids entered the company premises with wide eyes full of aspirations. These dreamers harnessed their confidence from their best Sunday outfits and from the fact they got they their newly polished tassel boots on. These kids skipped school to audition. For most of them, this was their special occasion.

We gave them the script on the day itself, and they sat quietly in the corridors with their moms, “throwing lines” and “internalizing” in hushed tones.

Having to sit behind the desk, and decide for the innocent yearnings of these little ones to appear on TV, I regarded these kids with much amusement and sometimes, pity. After a while, it became second nature to reject these young aspirants without even batting an eyelash. Producers still preferred to get an experienced child actor from the talent center than to train raw talent from scratch.

Sometimes, it came to a point when I just wanted to pull the children aside and whisper them the truth - no one really gets in. It felt like a waste of time for the kids whom I thought were better off in school. Auditioning several times only to be let down and rejected over and over again just didn’t make sense to me.

But the same kids we rejected in the previous show still came to the next audition - still hopeful, still doe-eyed, and still in those newly polished tassel boots. We still sent all of them home with the false promise of letting them know the results via SMS (we never did), yet I was certain the same faces would still show up in the next audition.

Only now that I am actively pursuing my passion in the creative industry do I realize that I am no different to the kids I frowned upon. When we decided to lead a creative life, we signed ourselves to a life sentence of auditioning.

Every story I write is an audition. Every pitch is a performance. The space I tread on is a stage that is at the disposal and scrutiny of those in position to turn my words into frames.

Like those kids who came back repeatedly after getting rejected, I now understand the kind of resilience it takes to go to the same place every night, pick myself apart, face the intimidating blinking line of an empty Word document, and still want to write.

It’s been five years since I started this long audition for the on-screen by-line. Five years since I took the red pill and fell down the rabbit hole. My Sunday dress is creased; my tassel boots are worn out.

Most of the time, I internalize the voices in my head and fence with myself, nudging my foolish and hungry side to give it up. Maybe there isn’t a place for me here; maybe I’m not skilled enough, talented enough, and charming enough to penetrate this scene of loudly colorful personalities; maybe it’s time to quit showbiz (because IT IS quittable - if there is such a word).

Then there is the horrendous task required of breaking myself, my memories, my beliefs - essentially, my entire being - in order to come up with a beautiful output. I kid you not. Every single storyline I submitted to my current employer since I started 17 months ago were never half-assed. I wrote them fully-assed, there on my chair, all-night, while I symbolically cut myself to harness authentic emotions and ideas.

It doesn’t end there. Right after sending the email, I am left to deal with my own mess - to pick up the bits and pieces of myself from the floor, and assemble them into the cheeky, jolly person that I am outside.

Everything about being a writer is daunting. But it is ten times worse when you feel things so unnecessarily deep.

Given these factors, I am left with the haunting question of whether I still want to go on with this audition or gracefully walk away. I wouldn’t take it against myself. I tried and gave myself 5 years to pursue this dream.

But what would I do? I can’t do anything else with the same level of intense passion and hatred at the same time like I do when I am creating stories.

When I imagine a life where money isn’t an issue, the first picture that enters my mind is a big desk in front of an enormous window overlooking a garden outside. Deep in my heart, I still want to become a writer.

So I’m going to endure and hold on for a little longer. I want that big desk. I want that enormous window. I want that sprawling garden outside.

The only way to get there is to shut the fuck up and show up in my Sunday’s best every goddamn audition.

#personal #writings #writing

Tbh, imo

I've been feeling unwell lately.

It started a little over a week ago. I was at a creative workshop, and we were supposed to share reflections on a recent personal hero's journey we've overcome. I shared about my struggles in quitting my first job. I said I delayed my decision because I got too comfortable.

Someone older in the room took the pleasure to belittle my experience. Actually, ours of the younger ones. Our daddy issues were a waste of time to listen to. I took it personally and felt offended. Initially, I thought about my life and the possible truth of the kababawans I've supposedly overcome. I am thankful that I have not experienced the death of a loved one, or a life-shattering heartbreak. I have a few cuts and bruises but not a deep, festering wound to scar me for life and render me judgmental of other people's pains. But I wondered - have I lived enough?

But even then, anyone's pain and past experiences, no matter how mababaw it may seem compared to depression and suicide, shouldn't be a subject to scoff at and minimized to non-issues. Every kind of pain is valid. It's "intensity" (if there's such a thing) doesn't make it less of a real human experience worthy of a story to share and to learn from.

For a time, I was angry. But after sitting on this sentiment in the past few days, I came to realize I forgive that older, more experienced participant in the room. She didn't know my full story. She didn't know the demons I fight with every 3 o’clock in the morning. She didn't know the whispers I tell myself to get my shit together before coming to work. She didn't know me.

That's the thing with sharing personal stories in a group setting. There's a tendency for boxing people inside preconceived notions. To be honest, I came to the workshop with my guards up. I knew I would have to open up, but certain details were to be left unsaid.

I withheld the real reason why I struggled to quit my job. Maybe if I had been completely honest, I would have sounded more wounded, thus, earning the older participant's respect of considering my pain legitimate. But I didn't think a room full of strangers I probably won't ever see again needed to hear my tales of self-doubt and shaky self-esteem. I had this feeling that my personal stories would fall on deaf ears. This world is judgmental and irredeemably flawed. If you let your walls down, do so at your own risk.

Becoming a writer, I understand I'm always going to do so countless times, assuming both roles of the storyteller and the listener. I try to cultivate a sound perspective that doesn't jump to conclusions and hasty impressions on people, but there's a dissonance inside me - between my judgment and empathy. It’s a constant battle inside my head.

I walked out of that creative workshop slightly offended, but it made me want to be more respectful of other people’s struggles, no matter how light and heavy, precisely because I know how it feels to question the significance of my pain.

#writings #work

Sleeping With The Enemies

I’m writing because there’s a storm hovering my bed every night at 3 in the morning.

Ever since my insomnia has come back, I’m awake to witness it all unravel. First it starts small from the corner of my room. It’s a drizzle, bringing back words left unsaid, and decisions that should have been made sooner. Then I put on a sad song, and the drizzle turns to rain.

Now, it’s pouring. I am drenched of the things I did and didn’t do and the howling winds of regret sting on my skin. I hide under my blanket, and cover my head with a pillow, but it’s too late. The storm is raging and it is crumbling every bit of defenses I’ve carefully put up through the years.

Suddenly, I’m 16 again and unsure of myself. My old friends Insecurity and Self-Doubt are comfortably nestled beside me like it’s one big slumber party for the weak aptly called “self-sabotage”.

“Remember that time you failed that particularly important life opportunity?” recalls Insecurity.

“Yeah! Maybe you’re just not good enough. You’re building yourself more than what you really are - a phony,” chimes Self-Doubt.

I’ve learned how to deal with these motherfuckers. Sometimes, a 5K run would kick their asses. Other times, it would take a reaffirming walk with nature, or a bathe with the sun at the summit of a mountain.

But right now, they are spooning me like a lover and I am weak and vulnerable.

So tonight, I'm sleeping with the enemies because I'm afraid I really don't have any idea what I'm doing. Maybe I just know how because I've been doing and trying all my life, but I'm going to change my mind again sooner or later. I need to close my eyes in defeat.

Tomorrow morning, I won't still have the answers but it's going to be a different story. I will wake up to another day of living a creative life. I will write one true sentence, the truest sentence I know, and write even more ‘til I run out of blank spaces. I will soak in art and grow my soul.

When 3 AM comes, I will be ready to face the storm again, and I will kill the enemies in their sleep.

I am my own crisis; I am my own solution.

(I really am just having act 2 roadblocks and it’s killing me.)

#writers block #writings

How Do You Pray Again

On Easter Sunday, I went to my third Switchfoot concert. If you know me personally longer than, let’s say 2 years, you would know how close their music is to my heart.

I grew up listening to Learning To Breathe and Dare You To Move amid my raging teenage angst. I was blasting Hello Hurricane while writing my papers in college. Saltwater Heart was playing through my earphones as I watched the sun set over a field of sugarcanes while working on a shoot.

Switchfoot and I go back and go deep. Over the years, my faith has gone through different phases and levels of belief. It was a slow fade (I’m talking about years here), until recently I’ve decided I’m no longer ascribing to a religion, but generally believing that there is one Divine Being. I was content with that.

Even with that new set of beliefs, my love for Switchfoot has remained unwavered. I don’t know why but they just stuck around. I stopped reading the Bible and I stopped going to Sunday service, but I continued listening to Switchfoot - the only remaining functioning connection I have with my previous strong Christian faith.

On Easter Sunday, while Switchfoot was playing I Won’t Let You Go, maybe the connection has started a spark because I found myself praying. Like how I used to pray before. I’ve actually forgotten how to do it - to pray, a basic human thing to do - but I still did so, albeit struggling. So this is how it feels like, I said to myself, to put a familiar face and name to this Divine Being I recognize. God. Jesus. Abba, Father.

I prayed for my family, for this country, for Syria, for my sister who is reviewing for the Bar. I realized, this is how it feels like to put the mirror down for a moment and genuinely care enough for someone else other than myself, while no one is watching, retweeting or putting a heart to it. Such a rare moment these days, for me to actually stop being so cynical and disillusioned, and just believe that God is in control.

I feel like I’m treading towards a surge of waves I’ve been through before, but the tides are higher and more hostile and I could no longer reach nor stand on the ocean floor. Maybe because my tendency to want to understand everything on a reasonable and logical point of view has fanned the flames of doubt. I realized that maybe sometimes, the less I know, the better. I can’t always intellectualize every single thing. A lot of things in the Bible don’t make sense to me, but for now, I am settled to know God still has His hand out, reaching out to me even if I’ve turned a cold shoulder time and time again.

And so I arrive at the conclusion. God talks to me through the music and lyrics of Switchfoot. And for some of you, this might sound all so cheesy and religious (believe me, I’m one of the least religious people there is), but I’ve been to both sides of the coin to find the cure for the pains of this world and this path somehow leads to hope - that all is not futile, that what we do from day to day can actually matter in the long run, and that there might be more than we can actually fathom in our lowly, earthly existence.

I don’t know, really. This feels like a new exploration, an experiment of faith, and I’m not quite sure how long can I even sustain this. In fact, writing this is terrifying me. I don’t know what the heck I’m doing by putting this out there. Does this mean I should go back to church? Should I stop cursing? But I love to say the word fuck. And I fully support gay rights and the reproductive health bill. Conflicts! Internal conflicts!

All I know for now is that I just want to become a better human being. So I’m going to keep on praying.

#switchfoot #faith

Since the new year started, I've been getting my shit together.

First off, I started running. During christmas vacation, I found a nice route 5 minutes from my parents' house where the sun set magnificently. So I decided to do something out of character - get my lazy ass off my bed, lace up my Nikes and replicate the act of running by moving my feet back and forth on the concrete pavement.

I could barely run a minute straight. I used to describe the feeling as "having my internal organs blended". But I forced myself to run three to four times a week, all for keeping up with the new year-new me fever pitch.

And at last three months later, I'm on my 7th km mark in my #roadto10K hashtag. It's been fun to casually bring up my 5K runs during small talks and finally become a member of the wear-your-activewear social club. But most especially, apart from the health benefits (which I'm not really after for), I like running because it's another solitary activity wherein I get to live like a hermit in my own head. Sometimes, when the shuffle is on point, and the magic hour sun rays hit the trees, they cast a shadow over the acad oval, making me feel like I’m inside a movie.

There are a few times that I manage to close my eyes while imagining the track is my life and the goals are at the finish line (or until the Runkeeper app says "workout complete"). You know me. I like dramatic metaphors. These seemingly cinematic moments allow me to enjoy running. Maybe it's my own version of a runner's high.

Second, I'm back to reading with a modest goal of two books a month. I figured that if I wanted to become a writer, I could "only write what I know." So I have to read religiously. I aspire to be the kind of person who reads a book while waiting in line, instead of scrolling my thumb up and down a screen. If I'm going to strain my neck looking down all the time, I might as well be learning too.

Third point of progress, I'm finally writing. Like a real scene on an actual screenplay. This feels like the first of my many Mia (from La La Land) moments wherein I am figuratively singing The Fools Who Dream in the middle of an audition. This project is in fact, my audition, and I realized a little more than madness is key. Luck and talent can only take one so far. It's the attitude that completes the secret ingredient.

Last week, we were up on the 15th floor, the topmost floor, of the company building for a presentation. We were going to speak in front of the President/CEO and other intimidatingly important people (the ones who have fat bank accounts I can never earn even if I started working at age 7, those kinds of important people). When we were introduced as "new writers", I wanted to roll on the floor. I didn't know if I deserved such a title. I'm just merely a fool with a laptop computer and a dream. To say it was overwhelming is an understatement.

Now here comes the sappy part (but I'll try my hardest not to sound like a Lang Leav poem).

I've been on a roll since January up until February came and Valentine's day punched me on the throat. I’ve been getting better at celebrating the "holiday" over the years of remaining single, but this year, cupid was a bitch. Maybe I'm fully coming to terms just now how much hard work is required in the whole dating department. I can wing a lot of things (college papers written overnight, short films rendered 5 minutes before submission, a concept pitch thought about 30 seconds ago), but not this one.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing. At 25.

When I was in kindergarten, there was an unpopular kid (I think his name was Gordo) who had a crush on me. He gave me a toy ring, but I stepped on it and embarrassed him in front of everyone. Gordo is probably laughing his ass off now, while his arms are wrapped around his supermodel girlfriend.

A few night ago, I watched Arrival and a line particularly struck me - if you could see your whole life laid out in front of you, would you change things?

Maybe I'd change the day I met you and make it come sooner, only so that we could have more (this topic deserves an entirely new and sappier post).

But I don't even know how to get there, to that part when we're actually together. Don't even get me started on "try putting yourself out there" because my eyes are already rolling 360 degrees.

Until then, maybe I'll just continue writing my life down, in a manner as if it was addressed to the general public, but in reality it's actually for you.

Catching up won’t be so hard, then. I mean, your childhood alone is a lot of ground to cover. Don’t leave out even the tiniest details of your high school prom. 25 years (and counting) is a long time.

Tell me everything.

Tell me more.

#life #wrtings

Once A Year

My parents were running late on the day I arrived at our local airport. Some things never change. They don't exactly have a stellar track record in punctuality when it comes to my annual airport pick-ups. I used the spare time to prepare myself. I knew the drive going home wouldn't be easy. It was exactly why I only fly back to Bacolod during the holidays. I’m convinced a long distance relationship is the best kind that works for my parents and I.

They're going to ask me about my new job, my plans for the future, and unfailingly try to talk me in again to go to law school - all of which I have to respond to calmly without my front of being a fully-functioning adult getting busted.

After 20 minutes, our familiar red SUV came up the driveway, windows down, with Mama and Papa's faces peaking through them. They didn't recognize me at first glance. I had my hair colored two weeks earlier, and admittedly gained a few pounds. After 5 seconds, their wandering eyes recognized their daughter whom they've last seen 12 months ago. I quickly gave them a peck on the cheek, after which Papa disapprovingly asked - I didn't recognize you! What did you do to your hair?

Alas, I am indeed home.

I always say I never come home the same person. On this occasion though, I didn't leave Bacolod the same person too. There is a good reason why nostalgia is both a human weakness and a strength. During my former holiday visits, it came as a weakness as I nursed an overdue mourning over my lost childhood and innocence, a final ditch to save the last few drops of the fountain of youth. This time around, the nostalgia came as a welcome reminder of what and who truly matters - family.

2016 had been generally hostile to the world. We all started to believe that the beginning of the end has begun. Life as we know it may not last very long now. I am not quite the type to feel homesick and emotionally needy for my family to tuck me in at night. I've lived independently for 8 years, and I managed to get through just fine. But when death is reported on a weekly basis, the nights tend to drag into a long and lonely continuum of questionable existence. The warmth of having family around these trying times becomes a necessary assurance that there are still some good left in the world.

The 20-minute ride from the airport was long and dreadful. It ranged from small talk to a sermon on job stability to several attempts on dodging the million-dollar question with the latest showbiz gossip. I rolled my eyes a few times, but I understood that I needed that time alone with my parents - for their persistent nagging on my life choices comes from their good hearts and their leverage of having gone through this road 20 years ahead of me.

We passed through familiar streets, and my high school alma mater. Gradually, the pretenses that had been building up over the years came off one by one. By the time we arrived at our house, the place where I started curating my dreams, I was myself. There in the backseat of our car, I returned to my grassroots before everything else happened - once a year, I become just their daughter again.

Three weeks later, Papa sent me off at 4 AM for my return flight. On the way to the airport, we ordered drive-thru and sang to Strangers In The Night. When I was boarding the plane, he sent me a text message saying it was nice having me around during the holidays.

Maybe I cried a little because I knew everything has changed.

I promised myself I’ll make my parents proud. And the next time I go home, that 20 minute ride from the airport will be nothing short of a fucking wonderful conversation.

#writings #life #travelogue