Hindi na ako nagsusulat patungkol sa pag-ibig

May pakiramdam ng pag-uwi ang muling pagsulat matapos ang ilang buwang paglimot sa dampi ng bolpen sa balat.

Hindi ko rin alam kung bakit maliban sa mga rekisito sa paaralan, o ‘yung mga “heartless” na balitang isinusulat ko sa aming pahayagan, hindi na ako nakapagsusulat. Dati naman, noong hayskul, gabi-gabi kong nagagawang isa-titik ang saloobin. Kahit gaano ka-petty. Mas maganda rin kayang kausap ang papel, minsan o palagi.

Marahil ay patotoo ito sa mga usal na iba na ang kolehiyo. Papatayin nito ang social life mo. Aagawan ka ng panahong gawin ang mga bagay na dati mong nagagawa. Pero, bukod dito, iniisip ko… wala lang talaga siguro akong nahahanap na bagay — o tao, na worth writing about.

Mababaw na kung mababaw. Pero malayo ang nararating ng isang ngiti. Milya-milya. Sonata, tula: nagmumula sa mga kakaibang titig. At kaya ding makabuo ng nobela mula sa mga kuwento ng ‘di inaasahang pagtatagpo, sa kantina, sa klasrum, papaakyat ng hagdan, o ‘pag naglalakad sa kasukalan at kasalimuotan ng Ateneo Avenue ‘pag gabi papauwi.

Pero ilang buwan rin akong nawalan ng rason kung bakit nagsusulat. Nangako ako sa Davao na ‘di na ‘ko kailanman magtatangkang magsulat, kung tungkol lamang naman sa pag-ibig.

Pero. Syempre may pero. Totoo nga bang wala lang talaga akong rason magsulat? O maaari rin kayang meron, ngunit natatakot lang ako sa konsepto ng tayo?

Marahil kaya’y dala lang ito ng labis-labis kong foresight? ‘Yung pinangungunahan ko ang dikta ng uniberso, at hindi pa nga nagaganap ang mga pangyayari, iniisip ko na agad kung gaano kapait ang pagtatapos sa bandang huli.

O ‘di kaya’y takot na hayaang maipakita sa iba ang tunay kong porma. Dahil ‘di ko pa kailanman hinayaan ang ibang tunay na lumapit at sipatin ang totoong ako.

O dahil comfort zone ko ang loneliness. At ayaw ko ng change.

O dahil hindi ikaw ‘yung inaasahan kong dumating.

Gayunpaman, naniniwala akong ang mag-sulat ay pagpapatotoo at pagpapatunay sa nararamdaman. Pagpapakongreto sa saloobin. Ika nga, “to write is to immortalize.”  Kaya nangako ako sa sarili kong hindi ako magsusulat patungkol sa ‘yo.

Gaya nito.

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Revolution of the heart

tonight i open

my insides

let my wounds

bleed open

and pour my heart out

through song

gone are the days

of solitude

of continuous patching

to hide touches

of imperfections

of silencing emotions

and make-believe pictures

of ‘i’m okay’

gone are the days

of pretention

of striving to fit

in jigsaw puzzles

of where I’m not made of

gone are the masks

that conceal

the underlying pain

gone are the days

of i’ll never be good enough

whilst crying in bed

at night

insomnia-ridden

grief-stricken

waiting for the sun

to finally shine

gone are the monumental spurs

of broken poetry

hereonforward

is acceptance

is upheaval

is change

I have lost the ability to write

I have lost the ability to write.

It has been long since I last scribbled out letters in a riptide speed, long since I found inspiration, long since I have found my way to words. Lately, it seems so, that my ability to construct paragraphs, or sentences for that matter, have found their way to the middle of a maze with no entrance or exit doors. My mind has dried up, stuck in the middle of Sahara. It feels like all my brain juice has suddenly found a secret escape route, emptying my head into a vessel of mere nothingness that make me suck harder or worse a black hole in space.

See what I mean? All my metaphors, all my references have gone sourer than a carton of milk past its expiration date. And everything is sappy and over-dramatic and everything seems forced. And everything sends me into a frustrating fit as I seem to be experiencing a life-long massive writer’s block.

This is even worse than a 5-month sitcom hiatus, worse than being stood up by a friend, worse than getting stuck in midday high-way traffic.

This feels like losing your first love–over and over again.

—————————————————————————————————————-

It has been months since my last post, and even before that, there had been a long hiatus. I had been stuck in the real world, where there is little, if not no room at all for writing. And this is where not-writing got me. Sucks. Will try to post more entries in the coming months, things that are at least more sensible.

Suffering reveals people

“Suffering reveals people.”

The same way fire reveals the real strength of iron, the same way earthquakes show how strong a foothold an edifice has. I never got the sense of it, not until now, but if there be one greatest lesson I got from my Theology teacher, it is that suffering reveals who you truly are.

And now, faced with pain and agony, I see a scowling, whimpering little pup, curled in a ball, fearful to see the world that lies beyond. I see fragile glass, suspended at that split-second before fully crashing and breaking to the hard ground. I see a weak, little teenage kid, all dressed up in her tin armor, but hollow deep inside.

And this teenager trapped still in her youthful years, this cowardly excuse for a young adult, this, I realized, is who I am. There is much to change, there is much to do. After all, the first step into genuine change and freedom is knowing who you are. 

Then comes, with much fire and pressure, slowly but surely turning into a diamond.

One of those melancholic graduation posts

“Never lose the child in you. Stay optimistic. Never be afraid. Never be contented. Read. Communicate. Trust your teammates. You are never alone on this.”

I have, over the months, come to love my ThePILLARS family. These are the people who were with me, through thick and thin, through this year’s helluva roller coaster ride. These are the people who have come to accept me: every scar, every flaw, every imperfection included. These are the people who I draw inspiration and strength from, the people who make me stay every time I think of giving up.

And now nine of these people are leaving the confines of the school, nine of these people are chasing their dreams in the “real world.” Nine of these people, I will not be seeing as often as I have in the past, nine of these people I have to let go.

To say that it hurts is in itself an understatement. I have grown too attached to them, through our encounters–some heartfelt and poignant, some hilarious and ecstatic–however long or short these were. I have come to love them, though little may they know of such–and I have come to love them, maybe a little too much, maybe a little more than I should have let myself, because now I’m not certain I could already let them go.

Although this is not entirely goodbye, I fear for the future. I fear that their frequent visits to the pub would be replaced by my wishful anticipation which would ever so often end in vain. I fear that the smiles would gradually be replaced by a morbid and blank faces of un-recognition. I fear that the laughter, the secrets shared, the conversations, would soon be replaced by silence, and all the memory-making, by a deep longing and nostalgia for a past that is never there anymore.

I may not have entirely experienced it all, but I think I could at least say now that being a student journalist is never easy. One has to sacrifice a lot of things, most of which immaterial. One has to devote time, effort, dedication, love, despite criticisms, despite all those who try to bring him down. One has to go through challenges, without physical reward or incentives, with only fulfillment in mind.

But let it be known that the battle against apathy and injustice was a thousand times easier, a thousand times more fulfilling, knowing I am fighting them with the people most dear to me.

This is why I will always admire my editors. They are the people who endured all this. Who weathered every criticism, every danger, every pain. These were the people who believed they could be an instrument of change. These were the people who could have just sat in the classroom, perfectly safe from the administration’s heated eyes, perfectly focused in their academic endeavors, perfectly free of extra obligations–but never did, because they knew they could have done something, so they did. Even without reward. 

This is why I will be fighting these battles, too, because I want to prove that what they have been fighting for for four, five years have not been for naught. What they have been fighting for have set the fire ablaze, have become a beacon of hope and inspiration for all those who thought there was nothing that could be done.

To my editors, I wish that our time together was a bit longer–even just by minutes or hours or days. I wish that we filled our memory banks with more memories, I wish that we took more photos to immortalize events that could never be brought back again. But we have not. To quote Hazel Grace Lancaster in John Green’s famed novel, The Fault in Our Stars, “Time screws us all.” Nonetheless, I am forever grateful “for our little infinity.”

I bid you farewell, for now, for I know you have bigger dreams to chase. I send you, with my hopes of good luck, to the ferocious real world, hoping that you would remember for ever that for a span of mere 9 months, you have come to know me. I wish you all the best there ever is, in high hopes that you would not forget.

I am forever grateful, and I will never forget.

That was why things didn’t work out; you wanted them your way, and I, too, did. You wanted you to be the center of all, and so did I. You were a control freak gone mad, only a little less madder than I was. And you were filled with rage and sadness, of emotions overlapping all at once. So was I.

We were too much in common. A little too much than the collision could actually handle.

Reunited

There is a certain kind of sadness one must endure in moments of solitude, when that one person who means the whole world is not there… To comfort, to share laughter, to make memories with.

Every second of being apart is painfully excruciating, and sometimes, the pain is too much that all that could be done is mope in a corner and cry, reminiscing all the times and memories shared, while keeping in mind that these are not the now, they are mere objects from the past, a distant place and time that differs so gravely, and that faraway place and time might no longer be revisited again, or at least in the time being.

But when the wait ends, it feels surprisingly good to be reunited with someone you haven’t seen, or talked to for a long time—like everything you’ve ever lost suddenly comes rushing back towards you. Like you’ve found your missing puzzle pieces and long, excruciating moments of solitude are to be replaced by moments of completeness. Like there is a new-found hope and faith, and everything is suddenly clearer and brighter than they actually seem.

It makes you think and feel, in that magical moment when the ship is closing the docks, that every single minute was worth the wait.