Originally posted March 4, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

Destiny is eccentric, elusive, unfathomable. And while I do not have the wisdom to divine the infinity of his facets, I do not believe that he is as resolute and as unrelenting as he is often painted to be.

Destiny's book may be absolute. But its countless plots and stories are not. The words are constantly changing, shifting in form, conforming to your will. It is your will that carves those words. And it is your will that ultimately shapes Destiny.

Love, though it first and foremost belongs to Desire, is also Destiny's.

Love may have been born in the realm of Desire. But it is bathed and washed, groomed and raised, in the realm of Destiny. For, after all, Destiny's hands extend far beyond his own garden to the inner crevices of all his siblings's dwellings.

But while Desire may prefer to keep you in his/her/its web to play his/her/its complex games, Destiny urges you to move on.

"Love is a choice," he whispers to your ear, though you are far too human and insignificant to hear. "Choose," he mutters as he turns another page.

Destiny has no will. But he holds in his book the myriad textures and flavors and echoes of our will. And Destiny understands that ultimately, he is no more than the offspring of our choices.

PS: Musings above are based on the characters created by Gaiman. Underlying meaning, once deciphered, is obviously meant for someone-we-all-know-and-love.

let may say it again: I MISS YOU, BON!!!

Originally posted by Bon, March 2, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

It's past 10 p.m. and I haven't packed anything.

My tent, personal floating device, first aid kit and climbing equipment are scattered in my room.

To borrow Yan-Yan's statement: What was I thinking?

My arms are still a little numb from the Single Rope Technique Practice the whole day. The rope burns on my right hand make it difficult to wash myself when taking a bath. There are scratches on my arms. I'm not really sure if these are from the tree I kept on hugging or the ladder they had to put up to "rescue" me.

Again. What was I thinking?

Adventure . . . I came back to Cebu a year ago looking for one without knowing that I would have it coming everyday. The thrill of the unknown. The adrenaline pumping, heart racing thought of the possibility for misadventure.

It is finding trust and confidence in myself when I'm hanging by a single rope and have to make sure if I'm doing it right. It is the "high" after pushing myself to the limits, getting irritated with myself mid-way and congratulating myself for a wonderful attempt. It is embracing challenges and enjoying every minute of it.

So what the hell if I don't reach the top of the freaking drop? What the hell if it'll take me half a day to paddle through the vast expanse of horizontal caves?

Life remains wonderful! We make it beautiful.

And I have to start packing. Puerto Princessa is waiting.

Why does everyone keep asking me if Xyzha and I are friends again? My answer remains the same: Xyzha and I are not friends; we're sisters. And no friendship can ever compare to that. There's no need for apologies, for forgiveness, for a major maalala-mo-kaya-moment. We're sisters. And that should explain it all.

Originally posted March 1, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

Let me take this opportunity to blog about one of my biggest fans, my gorgeous baby sister, Xyzha.

The chocolate cake she gave me yesterday as an anniversary gift was enough of a surprise. But an even bigger surprise came about a year ago -- her shocking admission (confession, if you will) that she (sort of) envies my relationship with Mark. I believe her exact words were, "Te, if I'm gonna have a relationship, I want it to be just like you and Mark."

Allow me to contextualize that statement.

Xyzha was Mark's biggest detractor. She detested him, and during our first years together, she was vocally campaigning against my relationship (though not as much as my mom - hehehe). Her reasons are her own. But suffice it to say that during those rough years, almost everyone in our family did not take kindly to my decision to (er, uhm) co-habit with Mark.

And now, fast forward to today. Mark is everybody's favorite. Xyzha's included.

How he did it, I have no idea. He's just being himself, I suppose. And I certainly can't take credit for his natural likeability.

The point of this blog entry is this -- It was never easy for Mark and me. It was never easy for Mark. But after everything has been said and done, we both proved them wrong.

That being said, I would like to thank my beautiful sister (who, by the way, loves to tell everybody that she looks like me...puhleeze! hehehe) for the cake, for the support, and most importantly, for the love.

Mark and I love you very much, Xy. And you know that we will always be here for you, no matter what. :-)

Although this is technically our 8th year together, I'd much rather think that this is our 7th -- if only to explain the various pitfalls that came our way this year. You see, we weren't really together in our first year. It was only after I graduated from college that we started to get serious. The 7th year, they say, is the most difficult, the most challenge laden, the worst. Haaay. Don't I know it? I can't wait to get past this. Whatever this is.


8 Great Years
Originally posted by Yan, Feb. 28, 2007, 6:39 pm.

Happy anniversary, baby!

Thank you for 8 wonderful years.

I can't ask for anything more.

I love you. And I will always love you.


Looking forward to the next 20 years
Originally posted by Yan, Feb 28, 2007, 7:00 pm.

Dear Baby,

I can't imagine life without you. Happiness is seeing your face the moment I wake up and seeing your smile before I sleep.

Thank you for being my best friend, my confidant, and my greatest fan. Because of you, I am a better person - more confident, more compassionate, more patient, and more accepting of my faults and the faults of others.

Thank you for loving my friends and family. Because of you, I have learned to appreciate all the love that surrounds me, and to love and honor those who love me.

Thank you for making me laugh. Because of you, my world is full of joy. I live each day with lightness in my heart, taking all pains and frustrations in stride, knowing that you will always be there to put a smile on my face.

Thank you for holding my hand through the storm. Thank you for accepting my imperfections. Thank you for knowing exactly when I need a hug. Thank you for all the great conversations and banters, the adventures and misadventures, and the private moments that we both cherish so much.

Thank you for the music and the poetry.

Thank you for your love. Thank you for being you.

I love you so much, Baby.

Always and forever...


Happy Anniversary
Originally posted by Mark, Feb. 28, 2007, 11:29 pm.

Yan,

I know I haven't been saying this much, but I hope by now you realize how happy and thankful I am to have you in my life. Today, on our 8th year together, I just want to say THANK YOU.

Thank you for all the love, the happiness, the understanding, the support, the laughter, sa pagpangga, and for everything I cherish in this relationship.

You have always been there for me. You're the reason why I'm happy to face every day of our lives. I am so thankful of the fact that we can be alone together for a long time and still enjoy each other's company and how (as you've said before) we never run out of things to talk about (Bons... Genee... Bons... Genee...thank you diay for bringing them in our lives... bisan ug pasanginlan ra ko nila pirme :P ). Thank you for making me smile, Yan.

Our relationship may not be perfect (is there one?), but everybody around us knows how we have grown from boyfriend/girlfriend to lovers and to life partners. You're everything I could ever wish and hope for as a lifetime companion. At least with that, heaven was on my side. :)

8 years.

THANK YOU for sharing your love, Baby. You will always be the greatest gift this life has given me.

I love you.

Happy Anniversary!

- Makoy

case in point. *sniff*

Originally posted January 14, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

There's nothing more soothing than the sound of waves as they kiss the shore. Nothing quite as poetic as the graceful mating of water and land.

I had forgotten how much I loved the ocean. This weekend was a profound reminder of how deeply I have missed it.

The midnight trek and the excellent conversation (re ken) were the high points of our trip. A wedding was planned, and a new pact was made. The ocean and its vastness, the wind and its infinity, were our solemn witnesses.

hey, Bon. I really miss your thought-provoking posts. I really, really miss you.

Originally posted by Bon, January 11, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

My dearest bestfriend a.k.a. the Barena King a.k.a. TB once commented on the brief shelf lives of my "love interests": "You never really wanted someone so bad, Bon."

Now at last I can tell him face-to-face, "I've found him." (continued... "And it's not you.")

I believe it was Archimedes who popularized the word "Eureka!" when he discovered something about weight measurement.

I have discovered something. Eureka! I have found it! Or should I say, I have found him ... Again.

I just had my Eureka experience. And all I can say is ... "Damn!"

Originally posted January 9, 2007.
[reposted because of this]


I know I've overused this line: but really, I was too drunk to know what I was doing. Well, okay, perhaps I was just a tad bit (maybe even a wee bit) aware of my actions, but the lychee martini blocked out Reason and made me say things I never would have said under normal circumstances.

Or (and this seems more plausible) perhaps the martini was my liberation. Instead of rendering Reason immobile, it set it free, unclipping its wings and letting it surge through the air like a thirsty mosquito. Hence, the blood sucking that followed.

Perhaps those things needed to be said, after all. Perhaps turning an otherwise tragic story (i.e., gen's pain) into a ridiculous farce was the perfect ending to an otherwise dull evening. Perhaps, and I'm obviously grasping at straws here, Gen willed it to happen. If only to hyperventilate into a smelly plastic bag and purge out the last of her lingering desire for ken.

Whisper your wish to a butterfly and release it, I've been told. Its wings will carry your wish to the one who may grant it.

The terrifying sound of Gen's breathing as she bent over an unsanitary piece of plastic may have been moans of pain. Or, they could have been the broken notes of yearning. Wishes and desires whispered to the wind.

For, as you and I know, the wind can travel to worlds that butterflies know nothing about. And perhaps, just perhaps, he who is gen's salvation inhabits one of those worlds.

argh! tagay pa?

Originally posted January 7, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

Yes, I saw the pictures. Yes, I cringed through the entire video. Yes, I saw the blank eyes and the uncoordinated limbs flailing through some unknown beat. Yes, I saw the pitiful half-dead woman lying on the platform. Yes, I heard the insane ramblings of a wicked witch. Yes, I noticed the shocked stares and the murderous looks thrown her way. Yes, she made a complete fool of herself. That drunken bitch.

It will never happen again.



Who am I kidding?

aaahh. a new year always brings new hope...

Originally posted January 1, 2007.
[reposted because of this]

Happy new year, everyone!

I'm celebrating the fact that bleak 2006 is finally over. What a terrible year that was, huh? I'm lucky to have survived that dark period, battle scars and raw wounds notwithstanding.

There are so many things to look forward to this year. New paths to trek, new challenges to conquer, new perspectives to light the way.

Yes, it's going to be an exciting ride.

goddammit! i'm such a drama queen. wahahahah.

Originally posted December 27, 2006.
[reposted because of this]

I'm sorry you had to witness that. But you should know by now that I tend to be overly melodramatic at times. I always blame it on hormones, but I'm sure that some latent childhood memories factor in, too.

What really happened? You heard Mark's version, plus some snippets of my own version. Both are largely subjective reconstructions of what could only have been a trivial tale. Are they the same story? Perhaps. But it no longer matters.

Here's hoping this Christmas would turn out better.

Originally posted December 24, 2006.
[reposted because of this]

Most people have soundtracks of their lives. You all know what I'm talking about. As you lean for your first kiss, a song plays in your head, its beat matching the rhythm of your pulse. Even mundane things get their own songs. A walk in the park, a lazy rainy afternoon, a long pointless meeting. Songs shift and shuffle faster than you can tweak your ipod.

But I, who have no rhythm, no sense of melody, play the silent notes of poetry in my head. This poem screamed out to me when I hastily left Starbucks to gather my bearings. Yup, you all know what I'm talking about.

THE TAXI
by Amy Lowell

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

Originally posted by Bon, December 11, 2006.
[reposted because of this]

This year, I had the weirdest birthday experience to date. I was suspended on air hanging on three ropes belayed by 3 people, 30 feet above sea level for 15 - 20 minutes while my teammates and other campers started to sing "Happy Birthday!". And while I was enjoying the view of Olanggo Island and the waters of Mactan Island, the strength of the harness supporting my body on the shoulders and the hips started to get painful. I am not afraid of heights ... I was afraid of my weight. I never thought that at 27, another adventure is about to begin. Nothing prepared me for what I was actually getting myself into.

Our team leader told me that the Pamper Pole (a high element where one climbs a pole 40 feet high, stands on a disk while it wobbles and then jumps to get down while suspend on ropes) is a metaphor for rediscovering the self and attaining one's goals. I did not expect that climbing the Pamper Pole would start off an awakening. I thought climbing it was merely part of the routine as a trainor, something that I had to experience myself inorder to facilitate a group. However, it was amazing how the experience revealed how impatient I have become. I remember back in college, while falling in line for a subject (a.k.a. making pila), I'd keep telling myself, "Good things come to those who wait." And there on the top of the pole, I was so bothered how I turned into a control freak and relied so much on my accomplishments to define myself. Astonished and humbled, I realized that as a formator and trainor, I have failed to work on myself.

Three weeks ago, I entered a "battlefield" I was unsure of getting myself engaged in. For days, I asked God for a sign to back out on the Singapore trip. No sign came. So lo and behold, I found myself in the most interesting and enlightening situation ... in Outward Bound Singapore. Adventurous as I am, I never imagined I would go through a proficiency course for Wilderness Rescuers. CPR Certification, First Aider, Rescuer ... these words defined my life for the first five days in Pulau Ubin, Singapore. The next 4 days were even more interesting. To make the long story short, my life during these days hung on ropes and most of the time, on a single rope. The highlight was the zip line or what others call "flying fox" where I was able to whiz through the longest cable line in Asia (for now). The view was spectuclar. The experience is so far unmatched.

I went home realizing that for a time I did lose perspective. (Not because I forgot to visit the Merlion or I nearly got lost on the way to the hotel. Tsk. Tsk.) I can be ranting all night because I failed to acknowledge the opportunities and still lack the courage to do what I think is right. I can continue fooling myself that I am in control when I have allowed work to control and consume me.

Thus, I remain intolerant of incompetence yet have learned not to let their incompetence get the best of me. I still believe that using only 10% of our brain is a choice. (By the way, thank you Bob Ong for the argument in "Stainless Longganisa").

And though eternal life may be unattainable, in this lifetime, perpetual bliss is always possible ... I thank my friends who remind me of that every waking moment --- Jo, Gen, Yan, Mark and the many more who keep me naturally high.

Though, I may not have chosen my battles well at all times, I'd like to believe that I fought each one well. And I credit that to my mom, the warrior I continue to admire.

And so I live anxious for the next adventure and excited for another delightful surprise. Will I wake up on the wrong side of the bed again tomorrow or with someone beside me in bed? Now, there's something to look forward to. Wink

Originally posted December 6, 2006.
[reposted because of this]

"History is good if we don't have to deal with the past."
(Marlon Anore re Genee Lou Nuñez)

I had a wondeful weekend in Manila. Of course I want to devote several paragraphs to the exquisite feeling of returning to UP, the sheer excitement of being among long lost friends, the ecstacy of watching Hastang on stage, etc. etc.

Unfortunately, I did leave a lot of backlog when I flew to Manila, and I must deal with infinite unresolved work issues. In other words, I don't have the luxury to rave about the recent events in my life (perhaps later).

So, I'll leave it at this: We came, we saw, we conquered.

And, we will definitely be back.

There are several people I need to thank. You all know who you are. Thank you so much for making our weekend special. I will forever love you for your limitless generosity and ever-lasting support. I count myself lucky to have friends like you.

And to my Baby, I just want to say this: I am so proud of you.

Cliche as it sounds -- when I heard the pandemonium at 6UG last saturday, my heart swelled to a gigantic size well beyond the capacity of my chest (i'm sure there's a better metaphor, but jeez, i'm on my 3rd mug of coffee). My mortal body could not contain my happiness. I am so happy that your dreams are finally unfolding.

At the back of my mind, however, there's this nagging fear that I will someday lose you. I fear that the applause will consume you, that the expansive limelight will swallow you in its midst.

I fear, and I fear.

But I trust. And I hope.

And I love.

whadda!?!? hapit na pod pasko. grrr.

Originally posted December 1, 2006.
[reposted because of this]

why i hate this season:

• it's an excuse for greed. it's a time to want and keep wanting.
• i'm drowning in the cheerfulness around me, and not in a good way.
• i am forced to be nice and make nice with people.
• forgiveness is forced on me, even if i neither want nor need it.
• squandering is mandatory.
• it leaves no room for a healthy diet (not that i plan to start one anytime soon)
• it's a time for self reflection. and that's what worries me.
• the mutilated ghost of christmas past still plagues me.
  

I do talk too much. tsk, tsk.

Originally posted November 11, 2006.
[reposted because of this]

I feel like I'm waking up from a dream.

Nah, scratch that. I feel like I'm stuck in an endless, vicious dream that's eating me alive. (Jeez, I read too much Gaiman. John Constantine comes to mind. Dreams are real. "It is never just a dream. Here less than other places.")

For the past couple of months, I had been reliving the glory days of my youth -- too much beer, too much freedom, too much recklessness.

I am caught in this overpowering vortex -- able to escape, but unwilling to do so.

What am I to do?

Has this become my ultimate reality?

Some physicists (Sam Carter, in particular - ngyahaha) believe that an infinite number of parallel realities exist in the universe. Each reality is defined by choices. A little side turn in an incidental fork radically changes the face of any particular reality.

I have made bad choices, sure. But I refuse to accept that this is my reality. But then again, it is never "just a dream".

Originally posted October 9, 2006
[reposted because of this]

How ironic that I should find this in my files today, of all days. I wrote this piece more than 6 years ago. Nearly a lifetime ago, in fact. Come to think of it, I and she who wrote this are not the same person anymore. Sigh.

******************************************

Extra Baggage
June 10, 2000

One of the biggest bloopers of my life was hauling P900 worth of excess baggage to the airport last March with no more than P500 in my wallet. I wasn't traveling with anyone, save for my boyfriend's cousin whom I've met only once. The scruffy airport guy wouldn't give me back my ticket, so I couldn't possibly go look for an ATM. The blasted flight was due in less than an hour anyway, so scratch the urge to look for an ATM in the middle of Parañaque, which was uncharted territory in my book. I felt like a superstar—nay, a terrorist—as all pairs of eyes seared my back, each probably speculating about all the fuss I was causing. I cursed my stupidity with all the vehemence of a slighted heart, but I wasn't about to give anyone the benefit of seeing me cry.

I got out of my scrape by showing a leg—not. I called my Dad in Cebu, and he in turn made some calls, made arrangements to pay the required fee in Cebu. And the damsel in distress was rescued. Phew.

The reason for my big comeback couldn't have been more evident to me than in those crucial seconds when the airport guy (who wasn't so scruffy, after all) told me everything was okay. Yes, I thought, I'm someone's baby again. For a woman who for four years fought her own battles, it was a relief to finally hand the sword to someone else. Or the knife. Or the pistol. Or whatever it takes to keep my life in order that doesn't sound too phallic.

I was going back to Cebu. I was, at long last, going home. Call it retracing my roots and all that crap. I call it a reaffirmation of sorts—my own profound search for the inner child I believed I've lost. It felt right. It felt good. I was running back to Mommy and Daddy—pigtails, laces, barbie dolls and all.

For the entirety of my last semester in the university, that was all I could think of. I constantly yearned to relinquish all responsibility to my parents. For the first few weeks of my dramatic return, I reveled in childhood heaven. I took advantage of the free meals served, and gained an instant five pounds. I hoarded the remote control for an eternity, savoring free cable without worrying about pesky roommates and the electricity bill. I perpetually hogged the phone, much to the annoyance of my two younger sisters. I charged my groceries to Mom, splurged on expensive perfume and makeup from my parents' vanity table, borrowed my sisters' clothes, and used the bathroom for as long as I wanted. I even got sick—though God knows I did not intend that—and felt like a Queen for the first time in so long as my Mom waited on me hand and foot. No more avoiding medical bills by simply waiting for the flu to go away.

The best part of it all—better than not having to clean the bathroom or having to personally exterminate roaches—was the fact that I could finally live out of boxes. In my four years as a Psychology major in UP Diliman, I endured half a dozen moves. Half a dozen exhausting moves from relatives' houses, to dormitories, to boarding houses, to pseudo-pads. None were permanent, and I kept most of my treasures hidden in boxes—all packed and ready for the next move.

But in my parents' house, I could clutter my room with books, pictures, old love letters, pressed flowers, and whatnot in any way I liked. I could relax. This was permanence. This was home.

Or so I thought.

Some time between unpacking my stuff and eating my Mom's yummy kaldereta, my parents and I discovered one very painful thing—this will NOT work.

In all my rush to relive my childhood, I neglected one very obvious fact—I've grown up.

"The only reason why I enjoyed being a child so much," a sage once told me, "was simply that I was a child."

I don't know how it happened, really. Nor did I see it coming. But it could not be ignored anymore. The simple truth is that I am no better than a squeezed-out toothpaste trying to squirm its way back to the tube. I'm a lost cause. I've grown too big for the nest.

I blame it all on the addictive effects of freedom. Pure justification on my part, perhaps. But I suddenly remember Mini Driver's character in Circle of Friends. "It's like bringing me to the top of the hill and showing me everything I can have," Benny (Mini) reproached her parents in the film, "and bringing me back down to realize they're everything I can't have."

Hard as it may be for my family to accept, I have changed. For years, I had been on my own. I've partied till the wee hours of dawn and lived with the consequences. I've dated the worst scumbags and learned the hard way that men like my dear Mark are a rarity. I've been to the world of unwanted pregnancies and abortions, and emerged unscathed—thanks to the values I had been taught as a child. I still can't do everything, but I didn't turn out pretty bad.

I don't blame my parents for treating me like the incompetent and naive child they still think I am. I can't bitch about rules and restrictions. I can't complain about my 10 o'clock curfew. I can't rant about anything I consider utterly unreasonable. After all, they're just being themselves.

The thing is, I, too, have to be myself. And what I am—what I have become—is an undeniable truth that my parents still refuse to face. More so than the painful reality that I am no longer their baby.

I now wonder, with much regret, if that airport blooper could have been Fate's uncanny way of warning me. My extra baggage, I now realize, was a glaring metaphor of what I came home with.

I'd give anything to feel this way again...

Originally posted October 6, 2006
[reposted because of this]

Just got home from a one-bottle-post-dinner-thing-that-became-a-three-then-a-two-then-a-whatwasisayingagain... (Of course, I'm exaggerating. Ain't I always?)

So much has happened since I last posted an entry here. We moved and settled in. I turned 27. Khyle turned 3. Mark turned even more adorable (note: line inserted as an afterthought heheheh). Bon dumped an accomplished, filthy rich hunky daddy who also happens to be a genius (or, in gen's words, dirt). Gen filed a patent for a new donkenjunfag hybrid. And Jojo banged a 40yearold virgin. ...Epiphanies are a dime a dozen. Or is it a dozen dimes? What was I saying again?

Time. It crawls and then it sprints. It lags and then it accelerates.

Life. is good. is great. is a mug of freshly brewed coffee on a cold day. is gentle early morning wake-up sex. is laughter and banter and more laughter. is being silly and crazy and insane. is knowing that you love and are loved. always.

The Life Behind the Event
Posted by Bon, September 5, 2006
[reposted because of this]

If the "manong jeepney driver" had not stopped at Ayala for 30 minutes to pick up passengers, I would have arrived at home 30 minutes earlier and I wouldn't be able to catch my mom on her way home, as well. And we wouldn't be having our "make-up chat" after almost a month of "cold war". And I wouldn't be writing this, feeling grounded, balanced and peaceful once again.

The past three weeks was another defining moment in my life. I am writing this to thank four people who always put me back in proper perspective and who never failed to brighten my days ... Gen, Jojo, Yan and Mark. You are the best anti-depressants. I love you, guys.

Again, I'm not sure what spurred this. But knowing me, it was probably one of those "episodes". Whatever. Hehehe.

Originally posted July 26, 2006
[reposted because of this]

I don't know what's up with me today. Is it something I ate? The lethal doze of caffeine and nicotine I ingested? Some sort of hormonal imbalance, perhaps? The heat?

Whatever it is, it's turning me into some sort of maudlin idiot.

I wasn't kidding when I told Gen, Roy, and Mark at dinner earlier today that I'm inexplicably overwhelmed with all sorts of unnamed emotions. I just want to cry and lash out at anyone, anything.

For whatever reason I cannot seem to fathom, a storm is welling up inside me. I'm at the brink of explosion, an explosion so catastrophic that I dare not let it happen.

Had this been a decade ago, I could have easily used my depression as a shield and retreated from the rest of the world. But this is now. This is today. And I must keep my personal melodrama in check lest I get too overwhelmed to work. I must sublimate my sentiments and focus on more lucrative endeavors.

I rarely say this, but at this very moment, I really do mean it -- I miss my parents.

I want to crawl into my parents' bed and just lie beside my mom. No talking, no whining, no complaining about life. I just want to be with my mom. I just want to lie still beside her and bask in her presence. I want to feel her strength, her wordless assurance that everything will be okay.

When did this happen? Me growing up, I mean? How did this happen? How did I transform from a carefree, careless kid into this? -- This adult who slaves in the name of that elusive deity called Responsibility? This adult who has to think about bills and money and survival? This adult who is currently lost, overwrought with nostalgia?

This sadness, this inexplicable sadness, is not a symptom of some absurd desire to relive my childhood. I have no wish to relive the confusion, the idealism, the myriad of complexities. I barely emerged from the fire unscathed, and I have no wish to go through that again.

What I do miss (if this sadness is indeed nostalgia) is the safety net. The false certainty that all my mistakes could be attributed to youth, to a lack of maturity. The belief that my parents would always be there for me -- whatever trouble I managed to land in, whatever the extent of my stupidity. My parents were always there, an enduring bark to cling to each time I stepped into a quagmire.

Mark, my beloved Mark, has done all he could to take care of me. He has taken more than his share of the burden. I couldn't ask for a more loyal, more loving partner.

But like me, he, too, is playing the survival game. He, too, is vulnerable to this expansive quagmire. If I sink, he will sink with me. I can only console myself with the knowledge that when adrift, he will keep me afloat, holding my hand until we both succumb to the abyss.

I started writing this entry without a clear direction in mind. If I had a point, the point is lost to me now. What is my point? What answers am I seeking? What relief? What solutions?

This is not me playing dress-up and pretending to be an adult. This is me as an adult, fraught with infinite worries, plagued by countless responsibilities. There is no life to go back to, no basic simplicity to revert to. I had been too proud; I have been too proud; I am too proud.

This is me as an adult. And I can no longer dream of growing up to become a better person. I have grown up. And this is the life into which I had grown up. This is the life I created for myself; the path I chose to trek.

And ironically, when I'm not in one of these moods, I like my life. I can even go so far as to say that I love it. And the person I've become? She takes getting used to; but false humility aside, she's a pretty great gal. Someone you'd be proud of.

So, if I had a point, it is this -- I have seen my reflection through a broken mirror. Perhaps by chance or by fate's design, I stumbled across the shattered ideals, the broken pieces lying in the dark. And I now see fragments of my face staring back at me, accusing me of immeasurable crimes.

But tomorrow, when I turn on the lights, the fragments would have been carried far, far into the sun. And what would remain? Perhaps only some lifeless debris.

That is not much of a point, really. It is not even much of a metaphor. Be as post-modern as you want. Deconstruct the symbolic implications. Read me, if you will. But I no longer care.

Hear this:

What I am is tired.

I'm emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted.

I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of wanting to be strong.

I'm tired of keeping it all together.

I'm tired of holding on.

I'm tired of dreaming.

I'm tired.

I'm just so overwhelmingly tired.

Strangely, washing dishes seems to be a fetish for Bon. I don't get it. I just don't.

Dishwashing
Posted by Bon, July 2, 2006

My newfound friend, the Wikipedia, states that :

"Washing dishes is considered the traditional punishment for being unable to pay a bill at a restaurant. However, evidence that this is actually practiced is anecdotal."

But there may be some grain of truth in the first statement. For those of you who frequent the love-nest of Mark and Yan a.k.a. condo/motel/hotel/apartelle ng bayan, you would most likely find me washing dishes. Something that Mark and Yan would always try to talk me out of doing while Gen, on the other hand, would encourage me to do. Tongue Don't get me wrong, I do insist on doing the dishes and the more the merrier for me. Why?

1. It's my thinking time. It allows me to plan and strategize what my next move will be when I'm hit once again by the unceasing quarter-life crisis. I'm beginning to think that it'll not go away and will just transform into mid-life crisis. So, bring on the dishes!
2. It is my only form of release ... to unleash my mild obsessive-compulsive behavior. I admit, I did manifest the signs but I have learned to let go after an "awareness" session with my German existentialist professor.
3. It's my stress release after a really irritating situation or after seeing someone who irritates every part of my being. (Hehe! You go figure.)
4. I am still hoping that someday .... one day ... Mark Ladanan will let me sing.
5. And last, it is my form of self-administered punishment. Perhaps I see the washing and cleaning as a metaphor of me being cleansed/washed from the mistake I did.

I really don't know how it started. But when you live in an urban jungle where your daily stress level has become a natural high, you have to be really creative and try to find just about anything to keep your sanity.

Try washing the dishes and see what else is washed away.

p.s. I do not and will not accept dishwashing services.