Are we sure?

"Everything comes to those who wait."

Remembering love

Nowadays, my siblings and I share a slogan: "Sana hindi na lang nagpakasal si Mommy at Daddy." Sana, sana. Their relationship has become so unbelievably disastrous that we would honestly and sincerely choose non-existence over life in this kind of circumstance.

I look at my father and mother and I see two people so filled with hatred for each other. It would be easy to just part ways and move on with their own separate lives, only they have us to deal with. Nowadays, having been born to these two irreconcilable people has become a grave sin. We are their proverbial ball and chain, and they will not let us forget it.

To imagine them as two people who once saw love in each other has become impossible.

This makes me think. Would Ice's and my future children share this sentiment? Our differences, after all, are undeniably striking. I fear that we would end up exactly like my parents. Oh please not.

I cannot imagine that the time will come when I no longer care for him, when I cannot even see in him the man I once loved. I wonder if when that time comes, I will have forgotten about the poems he wrote for me, the warm hugs, and his little surprises just because. How sad will it be if I forget.

And so, tonight, let me talk about love. Let me talk about the things I want to remember when things take a turn for the worse.

Tomorrow we fight, but we do not know why.

I wonder if this is how soldiers feel the night before a battle.

My siblings and I, we keep reminding ourselves of our goal. In the middle of all the planning, we would find ourselves stopping and going back to the very beginning. Perhaps it is because we do not really know what we're fighting for. Or perhaps, it is because we do not want to fight even given our reasons. All we know is that we have to fight. And fight, we will.

Maybe tomorrow, in the middle of the battlefield, the reason will strike us like an epiphany. When it does, I hope, with all my heart, that it is worth all the blood shed.

Scribbles

Over the past few weeks, I have developed the habit of recording my thoughts in this little notebook I carry everywhere. They're just thoughts, really, nothing of importance. Still, I feel the urgent need to say them out loud, and so I write them. They could be random observations, or an insight I have on a book (nothing extraordinary, though), or a passage from a book that I liked, or a line from a movie or a song. They're just nothing, really. I wonder why the urgent need to write them down.

Here are what I wrote most recently:

"He's probably just very lonely." (Here, I am pertaining to my father.)

"That couple wearing tracksuits. I wonder if they have something in common other than jogging." (Here, I talk about that seemingly content couple at Greenhills.)

Funerals

My mother was crying when she called me on the phone tonight. She needed someone to talk to, she said.

In the car on the way home, I was thinking about funeral processions. You know, every time I see one, what I do is, I scan the mourners. It's like instinct. I search their faces. I look for someone crying. I wonder, always, if the people are sad to see the person go. I wonder if the dead person was loved.

I have never seen anyone crying, ever. I don't know what to think about that. Ice says that maybe they just won't let people see them cry, that grief is a personal thing. Or that maybe, they are just saving their tears for the funeral.

I hope so.

But anyway,that just occurred to me on my way home.

Blindness

"However, since there is no love without hope, and since he loved, he hoped."

-- Voltaire, The One-Eyed Porter

Betrayal

"Then he went to preach tolerance at Croton; but an intolerant man set fire to his house: he, who had rescued two Indians from the flames, was burned. Escape if you can!"

-- Voltaire, An Indian Adventure

Betrayal comes in the dead of the night. It comes when you least expect it: when you are in deep slumber, when you are most defenseless. With a sword that you have made with your own hands, it strikes you. Stealthily, quietly, but it strikes you still.

Betrayal paralyzes. You are numb to the pain of the wound; betrayal takes a while to sink in and penetrate your senses. Nevertheless, stunned, you bleed to your death.

Betrayal is a spineless soldier. It will leave you, unable to stare you in the face. It will not watch you die.

Things to do

1. Write a book.

2. Vacation in Paris (or, since we're shooting for the stars, retire there).

3. Paint a masterpiece (not necessarily a masterpiece by the world's snooty standards, but something that I will be proud of).

4. Join the missionary.

5. Spend a year somewhere quiet and (really) read the Bible cover to cover.

6. Let the people I love know just how much I love them.

7. Save someone's life.

8. Read and understand the Great Books.

9. Get married to the love of my life.

10. Die prepared.

The last animal

"It is true that you have given [man] what you call reason; but in all conscience, that reason of his is too ridiculous and comes to close to madness."

--Voltaire, Plato's Dream

Conversations

Sometimes I get theories about things that, to be honest, do not the least matter, but for some reason acquire this weight of importance for me. They are silly ideas and they spring in the middle of nowhere and out of the blue, not at all worthy of thought and discussion, but Ice attempts to make sense of them.

My theory about the death of the rom-com genre, for example, he developed into this elaborate and very sound exposition of society today. It was something that hit me while I was in the shower. All I told him was that the rom-com is dead. It has been replaced by this emerging new genre and sub-genres that claim to present the truth, "raw and unmarred." The element of romance is no longer there, I complained. No more gallant alpha males as leading men rescuing unbelievably beautiful damsels in distress. No more grand gestures to sweep the other off his/her feet. No more fairy tales. No more promises of happily ever afters. Instead, we are presented with subtle, "truthful" characters and plots. Who wants that, I grumbled. If I wanted truthful, I'd look at my own life, not watch a movie. I was grieving; it was my favorite genre, after all.

He was about to leave for school then, but still he listened to me intently, as if he had all the time in the world. It is true that the rom-com is dead, he said, and it has been replaced by the pseudo rom-com. Unlike the original, he continued, this new genre aims not to serve as a form of escape for the audience, but as a form of self-psychoanalysis. This may be a good thing, he tried to assure me. This hadn't occurred to me, so he proceeded to explain why. I saw why. Excellent point! But then he said that this new genre is the fruit of reality shows. I begged to disagree. This trend has been ongoing since the birth of cinema itself. The goal of film being, more than anything, to replicate life. He then struggled to defend his point amid protests.

This went on for about 30 minutes.

I think everyone deserves to have an Ice. :)

Edith

The extraordinarily-gifted Edith Wharton wrote most of her short stories and novels during her travels. She wrote while aboard the ship to and fro her destinations, and for a great deal every day of her trips. Everyday she wrote. She so fervently believed that this was her life's purpose that she wrote literally until the day she died. I think this is why she traveled so much: so that she could have something to write about. It is no wonder she authored such wonderful works; she had so much to draw from.

How I wish I could do the same.

You see, it has occurred to me only now that in all my twenty-five years in this world, I have never truly written for myself. To be sure, I have written numerous things for school, and still some more for work. But now that I think about it, I do not think I have ever written for myself. Realizing this unfortunate fact, I was hoping to begin doing so now. However, I find myself hopelessly at a loss for a topic. What would you like to write, anyhow, Clarise? A short story? A novel? An essay? A poem, perhaps? And what about?

I honestly do not know.

The Amateur

I am going to be a preschool teacher. Finally, finally. I have been dreaming about this moment since I was just about 11, and now that it is finally here, all I am feeling is this numbing fear. No excitement, not even the tiniest tinge of joy for the mission accomplished. All that came to mind when they offered me the position was the thousand and one very cogent reasons why I cannot possibly do this. How can I? No one could be more ill-suited for this job, really. When I went to the school this afternoon for my interview, a boy of around 3 or 4 was there. He looked at me, and I stuck my tongue out at him. I stuck my tongue out at the harmless little boy. He ignored me, of course. Obviously, I am not to be taken seriously.

God willing. God willing.

Before Sunrise

"I kind of see love as an escape for two people who don't know how to be alone...It's funny. People always talk about how love is this giving, unselfish thing when really there is nothing more selfish."
-- Jesse, Before Sunrise (1995)

Transition

I wonder how a person goes about deciding to love someone. I wonder about that all-important, life-changing, pivotal moment when I am a perfectly sane and rational being one second, and a helpless captive to my emotions the next. I wonder, because I have never really noticed. I seem to have been blind to this transition. I have honestly never noticed, that I am starting to doubt the existence of this so-called deciding moment. Was it really ever up to me? Because, really, why would I voluntarily subject myself to all this agony? Why will I inflict pain upon my poor self when I can choose not to?

And why will I decide to love this someone, anyway? This someone who, just seconds ago, did not mean anything to me? I was complete even before I knew him. My life was perfectly well prior to meeting this someone, and yet here I am, all eager to devote my present and tomorrows to this person who might as well be a stranger. Why will I put my fate in his hands?

"The moment my eyes fell on him I was content."
--Emerson