• 30th August
    2012
  • 30
Confronted with a blank type pad, I am willed to write about how writing is not merely a hobby. But I do not know where to start, or how to write about writing. This isn’t like most of the writing assignments I get every so often, where the editor in-charge supplies me with a writer’s brief indicating discussion points, readers’ expectations and if I’m lucky enough, start-up references. 
"So, what do you do?" I once got asked by a chief editor who was, at that time, considering the possibilities of commissioning regular freelance work to me. 
"I used to write. Like, really write." 
Could have phrased it in a better,  more professional way. Doesn’t make it less true, though. 
"Used to. Why?" 
"I thought I wanted something else. I didn’t want to play things safe."
But sooner or later, I’d be back —- I was tempted to add. 
"You have to live up to your own expectations, and no one else’s. Do what makes you ultimately happy. Do it everyday, for the rest of your life."

Confronted with a blank type pad, I am willed to write about how writing is not merely a hobby. But I do not know where to start, or how to write about writing. This isn’t like most of the writing assignments I get every so often, where the editor in-charge supplies me with a writer’s brief indicating discussion points, readers’ expectations and if I’m lucky enough, start-up references. 

"So, what do you do?" I once got asked by a chief editor who was, at that time, considering the possibilities of commissioning regular freelance work to me. 

"I used to write. Like, really write." 

Could have phrased it in a better,  more professional way. Doesn’t make it less true, though. 

"Used to. Why?" 

"I thought I wanted something else. I didn’t want to play things safe."

But sooner or later, I’d be back —- I was tempted to add. 

"You have to live up to your own expectations, and no one else’s. Do what makes you ultimately happy. Do it everyday, for the rest of your life."

  • 22nd August
    2012
  • 22

22 going to I don’t know where exactly

I always assure myself that someday everything will figure out. The way I imagined things to be, I don’t know. And it has been the same fighting mantra I’ve patiently hold on to in the last two years since leaving the academic environment and plunging head on to the “real world.”

The real world —- a quarter of “what do I do with my life,” another of “shit, I wasn’t prepared for this,” a pint of “why am I here again,” and a full bite of “I am young, wild and free.”

Sometimes I’d really rather take advice from a fortune cookie yanked straight out of the retreat counselor’s cookie jar, than listen to myself skip along and down the rabbit hole. 

But sometimes I think I just might be another egoistic, twenty-something full of hopes, dreams and love for the future I see myself in. Self-absorbed and insecure, I am often told by my Father (in all the glory and wisdom of an almost senior citizen) to chase my happiness while I can afford to and to make mistakes while my age can forgive such.

To what extent? “When you no longer question ‘why’ over and over again,” he says in a tone so calm, so sure. 

Perhaps it’s time to go back to the basics and remember what made me feel alive in moments of deep confusion and expectation. And upon always, I am fronted by the demons of self-doubt who push me to reflect: what exactly am I doing with my life? 

I’m just 22, yet why do I feel so mediocre about my decisions?

Wala lang. Sana PMS lang talaga ito. 

  • 23rd July
    2012
  • 23

There are those rare, precious moments when I look back at the last few months of 2012 and relive how I have fallen in love beautifully and immensely. That in the aftermath of several heartbreaks, I have learned to fight back with forgiveness. That in the death of relationships which promised forever, a parade of positive energy came crashing through. 

Often, the universe reminds me to stop trying too hard to learn all there is to know about love. Not because of the existence of rejection, betrayal and contempt —- although unnecessary, for these are part of its uglier side. Because to resist knowing what is love makes it more meaningful and less complex —- for knowing is only inferior to experiencing. 

In the 1996 film “Dream for an Insomniac,” it was said: 

Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of time. There are too many mediocre things in life. Love shouldn’t be one of them.

Because once in a while, someone comes into your life and you are shaken, terribly worried how this one person can be so sure of you when you aren’t even certain about yourself in unusual levels, in many ways.

But this is also exactly why I get it now when they say “you just know.” Trust me, I know.