Amor Fati

"What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide."

-William Shakespeare

“Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear.” 

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

IDA Day!

Today marks Ida's first day in our company. Of course, we weren't as close back then but it doesn't really matter. In my calendar, today is IDA (Ida Deserves Appreciation) Day! To show my love to the REAL evil twin, here's a poem*:

Whoever thought that we'd be this close?

Two unlikely friends, more likely to be foes!

Let's shout and celebrate; let us all cheer

For it has been a year, Idapot, my dear!

Yes, it has been a year since your bag from Davao

Made me smile and coo and go "Oh, wow!"

And it has been a year since I gave you cake

To bribe you "for a trivia point's sake."

Christmas came and Christmas passed,

Who'd ever thought our friendship would last?

We met new people and the gang grew bigger

Yet our bond grew stronger, stronger and stronger.

And, ever since, you have always been there

To remind me of my importance, to show that you care.

You were there during my best and my worst days

To make me feel special in so many ways.

Ha, who'd ever think we'd be as close as we are now

And stomach each other's differences somehow:

How cute you can giggle when I cackle like a witch,

How outgoing I can be when pleasantries you ditch?

Sometimes I really wonder how this works

Our friendship, I mean, with all our contrastive quirks.

Though one thing is for sure, I think:

We can talk for days, even eras, 'til we stink!

So I wrote this to say that I'm really happy

That I'm your friend, though you can be, er, bitchy.

And, for the record, what you keep on saying is true:

Great things happen to people who listen to you.

Yes, it has been a year, Idapot, my dear,

And everything has been far from sere.

But I know I can go through all things thick and thin

As long as I have the love of my twin. :)

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, IDAPOT!

I am so glad you're in my life! :)

(Sounds just a tad bit wrong...LOL #PervinizedMind)

*I claim poetic license so this poem is error-free. I don't even know if "claim" is the right word to use in my previous sentence. Sorry, Ida. We both know we lack sleep today/tonight.

Buntis

Unti-unti na ngang nakikita
Ng mundo
Ang totoo.

Una pa lang ay alam ko na.
Napagtatanto isang umaga.
Matapos magkape'y alam na nga
Naramdaman na ang unang sipa.

Masaya man sa naramdaman,
Pilit 'tong ikinubli sa isipan.
Takot mawalan ng kaibigan.
Mahal sa buha'y masasaktan.

Pagka't pagtanggap nito'y may kakambal:
Hinagpis sa mga pusong hangal.
'Di naman alam kung ito'y tatagal.
'Di naman alam kung ito'y pagmamahal.

Nguni't hanggang kailan ba itatago?
Alam na nga naman ang totoo.
Kahihinatna'y 'di na rin bago:
Lahat ay tiyak na uuwing bigo.

Una pa lang ay alam ko na.
Baka sadya lang nakatadhana.
Pilit mang baguhi'y wala na.
Pilit mang itago'y huli na.

Ngayo'y di na alam kung pa'no tatapusin
Gusto man ang atensyon mo'y di maaring hingin.
Nawa'y kahit paliham ako'y iyong dinggin:
Ako ba'y sadyang kaya mong mahalin?

Dahil pabulaanan ma'y 'di na maitatanggi,
Bumibilog na damdami'y di mo rin naman masisi.
Narito na nga'ng ebidensya, eto na'ng saksi:
Ginusto't inibig ka na yata, kahit ito'y mali.

Unti-unti na ngang nakikita
Ng mundo
Ang totoo.

BUT.

[You know,] my brother once told me that nothing someone says before the word "but" really counts. 
- Benjen Stark, Lord Snow, Game of Thrones Season 1 Episode 3

I want to smoke,
let all the steam out,
blow these thoughts out of my system.
But 

I rarely smoke alone
and I don't really want 
to be alone right now.

I want to paint and draw, 
put some color back
in my dreary life.
But 

I'm missing my muse
and I don't really want to be reminded
that I am alone right now.

I want to dance,
put on my ballet shoes and
let my toes point me to the right direction.
But

I don't hear the music anymore
and I don't want to listen to songs
that tell me I am alone right now.

I want to leave,
run free wherever I want
without looking back.
But

I'm stuck where I am
and I don't want to admit
that I'd be alone if I leave, anyway.

I want to know the truth,
get it out in the open and 
just move on.
But

I'd rather lie to myself
'cause I don't want to forget
that you made me feel like I'm not alone



even for just a short while.

Cold Coffee in the Morning

Note: Okay. So it's an Ed Sheeran song. I suggest you listen to the song first. Or read the lyrics. Then, read.

We had cold coffee that morning. I remember the disappointment we felt when we found out they didn't have hot brewed coffee. Or maybe it was just me. You were never one to betray your feelings anyway.

I remember feeling tired earlier that day. I have cried my eyes out and my heart was broken. I was so unsure of what would -- could -- happen so I did something I haven't done in a while now: I had a really good cry. My other friends tried to comfort me. Some offered advice that didn't really make sense. One knew how I really felt, had experienced what I was going through first hand. She understood perfectly why I couldn't stop crying (or why I started in the first place). She understood why I had to put on make-up, why I had to paint a mask of poise and bravery. She was amazing.

But you were even more.

I'd like to think that you understood what was going on in my head, what I was feeling in the depths of my soul. I'd like to think that you saw through the mask I painstakingly painted when you said I looked like sh*t. I'd like to think that you knew my strength was almost gone, my courage almost depleted, when you asked me why I was so scared. I'd like to think that it was sympathy that made you say that you hated my father. I'd like to think that it was concern that made you stay the night.

And, boy, was I ever thankful that you were there. It made me feel safe for a couple of hours, made me feel a normal girl just hanging out with someone her age. We didn't get a wink of sleep but I felt relaxed. I looked like I had been ran over by a ten-wheeler truck but I didn't care: we were talking at last, like friends should. We talked about some random topics. We talked about people. We talked about you. We talked about me. It was wonderful because I knew at some particular level you trusted me. You were there because you did. I think I can be pretty sure of that.

Can I?

We had cold coffee that morning. It wasn't much but it was good enough. I would've loved a steaming hot mug but I didn't mind the cold can. It was sort of what we needed. It has served its purpose: you shared a bit of your feelings and I shared a bit of my thoughts. It's stunning how a little bit of this and that can add up to something so grand and, suddenly, it's five in the morning and you (or I? We?) have no choice than to leave it as it is.

That's how we end up with cold coffee in the first place. We try to savor its warmth while it's there and it disappears ever so quickly. We try to drink it all up as fast as we could and we end up not appreciating what it is and what it has or, worse, burn our tongues. A fleeting moment and the warmth is gone. We have no choice than to leave it as it is.

Our coffee was cold but were we able to warm it -- even just a tiny bit -- with our hands? Were we able to at least pretend that we had something genuinely warm, something pleasant, to hold on to during those wee hours? Did the cigarettes help? Did the conversation, when we agreed that it never happened?

We had cold coffee that morning, and then it was time to leave. I should've known better than to think that a singular can of coffee would change things. A fleeting moment and the warmth is gone, and my hands are not enough to warm a can of cold coffee unless I stay too close to the fire and burn my hands first.

I had no choice than to leave it as it is. 

Did that make any sense to you at all? 

And so they got me writing again...

I’m supposed to be working. I have about a dozen things to do. I’m supposed to be working on this to-do list I have created a couple of days ago (while explaining to one of my learners why I don’t think is different from I don’t think so. It’s funny enough when they simply say it; it’s even more hilarious when they ask you to explain, I swear.)

Blogging is so like book-writing. Only it's not. :|

And I end up working on a new blog.

Blame it on my friends whose blogs are really inspiring. Reading about the short bits and pieces called memories we leave in this world has always left me inspired. That might be one of the reasons why I have decided to go back to blogging.

Blame it on Bedroom Blog by Veronica, a website on cosmo.ph, a regular read of mine when I don’t have lessons to take/teach or reports to finish. The author is one feisty woman who has lived such a different life from mine but whose experiences are very similar to yours truly. Her 22-year old self is just like me in so many ways. I wonder if I’ll end up as confident and as beautiful as she is a few years from now.

But mostly blame it on that person who once said “You should go back to writing. Me, writing [will be] pointless if you don’t start writing again.”

Ha. You know who you are. As usual, you win. Here I am again, blogging.

I wonder how similar this blog would be to the others I’ve had before. I know that this’d be definitely different. I’m still kind of transparent…but not as transparent as I used to be. And I am totally totally more conscious of my grammar now. Harharhar. (But if I still do commit a grammar mistake, screw you, grammar Nazi, and kill me.)

Though I did miss this. I missed opening a new file and just staring at that blinking cursor the first few minutes before I write. I missed racking my brains out to find the perfect word to describe whatever it is I am feeling. I missed the sound of my fingers hitting the keys on a laptop while words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, histories pour out and make themselves alive on paper, never to be erased, never to be forgotten.

Now, at 3:15 on the 2^nd early morning of May, I realized that, though I love acting and painting, there are some things that are best described by words. Sure, pictures may paint a thousand words. But how can you be sure that the people you want to reach out to see these pictures the same way that you do? Actions speak louder than words, they say. Based on my experience, they do speak louder than words but they can mean too much or too little. Your perception of an act of love may just be an act of kindness or, worse, pity.  

These ideas, my friends, got me writing again. I think this time it can work out. I mean, I tried writing sometime in January but it was an epic failure. I know why it failed, though: I wrote a diary/journal. It was too personal and too hidden. Let’s face it; I’m a performer. I thrive when I am onstage, under the strong, heavy lights. I guess it’s the same with writing. I write for my readers because being read is what I need to do for myself.

Does that make any sense at all? Forgive me. It’s 4:15 in the morning.

But …may I be completely honest with you?

This is the part where you shout Of course, Madz! with all the pizazz/swag/whatever you have.

Okay?

Okay.

;)

I stopped writing in summer of 2009. So, it has been three years since I have tried to reestablish the habit of writing something creative and, more importantly, something mine (because, yes, I wrote during those years but always for other people.) I stopped writing because it made me think of too many bad memories – things I’d rather forget. I was too tired of fighting all the time so I ran away. Well, I think it’s time I stop running and face these demons. I think it’s time I forgive that part of myself and let it heal. It’s time to forgive and to free the writer in me.

Oh, and it’s time for fools like me try to get some sleep.

Ciao ciao ciao for now. :)

"You should go back to writing. 

Me, writing [will be] pointless 

if you don't start writing again."