Wander

I’m still lost, but this doesn’t eat me up inside because I know you are too. It’s comforting to know another being out there is having difficulty navigating through the many mazes of this so-called life.

There are times I’m content with being lost. Instead of finding my way around, I sit wherever I am, lean back on the walls, and just allow myself to be in the moment.

In my head is where I always want to be. The walls surrounding me could vanish with a snap of my fingers. I could be in the ocean, swimming with the sharks. I could be on top of a cliff, riding along the waves of my adrenaline as I prepare to take the great leap down. I could be on a plane heading toward who-knows-where. I could be in a bookstore, poring lovingly over the thousands of books, heeding the call of some, promising to return and save the others.

I could be anyone, anything, anywhere.

It’s not a magnificent thing, being lost. There are times I want to yank my hair from the roots and scream myself hoarse. Some moments I wish the earth would open up and drag me to wherever. Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed at all, just wish I could lie on it all day and stare absently at the ceilings. During intense moments, when the waves inside me crash and roar more strongly, I want to put on my trainers and run. Run away from here. Run away from me.

I don’t know what’s wrong, or even if something’s wrong. But don’t we all? Sometimes it’s nice to let things do their thing. I don’t always have to be this so-called structured and girl-oriented person most people think I am. I’m not always obsessive-compulsive of my surroundings. Like right now, I’m surrounded with a thick layer of dust that has been around since last month. I’m being filthy, and while it’s not for the long term, I didn’t drop dead from all this filth anyway. There are cracks in life wherein we need to be the opposite of who we’d like to be. We need to know we’re okay with being not the label we put on ourselves. We change. If we don’t like how we’re turning out, we can always change back.

I’m still in the maze. Even when I do manage to break free, somehow I’m convinced the maze won’t completely go away. It will always be around, sticking around for when it believes I’m going to need it. In this instance, the maze has no longer become a prison.

It has become home.

April Has Arrived

This month, promise to be kind to yourself. Promise to be kind, gentle, and more forgiving to the one person who has always stood by you through thick and thin: the person in the mirror. Let go of the burdens you can’t see but always feel. Make space for the sunlight to penetrate every pore in you. Let the light fill you. Allow your soul to sing the song it has been yearning to for so long. Drop the masks you wear. Step beyond the line, and see yourself in a new light. Try those rose-colored glasses. Tell someone how you feel—or not. Vow to sleep better and longer. Try something new every chance you get. So you screwed up. So what? Don’t force yourself to like something you never will. Speak your mind, but also listen to what others have to say. Immerse in a new opinion then decide if you want to change yours for it. Hear others out. Stretch your mind. Use your imagination. Flex your creativity muscle. Complain then find five more things to be grateful about. Always let your compliments be heard. Laugh genuinely. Breathe freely.

Guts Wanted

Picking up all the guts I can find—whether in my room, on the streets, or perhaps in between the pages of my battered notebooks—for this poetry-reading event in what is probably the city’s most beautiful and charming bookstore.

The thought of standing in front of an audience and reading some piece I wrote (read: baring myself to virtual strangers bound only by an invisible yet common thread) is horrifying. Yet the thought holds a certain thrill, a slight allure. Like the glint in a stranger’s winking eye or the electric current running up your arms after your fingers brush against that person. It’s frightening, but it’s also exciting. The contrast stands out and is razor sharp, but you know it won’t stop you from taking the plunge and doing it anyway.

Is there a right or proper way to read poetry? How do you know if you’re doing an excellent job or if you’re screwing it up? What tells you you’ve finally struck a spiritual connection with the audience? What if your palms get too sweaty and you end up shredding your paper into a pulpy mess in front of everyone, for every untrained eye to see? Why the hell did you even decide to read your poem in the first place?

It’s because I want to. It’s because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do but am still mustering up the courage for. It’s because it’s something that moves in a flawless reel inside my head, a preset scene that reeks of nothing but perfection, from the way I step up and in front of the microphone, to the frenzied yet synchronous clapping of the audience who are still lapping up my words long after I have uttered them. It’s because it’s an image that stays with me even as I furiously scribble at my notebook, trying to embed in my head as much as I can about the anatomy of the human body (oh, those glorious days in college). It’s because I’m curious of the idea of letting it all out, of the possibility that the spoken word can undress you and allow practically everyone a glimpse into your soul, one that you’ve been trying to hide not because you were shy but because you never believed you had one in the first place.

I read articles and tips and watched videos on the matter. Lord, those people are flawless. They are magicians in their own way. Sleek and cunning, I wonder how they could look polished yet vulnerable at the same time. They make it look so easy, so smooth. They appear edgy, but it’s the right kind of edgy, the kind that adds instead of subtracts. They are nervous yet pumped up, completely bare yet cool and collected.

My mouth dries up, and my knees wobble. In the videos, I don’t see much of the audience. But I know they’re there. Their presence is heavy and all-too present. They do not mock; I don’t think they ever do. But they are silent and watchful, and it is this silence that is the most awful of all.

I need a sackful of guts.

Happiness Has a Price Sometimes

Happiness at 110Php

Today I went out (again) to run an all-important errand and for escapist reasons. The said errand I wasn’t able to get fully done and the escapist reasons were half-justified, but I got a happy shock (yes, there is such a thing) when I walked into the Mango branch of National Bookstore (NBS) and found all these books on sale. I didn’t take pictures; in fact, the reason I went to the bookstore was because I wanted to buy a magazine.

There was no sight of the magazine, and that was when I saw there were several books on sale, so I drifted to where the sale books were and began to randomly pick at stuff. There were a lot of people in the area. The bookstore was beginning to get crowded because students from the nearby schools had just gotten off their classes, not to mention the working crowd was just getting off from work too.

Imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon the four books on the above photo. The first that caught my eye was the For Dummies series. I took the book as a sign (ha-ha; it’s a serious personal matter) and held on to it. Since Doy and Mary Ann (my friends who were with me) were still busy with something, I decided to explore the other sections of the sale area.

There was this section that was filled with classics. It was mostly Shakespeare. I was tempted to purchase one but felt there were other books I was more interested in reading than those of the great bard’s (okay, sue me). So I got on my knees instead and ran a careful eye over the wonderful books on the bottom section.

I was greeted by Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman and Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart.

I snatched them without hesitation. I could’ve screamed in delight but didn’t. I got back to my feet and pored through the classics section again. That was when I saw Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. I have a confession to make: I’ve never read anything of Jane Austen’s. I know, I know, how could I and all. But there’s a first time for everything, as they say, and today was apparently my first time to finally get something of Austen’s in my hand. I’m thrilled, you guys.

I’m not the type who shows off, but when it comes to snagging great and unexpected deals, it’s a different story. I’m really happy. It’s not every day you come across a pleasant surprise such as this. As I’m typing this, the books are still in the same condition as when I bought them. I look at them, and I smile. They’re a great reminder for the terrific things life will always have in store for us.

My brain is looking forward to devouring all those words.

I am too.

Seek

I decided to wear a mask to shield myself from the world. It worked. Everything went from light to dark. The swift change in my vision made me smile. I went about my routine. The day ended—it always does. I took my mask off. I gazed with horror at my reflection. I had wrinkles in the area between my eyes. I had crow’s feet. All the time I had my mask on, I was squinting all along.

I was seeking out the light even though I had permitted the darkness to embrace me.