writing
Writers: The Lover And The Beloved
“You’ve always written because you wanted to. If you don’t want to any more, why should you? Do you think your not writing is going to cause a village to burn to the ground? A ship to sink? The tides to get messed up? Or set the revolution back five years? Hardly. I don’t think anybody’s going to label that defection.”
-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
One who does not read cannot be a writer, or at least be a good one. So of course, I read, a lot. But when it comes to writing about Bernadette, reading can only teach me techniques; only my heart can tell me what things about her should be put into writing. Last week, however, I received a source material from my muse, one that she herself wrote. It’s a rather welcome change, a temporary reversal of role – I, the writer, had become a reader, and she, the reader, had become a writer. It also made me realize that my writing has become just as much for her as it is for me.
Writing, the kind that stems from the heart, is mostly a solitary, self-indulgent, and self-serving passion. No matter how good wordsmiths spin their motive for doing what they eponymously engage in all they want, that truth is inescapable. But despite the fact that the main reason behind the inception of most of these soul-driven pieces of work is self-satisfaction, there are some among them that are meant to be read as much as they are meant to be written, and they are more than meant to be about and for someone else than they are about and for the self. Such is the case with pieces centered on love.
A love letter – I just received one from my beloved. Rather, it’s more of an open letter, a blog post, if you must. It’s not the first writing I got from her, as she had given me two cards before, but I never received something as long and as telling of her soul as this one. And up to now, even though it has been a week old, I am still moved by its content, the crafting of it as an art, and the very gesture of putting words together not only to convey a message to me, but also and more importantly, to make me feel her love for me in a manner that she hasn’t done so before. I have already responded to what the letter is saying, but have yet to the act of her writing itself. And that is what I must do so.
Reading is the first and most important approach to a literary work; the next would be to understand the context: the setting the author was in when they wrote it, the life experiences they are going through, and the reason why they wrote it in the first place. I know all of them all too well. She wrote it at work, sneaking a few hours to make something personal – something I’d do; she’s in a rather interesting time in her life, as we’ve found love in each other, and at the same time wondering what she could do within herself to play her role in this theater of romance (the answer is nothing; I love her because and in spite of who she is); and she wrote it for me, for her love. Oh a girl, the one that I love, writing for, about, and to me – how dreamlike, manga-like.
Aya Toujo-like in many aspects – beautiful; kind; intelligent; esteemed in the arts, especially literature and film; and always so loving, understanding, and supportive of me. I, however, never thought that she’d share this one facet as that of the paragon of all romance-harem heroines: being a writer. Once again, that is. I remember her telling me that she had given up on the craft, saying that it’s not for her, even though she is just as capable a wordsmith as I am in my eyes – not as her lover, but as a writer, a critic. She has eloquent word choice and accurate usage; she’s able to get her thoughts and emotions across in the most beautiful way possible. And if she can craft such a wonderful and genuine piece that would move not only me but also others that would read it, then I say that she’s prematurely hanging up her dream.
That, however, is but a suggestion. It’s not my dream, but hers. She is the one carrying this brainchild of an ambition in the womb that is her heart, so hers is the ultimate prerogative to abort or give birth it. And whatever her choice may be, I will fully be behind her. But I, her partner and one of her potential inspirations, should she choose to dream again, would like to immerse myself into whatever life her words would bring. I can picture it – me, frolicking in beaches, jungles, deserts, cities, temples, planets, cosmic places; rubbing elbows with creatures of whatever kind in her creations; or me, being one of the many stars in in the universe of her thoughts and feelings – how enamoring, how…self-centered of me.
Berna once told me that it doesn’t matter to a piece from me is about, for, and to her or not; what does is that it’s from me. And that’s what I feel towards her writing too. No matter how impersonal and even though I’m no part of it, any work of hers is a gem, and any piece from her has a piece of her soul infused to it, so each and every one of them is worth the read.
So honey, like I previously said, whatever you choose to do with the dream is up to you, but I’d be happy if you pick it back up. And if you choose to write – to dream – once again but don’t know how or where, don’t know how or where, then think of your passion as a book that you haven’t read for quite some time now and have forgotten where you stopped. Well, just start anew again, so the parts you’ve already covered will have a brand new meaning, and eventually you’ll be on your way again. And when it comes to writing, it doesn’t have to be a short story or a poem; a letter or an essay about anything you want more than enough. In addition, don’t think about what others would say. Yes, getting read by others is important, but more important is that you quench your need to express what’s within you through words. Besides, you already have an audience, me, and I say to you, not as a lover but as a critic and fellow writer, that your writing is superb, and I wish I have more of it in my life.
I’ve always imagined what it would be like to have a writer girlfriend like Aya Toujo. We’d exchange writing, read them together, understand each other better, and engage in activities that would further enrich our love for one another and make great sources of inspiration. Well, now I have seen a glimpse of what a life like that would be. I’d say it’s amazing, because my two loves – my woman and my mistress, writing, both hers and mine – share almost the same space in my life.
But even if my mistress fades, I’ll still love my woman. I love her not because she writes, but because of love itself, and I write because it is a part of me, because of the things that are worth writing, and because of the things I love – and one of them is my woman.
I love you, Berna.
A Hacker’s Outgrowing
I’m finally free; thank God it’s over – not the words you’d expect from a person who always wanted to be a writer for a profession. But if you were in the shoes of the one saying that, you’d say that no truer words have been spoken. Because ever since things changed for the corporate good, which meant worse for creative people like me, for us “millennials”, I knew I had to leave. Except I didn’t, as I was cash-strapped, so I stayed for three more months. At first I thought I was overstaying my welcome, only to slowly realize that I exited at the perfect time as my last day got nearer. And now that I am officially an ex-employee of my previous company, after going through many unforgettable highs and lows, I can now confidently say that it was one of my best runs so far.
The end began in the middle, around late August. It was a time of great upheaval, of talks about the turning of the company into a corporate one, of barely legal and grossly anti-employee contracts, and the enforcement of pointless laws. All of these changes were detrimental to our productivity and pride as young professionals, so a sudden mass exodus began. Many of the co-workers who I have become friends with over the span of a year were leaving one by one at a rate that made the management bothered and us happy for each other’s hastened arrival to greener pastures. It was officially the end of the company’s “golden age”, as freedom and happiness with work was replaced with shackles and grumbling.
Back in the old days, we used to believe in freedom – granted that we are held accountable for how it’s used – and the lack of need for supervision. Apparently, when I left, we still do, as it’s still part of the company vision/mission, whatever the hell that is, but that’s just what’s written on the walls and not what was still happening. Flexible schedule became a thing of the past. Work from home required top-level permission before it can be granted. Our output, instead of speaking for themselves, were regularly checked. We have begun using Slack, a chat site/program that allows the team lead to read every conversion, including those between the employees. And last but not least, on a more personal level, I cannot sit beside the girl I like, as it is detrimental to work even though it isn’t, and posting on Facebook anything that can be interpreted as against the company or any of its higher-ups, regardless of whether it’s actually them or otherwise, is a big deal and therefore punishable by public shaming in the guise of transparency and the upholding of respect, honor, and the company name.
Basically, everything that made the company feel so welcoming to millennials like us, made me want to work there, and made it unique was gone. And because even mere traces of such things can no longer be found in it, I had to leave, even if my-now girlfriend (more on that later on) is still there. It saddens me that what was once special has become part of the statistics, one of the thousands of startups that promised to bring something new to the table, only to end up as one of the businesses they promised they are not and will never become.
In the pursuit of my passion, writing, I joined that company, which looked and felt different, and promised me a way of doing work that is more laissez-faire and provides room to be myself and grow. That seemed true during the first half of my stay, then it no longer was by the second one. I still had hope that it would be true once again, but the bullet to the head of that wishful thinking is what our boss said, which is something along the lines of “passion will lead you nowhere. And you’re not special; you’re just a statistic”. ASSHOLE! IT LED ME TO HIS COMPANY, WHICH LED ME TO A JOB THAT GETS ME PAID FOR BEING A WORDSMITH, TO FRIENDS I WILL NEVER FORGET, AND THAT ONE GIRL I LOVE! AND TELL ME THAT EVERYONE I MET ALONG THE WAY IS JUST ANOTHER STATISTIC!
He traded something he once believed in and made us believe in for something as cheap as the socially accepted definition of success. Nevertheless, he was right – was, not is, because he is now wrong; following our hearts and our passions will lead to our own respective definitions of success, and mine happens to be fulfilling my dream as a writer, having true friends, and finding love. ALL OF THOSE THINGS DID HAPPEN, AND IRONICALLY BECAUSE OF HIM! So Sir, thank you from the bottom of my heart, for everything. I guess I shouldn’t be mad at you despite all that crap I had to go through because of your ridiculous mindset, because in the grander scheme of things, I owe you so much.
Looking back, I realized that I have become successful in the most serendipitous way possible. That success, however, is far from complete. I still have to find a better job as a writer, I still have to spend more time with the friends I’ve made to know them better, and I still have to keep loving her. And in order for me to do those things better, I have to grow into the person I am meant to be, and that means leaving the company. So to all my friends in both the golden age and the new age, this is not a goodbye, as I am always online, and I am always with you in spirit that small office home. This is merely a physical separation, a growing out of the pot we once shared. Don’t worry, we’re still in the same garden, so we’ll still see each other.
So, save for Berna, see you when I see you. I want you all to know that even in my new workplace, which I don’t know yet, and even in your new jobs, which is already true for the old ones and will be true in the near future for the new ones, we’ll always be…
Hackers. 🙂
Believe In My Love (A Short Write-Up)
You don’t have to accept my love. You don’t even have to thank me for it; you can even rue me for it if it inconvenienced you in any way whatsoever. But I beseech you, at the very least, to believe I in it.
Believe that this love sees your faults but chooses not to mind andacknowledges your succumbing to your humanity, to your most primal of drives. And of course, believe that it sees all the beauty that you possess. Believe that this love, despite having tinges of self-interest, which is the desire to have you, can choose to further strip itself down to its most basic tenet – my offering of self to you, regardless of your willingness – or lack thereof – to do the same, and nothing else. And lastly, believe that it empowers me enough to do anything humanly possible as long as it is within the bounds of sanity and morality, and that includes relinquishing itself.
Believe in that love, the heart that bears its weight, and the boy who is kept alive by that heavy broken heart.
Our/My Feet And Your Shoes
I love eccentric people. I, myself, am one. However, the problem with some of us, including me, is that sometimes we forcibly and carelessly put our feet in other people’s shoes and claim that we’re wearing them right. I mean that figuratively, of course.
For example, someone told my friend that he’s dumb and he feels awful about it. Now if I were in the same situation, I wouldn’t be affected since I think it’s that person’s right to tell me that, so I’d advise to my friend that he should feel the same way I do. But that would be wrong because I’m not him and he’s not me. Instead, I’m supposed to just say how I would react as mere opinion and not a guideline, and then tell him that he has every right to feel whatever it is that he’s feeling and that I’ll be there for him.
Back then, however, I didn’t think that way. I thought that if something is okay with me, then it follows suit that others are cool with it too. That is until I realized that I shouldn’t be running around trying to shoehorn my strangely sized and shaped feet into other people’s footwear. After all, to say that I wouldn’t like it if somebody did the same thing to me would be an understatement. I am, after all, eccentric.
I have realized that the world isn’t a communal shoe rack, but a long and winding walkway. And when someone who crosses our paths has a wobbly gait, telling him or her to walk like we do may prove to be wrong; asking them to take off their shoes and have us wear them would be worse. Rather, we should help him or her find the two most important centers in life: his or her own, and the ultimate center: universal moral values.
If everyone – all the people in the world, not just the eccentric ones – did the same, then nobody would trip and fall.
Back For Good
Like grease on rusty hinges, people need a little warm-up whenever they want to get back on the groove of something they haven’t been doing for quite a long time. In my case, it’s blogging, which is basically just my online nonfiction writings. But despite my hiatus, I don’t need a refresher course on the skill, as I use it on a daily basis to write whatever bullcrap clients like so that they will pay our company’s CEO, who in turn pays us in amounts he thinks we’re due even though we deserve more – but let’s leave that for another time. Blogging, on the other hand, is an entirely different ball game, as it’s a lot more personal. Rather, it’s nothing but personal – no need for resources unless I post facts or others’ works, no editing according to the tastes of the readers or clients, and no selling of either skill or principles for money; only my ideas and emotions and the happenings in my life – and that’s why I love it. After all, if love isn’t personal, then it’s not love at all. And because I love blogging, let this post serve as my returning gift to her, my wife and mistress.
So, why the long departure from my beloved? Mental exhaustion. The kind of writing I do for my full-time job and my woman may be realms apart, but the energy needed to do either one of them is drawn from the same pool. And as much as I want to empty that reservoir for my beloved alone, I could not, for I have to work; I have to get paid so that I could have money to spend on things I don’t need and experiences that I will cherish as long as I can remember them. Having no money means less life experiences, which in turn means lesser things to write about. Unfortunately, because I use up my mental energies in order to rake up dough, which enables me to create memories and inspirations, I no longer have any for my own. At the end of the day, week, or month, I just couldn’t bear the pain of a tapped-out head and bring myself to write anymore, even if it’s for my own art. Or maybe this entire paragraph is just an excuse.
Maybe my brain juices aren’t exactly as finite as I think they are. Maybe I just want to do things other than writing, things require less mental faculties. Maybe I’m just lazy – probably the definite bottom line. It may seem like a shallow and laughable reason, but it’s actually cripplingly powerful and stealthily invasive. Its slow and unnoticeable creep can alter the flow of energy, causing me to wander away from a piece of cyberspace where I can pour out my soul into and instead towards mindless, pointless wastelands like too much Facebook or DoTA 2 (keyword is too much). It’s getting me and my beloved nowhere, so I have to fight it no matter how hard. Just like how I did when I wrote this.
It’s easier to just play another round of DoTA 2 or My Princess is the Cutest, which I’ll write about later on, but I’d rather not. Maybe it’s just that I’m no longer that used to writing on my blog anymore since I’m out of practice, and if that’s the case then I have to bring back the habit, the love, the passion, and I definitely can; all I need is more time, more words, more perseverance and dedication, and a lot less action – video game-wise, that is.
Yes I’m back, and I have so many things to write about, and I hope I really that this return isn’t just a one-time post that will be followed by another return after a few months thanks to indolence masking as mental exhaustion. But hoping isn’t enough; I should write on this blog and keep doing so in order to back what I’m saying. After all, that’s what I love to do, and I honestly believe, know, and am certain of that despite the neglect I let my mistress and wife fall into after almost two months. And while I know that I’ll probably disappear for a short while again after a string of posts, I also know that I will always come back. Like I said, love, right? And this love, though it falters at times, can conquer even the greatest form of sloth there is time and time again.
Blog Mischief Managed: My Boss(es) Pay(s) A Visit
Dear Miss P3 (and other coworkers/bosses if you brought any, most likely Janica),
Welcome to my mental crib, my fortress of solitude, my atelier, my – okay enough. It’s just my personal blog, which doesn’t have much aside from overly gratuitous and self-indulgent crap, so much so that any employee who’s in a corporate setup who opens this during office hours will definitely not get off the hook no matter how much he or she says it’s work-related.
First off, I would like to apologize first about the lack of any serious content. In all honesty, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my personal blog will be viewed for work-related purposes, so I guess you’re going to have to make do with whatever crap is here. But then again, it’s not crap. My thoughts and my feelings are here, and they’re definitely not crap. I value them, and that’s why I try to update this as often as possible, which hasn’t been as often recently because work in the office, my part-time, and grad school drains my mental stamina, leaving my brain with just enough juice to read manga, watch anime, and play video games. Anyway, I’m just ranting on, so don’t mind me.
Second, I do hope you’d like what’s written here. It’s probably not much as compared to the many other blogs you’ve read before, but this one is special because of sentimental reasons. However, if you have any feedback about the content or the use of the English language, do tell me so I can improve.
Sorry, should’ve used a more appropriately-sized photo. It’s just that I liked it.
Third, I would like you to know that my page sometimes doubles as a shrine, which means there are posts that mention or are dedicated to a particular shrine maiden. You know this shrine maiden quite well. Please don’t tell her, or anyone in the company who doesn’t have to read this blog, that I’ve written about her. While I could’ve chosen not to write about her instead because I knew you’ll be visiting, I just couldn’t help myself because I don’t feel like cheating myself, for I like writing about who I like. While I probably should’ve made a new blog or changed the URL so that people in the company wouldn’t find it from this point on, it would seem like a hassle to start from scratch, not to mention the fact that I don’t know how to change my URL on such a short notice. Also, the next posts are already “premade”, so I thought I’d publish them to hit two birds in one stone – assignment purposes and my personal satisfaction.
Either way, thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy your stay. Don’t forget to leave a comment.
P.S.: This is still not a love blog. I swear I’ll work on a geek post sometime in the near future.
P.P.S.: If you do tell someone, I hope they don’t blabber.
P.P.P.S.: Thanks Miss P3. 🙂
A Chinita Named Denise: Cigarette And Wine
I’m not a smoker. I don’t plan to be one. Although I’ve had my more than fair share of huffing and puffing as if I’m the big, bad wolf, I never finished a single stick. Until last night, that is, because of a girl named Denise. I don’t know if I could’ve gotten her number. Maybe I should’ve tried so that I wouldn’t be wondering now, but maybe this open-ended uncertainty is better than her being the flitting woman that she probably is and not text me, ever. Whatever, I don’t know, the only thing that mattered last night anyway was the luscious vision of her and the minty stench of smoke in my mouth.
As I drank with my friends and Sir Mark, I looked at this girl’s curved, white, smooth lower back, sandwiched between her beige hanging blouse and black tube skirt. When she and her friends got transferred to another table, her side profile became the one in view, and my focus was shifted on her long legs and defined behind. She’s fair, chinita, and has a dyed blonde hair. She also wore a black cap and white Chucks, giving her a sense of coolness and yet a toning down that overt feminine sexuality in a good way, making her an edgy chick and desirable on not just the erotic level, but also on the cerebral way. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but I perceive a girl who has a good fashion sense as unconventionally intelligent, and therefore would probably be a good girl to be with. Or maybe it just made her a bit more hip-hop and whatever bull self-analyses I’ve had was null and void, for all I wanted was the primal, the end result – us under the sheets. Then again, maybe that’s an oversimplification, because even though the image she gave off was sexy, it was not that of a one-night stander, but of a playful flirt who’s just having fun. And since she seemed like the type, I thought she wouldn’t mind if I played the part of her male counterpart.
Asking a girl for a light – it’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. But the thing about old tricks is that they were able to gracefully age and remain what they are – tricks – because they work. After all, you need not fix what ain’t broke. I asked Brylle for a stick, not to smoke, but to talk to the girl I was eyeing. I went to her, and asked if she could light my cigarette. Expectation: our sticks will kiss. Reality: she lent me her lighter. Fuck it, whatever; beggars can’t be choosers anyway. I don’t smoke, so of course I didn’t know how to light a cigarette with it, but to just give up half-assed would’ve made my attempt, which was already obvious and pathetic to begin with thanks to my ignorance of the skills of the smoking trade, more obvious and pathetic than it already has become, so I told her that I couldn’t work her lighter because of some transparent excuse I could no longer remember. Oh James, you have a knack of making the obvious and pathetic more obvious and pathetic.
Subtlety, may not be my strongest trait, but I have more than enough stupidity to make up for it. And because of that stupidity, I was able to come so close to her face and appreciate her bright brown round chinita eyes and sparkling braces, as she lit the cigarette in my mouth – a kiss between her flame and my stick. I went back when I was done with my ruse, and they looked at our table, which meant I had to keep up my show, so I kept on smoking. As I did, our professor told me about how women like her are like sweet wine, who is only good because of the sugar and not the wine itself. One day you’ll get tired of the taste and look for deeper attributes such as body, texture, and aroma. It was obviously true, as she’s definitely not the prim, insightful, and sophisticated woman, but nevertheless I want a taste of wine, even if it’s just the sweet one, for it is better to get drunk on a wine that a connoisseur considers as awful than to not get drunk at all.
He also added that while it’s nice that I have a particular taste, chinitas are elusive creatures. Oh, I couldn’t agree more with that statement. They could always be beside you everyday and still be so far away (Ampie). You could try to know quite a handful about each other and yet remain strangers (Jamee). They could be too foreign and not be there at all (Hyo-Jin). They could be a total bitch and get away with it (Lin). LIN YOU BITCH. Let’s not get started with Karmela. Anyway, yeah, chinitas are elusive, and rightfully so, thanks to their uncanny beauty and how their eyes could suggest innocence, sweetness, snobbishness, and fierceness at different times, or even the same time during a few instances. They unknowingly leave you charmed, and then they just leave. They put you in high spirits, only for them to spirit away your soul. They can’t help it; it’s in their nature, so you can’t blame them. Heck, I’m sure even they blame themselves, except Lin, because she’s inherently evil. Of course I’m fine with any pretty girlfriend, or maybe at least a 7/10, but a chinita? God, that would be like lying with a faerie, or even a goddess. Or even an angel, although I kind of want to refrain from using that term despite the goodness of their actual definition and significance. Yes, this is the whole “pretty girls can get away with anything” argument, it was just given a massive amoral overhaul.
Only in the middle of our conversation did I realize that was able to finish my cigarette. In many young adult novels, smoking is an overused symbol of coming of age and maturity. To me, it probably signifies my failed flirtations that was cumulated on that one night, as well as my desperation for my preferred gender, which is the opposite gender. To resort to a piece of cancer you don’t know how to even light just to talk to an attractive female? I don’t mean to be self-absorbed, but if I were someone else and I saw me, I’d say that guy is cool – desperate, but cool – because he was able to pull off an idiotic move like that and see it through until the end. And the smoking? It was what hopeless, helpless romantics consider as something that we have in common and therefore connects us together no matter how laughably petty and weak. The same heavy, toxic air filled our lungs, and I felt strangely light and free, as if someone switched off the gravity, and there was this lingering coolness inside my mouth. I assumed that she was feeling exactly identical, and that her cigarette was also Marlboro Black. I looked at her and thought of us, floating in either her or my lungs, although I went wth the former, for I am sick and tired of my boring lungs that are full of phlegm. I don’t know if her lobes are probably pinkish-gray because of her regular smoking or if they are healthy pink because of her chinita genes, but I do know that they’re less ideal than mine, as she’s definitely the regular smoker among us two. Still, I want to be inside them, for I want to be with her inside of her, even if it’s in one of the least sensual organs, although the thought of being in her lungs is giving me a boner…or maybe I’m thinking of her “lungs” instead. Anyway, as I was saying, the lungs are not sensual, and not romantic either. However, I believe it should be on par with the heart. I mean, “you are in my lungs” definitely sounds like aspiration pneumonia, but how about “you are the air/smoke in my lungs”? Inspiring, is it not? And Denise, from last night until this post has finally been submitted, while definitely not in my heart, is in my lungs, and has served as an inspiration, and to be with a girl as pretty as her is my aspiration. Come to think of it, maybe I could use “she’s in my lungs” as a term for infatuation.
When one of the longest drinking sessions of my entire life came to a close, I talked to her again to formally thank her for the light, which is overly polite it’s unnecessary, making my intent obvious. However, it was no longer pathetic, as I was no longer posing to be a smoker. We shook hands and I asked for her name. “Denise” she said. I know where it could’ve led. I know the next most logical question. It was the perfect time for the kill. What did I do? Ended it at that point. I wasn’t nervous or stupefied, I just let her slip. Maybe I want sweet wine, but not the type that has truckloads of sugar. Maybe I like the cigarette in my mouth, but she’s not Marlboro Black. Why the change of heart? Because I thought it was pointless.
She’s just another mysterious fleeing chinita, so I’ll leave her in her natural habitat. Besides, even if she did give her number, it’s not as if things will get anywhere further than that anyway. And even if it did, she’ll probably become a stranger who I will know so well and will always be with me but is actually not. Sounds like a bittersweet life, a life I probably don’t want, but nevertheless one that is worth imagining. Oh Denise, I have no plans of starting smoking anytime soon, although the weight of the smoke in my lungs – your weight – is pleasurable, and so is the difficulty of breaths before I slept. Do you still have them even though you’re a regular smoker?
On our way home, in Adrian’s car, Kei told me that Sir Mark’s ex-wife is Korean. No wonder he knows what I’m talking about. And come to think of it, it was her that got him into smoking. The song while we talked, Bob Marley’s No Woman No Cry, didn’t help either. Damn chinitas…
I Haven’t Written Lately Because I’ve Been Writing A Lot: A Condensed Post of What I’ve Been Up To Lately, And Lately Means The Past Month
Ever since I read Stainless Longganisa by Bob Ong, a deep-sleeping passion for writing hidden deep inside my heart surfaced and inspired the air of realization. From that point on, it evolved. The fins that allowed it to swim inside my head became hands that shaped new worlds. In time grew wings, causing it to fly higher, closer towards my dream. But as it became more and more specialized, I realized that I have neglected its roots: blogging, the rudimentary act of writing my anecdotes, thoughts, emotions, and whatever things I fancied on a site, however I see fit. I have neglected writing about myself.
Lately, I’ve been writing fiction, which is different and refreshing because it’s based on reality yet so far removed from it. I’ve also been writing poetry, and I realized that I actually suck at it, but I nevertheless have to do it because it’s part of the curriculum. Besides, poetry has a different charm from fiction, as it evokes a fleeting yet powerful plethora of thoughts and emotions. Then there’s my ongoing Otaku Asia Anime Magazine contributor gig, where I review anime, manga, and games. Except for the last one, writing for me remains to be a personal affair, but they can never be as personal as blogging.
In fiction, I can create characters based on myself, my family, friends, my muses/romantic entanglements. I can fabricate situations that are patterned on the times I have experienced as well as those I shared with others. The settings, no matter how out-of-this-world, will be greatly influenced by the places I, as well as we, have been to. The thoughts and feelings I have – they will always be the themes. However, whatever I create, no matter how good it turns out, will never carry the same weight as the things I put in this blog, because they are and will always be unedited, unadulterated, and most importantly, real. In here, people do not have a writer who is in charge of their thought processes, dialogue, and actions when it comes to interacting with me, ideas are the ones I thought myself, the emotions are those I felt with all my heart and soul, and the events happened to me firsthand. Because of this, no matter how much I love writing fiction, I realized that there was a void in my heart for writing – a void only blogging can fill.
Thus, I return. I return to tell you that Maleficent isn’t as bad as the critics make it out to be, 22 Jump Street is a hilarious bromantic comedy that is a lot more intelligent than it seems to be in the surface, and Transformers: Age of Extinction could’ve not turned into a total clusterfuck if Shia stayed. I return to tell you that my poetry has been improving lately. It’s still not perfect, but it’s getting there. I return to tell you that I don’t know whether I’ll go for Nicolette, who I shared a dinner with at Pepper Lunch while she was dressed as Ayame of Dead or Alive and rested her head on my shoulder the entire jeepney ride home, or Jamee, whose unexpected return blew a whirlwind of confusion to my already settled heart that has grown indifferent to her existence (I’ll make two separate posts about them). I return to tell you that I’m thankful to God because Father’s fracture was just femoral and not a hip fracture, and he’s pretty much okay for now, so I am hoping and praying that the operation on Tuesday will be a complete success and he’ll be discharged on Friday, just like what the doctor said. I return to say that I shouldn’t be to worried because it’s not helping me; it’s just needlessly stressing me out.
Maybe someday, which I think is sooner than before, I’ll be published. Well, actually I already am because of the magazine, but my goal is to be a published novelist. However, no matter how many short stories, novels, review articles, and poems I write, I will always write blogs, for it has a special place in my heart.
I put the I in the UNIVERSE. I hope I can put U too. 