I FEEL LIKE WRITING

Time is something that eludes everyone, despite the fact that it's always there, in front of you, in your hands, always felt but never grasped. Time is like the mistress who's been with everybody, but nobody owns her. We use her, but we are her slaves. We think we are able to consume her, when really we consume ourselves. And when she is gone, like most people, we will realize how beautiful she was. But for the most part, time just stands there, a quiet witness to our endless chasing of other things that are not ours as well.

I guess all I'm saying is that it's been a while. There are some spaces I have not chartered, but hardly are they not travelled. There are pages that are not written, but who can say that they were not lived? Who can measure the weight of choices, or the distance between the ticks of a clock on when we decide? Who can say how powerful things must be for them to be able to move us? Who can judge the weight of silence against the ramblings of an attempted existence? There are so many things I could tell you. Ugly things. Beautiful things. But mostly, just things. Blank pages do not mean anything. Only that sometimes, there are things that do not fit a container.

I guess all I'm saying is that it's been a while. I could of course be referring to a couple dozen things, but for now, I simply refer to my writing- about my thoughts, my nothings, my somethings. But always, to my conscious knowledge, true things. As if that matters anyway.

Silence will always mean a great many things to me. It is my friend, my weapon, my hideaway, my standard, my curse. But quite honestly, I myself cannot fathom the seasons in which I wallow in its depths or decide to wander from its embrace. In any case, all I know is that I simply do. There is almost an equal amount of contempt in my experience on whether one remains quiet, or one tries to be "eloquent". So in the grand scheme of things, maybe it doesn't matter to choose to be either. It seems however that recently I have been more of the former. Though that's hardly a surprise, I think I've set a new personal record high.

As I said, there a lot of things I could talk about. Things like starting the new year with a prayer while I stand alone on the roof deck beneath the stars and fireworks. And how one of the first things I did for the new year was send a text message, which eventually developed into one of the biggest and best surprises I've ever had. I could talk about love, and how finding someone that really means something can make you quite simply and truly happy. But that in itself is a topic whose simplicities and complexities naturally contest any attempt to condense it into words. So I won't try, well at least not right now. I could talk about my thesis, how it's been a real struggle to juggle time, inspiration and the tedious task of execution while worrying about everything else plus the fact of finding out that you no longer know how to draw. There was also the time of great sadness, when my heart was crushed at the notion that I would not be allowed to graduate. After everything I've tried to do right for the past four years, it seemed painful that my simple hope of having a clean ending to my academic life would be denied. Then there came the great sigh of relief and gratitude when I was told I would indeed graduate with my batch (Thank you God!). And a little cherry on top of that was the fact that my thesis was one of those chosen to have a college grant (Show me the money!). But then I could also talk about the awkward feeling of not knowing what lies ahead. There is that sneaky feeling of freedom yet also pressure. I do not know anymore if it is okay to just takes things as they come or be overanalytical. Safe or sorry? I could talk a great deal of what I think of those two words. I could go on, but don't worry, I won't.

Silence can be quite addictive. I realize I am at a loss at this thing called life. I have done things my kid self wouldn't be too happy about. I have grown to despise people and even friends for reasons I cannot even comprehend. Sometimes my silence is ignorance. It is a very weary world to live in if we lose sight of things, and I am afraid that is very much the case. I still believe in things, but I'm not sure I remember why. But i'll try. There's nothing much left to do anyway.

Lately, I feel like dreaming again. I dream of pursuing a film career, of taking up some course on cinematography and maybe even some creative writing. I dream of finishing my graphic novel on Bonifacio, despite the fact I was not satisfied with the condition of my thesis when I submitted it. I dream of feeling that thing I was feeling when I was 13. I still dream of running away, even for just a little while, on an open road to nowhere. I dream of knowing that I will always have someone to watch fireworks every new year (or Christmas). I dream of being able to conquer my fears, all of them, although I'm least optimistic about my fear of flying. I still dream, I guess that in itself is a good thing.

If filled pages mean anything, I guess it's just that someone tried to share something captured from perfect thought. The attempt in itself should be worth something.

I missed this. It is a good thing I think, to be able to talk to everyone and yet no one.

....

"The right to be heard does not automatically include the right to be taken seriously."- Hubert Humphrey