A Shiftee Confesses

Days and days without end. Words were my capital: sewing them together brought me closer to the finish line, which meant the clock has gravitated back to the start. It has always been the same thing, but I enjoyed it. Speeches, here and there. We had to produce. We had to create. I had to use my imagination to the extent, push it even further, make it bleed, and still, despite all the pouring out and provocative illusions, I had to learn more. Get to experience more. Understand more. The human psyche is one to disappoint. We were made to swallow our past beliefs and recreate them into a new purpose, because every revelation is a revelation! Every spoken statement our professor makes is a surprise. A shock. An addition to our big, big bubble that has yet fit the criteria of enough. However, more than writing, more than speaking, we were made to read. And that, I think, is where we gather our pride. Where our conscience lie. We read. And read. And read more. Then we ask questions.

I took up BA Communication Arts in the University of the Philippines Los Baños. This wasn’t my first choice. But I had no choice, after all; when I entered my dream university, I was placed under “degree program with available slot.” It didn’t matter to me, as long as I got into the state university. But I must admit: it did hurt a little- not getting into the degree program I wanted.  That is why, after a year, I shifted to BS Biology. It was a long process, but I managed. I wanted to pursue medicine.

From the arts to the sciences.

It’s not that different. But it is different.

Days and days without end. Data and inferences were my capital: sewing them together brought me closer to the finish line, which meant the clock has gravitated back to the start. It has always been the same thing, but I enjoyed it. Experiments, here and there. We had to produce. We had to create. I had to use my imagination to the extent, push it even further, make it bleed, and still, despite all the pouring out and provocative observations, I had to learn more. Get to experience more. Understand more. The human reasoning is one to disappoint. We were made to swallow our prejudices and recreate them into a new purpose, because every revelation is a revelation! Every spoken statement our professor makes is a surprise. A shock. An addition to our big, big bubble that has yet fit the criteria of enough. However, more than the mastery of the scientific method, we were made to read. And that, I think, is where we gather our pride. Where our conscience lie. We read. And read. And read more. Then we ask questions.

See, it’s not at all different.

But it is. 

I have to deal with microbes as tiny as an alternate universe would have had me think. I have to stain them, count fifteen seconds to thirty, so the dye would stick. I have to kill them. After observing using the hanging drop technique, I have to let them go. Perform sterilization. Hold the wire loop with a calibration of less than a centimeter. I have to disinfect. Before and after doing required procedures.

I have to wear lab gowns now. Find where the copper went. Mix sodium carbonate with some other salt to know which element is soluble. Which is insoluble. I have to wear jeans, every time I perform experiments. Never mind the heat. Never mind the humidity. I had to stay in the laboratory three hours a day. Sometimes six. And it wouldn’t matter, I wouldn’t notice time. Because I enjoyed it.

I remember being inside my dormitory, drinking my tea, looking at the time. I remember feeling incomplete as I write my essay due in about four hours. I remember begging for that something to fill in the empty. I remember asking what if.

And now, I have it. I’ve got the best of both worlds, although they did feel the worst, at some point. I regret none of my choices.

I am on to my track. The road that leads to that MD acquisition. I carry with me, nevertheless, the fruits and downhills of my battles with the arts. It will always be engrossed dearly within me. I have grown fonder of the things I have lost, but now I come to realize, I have not lost it at all.

What I Believe In

I like to believe that I’m off to med school in two years’ time. If not for my irrationality, I would have not landed in a course I won’t be pursuing in the first place.

I like to believe in the hideous idea that the four kings and queens of old will make it back to Narnia and save the god forsaken land. I like to believe that fiction, if I think of it hard enough, dream about it almost every night, then it would actually come true.

I like to believe in truth.

Yesterday, when I was looking at all the vintage finds I have snuggled at every garage sale in the city, I thought about how much shit I took out when you left.

You gave me so much that I had to pull out everything in my room that day.

I was on the floor, crying, my mom knocking on the door.

I was on the floor, grasping for air, or not anymore, I cannot possibly remember- surprisingly- like how I could no longer remember you; I could only remember you in multiple proportions. Maybe I’ve had too much chemistry to start thinking about Dalton and the Laws of Matter. I wish I would have; that way, I wouldn’t think too much about you.

I remember you though, “hey, if ever we broke up, and you throw away all the things I gave you, I’m going to get real mad.” What a foolish thing for me to believe that you would. You see, I was still scared. I was still scared of you getting mad at me. I wish you would; instead of not caring at all. That hurt me. With the same gravity of pain. With the same weight as heavy as the whole world could ever make me carry.

I look at all my vinyls piled up on the corner of my room, thinking that if our story were placed on one of those tracks, the needle on my turntable would have probably cracked because it’s always on repeat. I think about my room, how many ancient things I love I placed in here. I’ve always been in love with the past, even wishing that the amount of stale would replace the past I had with you. This was history, and I loved it, except when I still had you.

When I still had you, I was in love with the future. I prayed to God three times a day. One in the morning, when I hear you whisper “wake up, you’re going to be late.” One at noon, hoping God hears me more than all the people praying that instant, only for you to pass your anatomy exam. And finally, one at night, when after a long, tiring fight, you still have your head rested upon my chest. So innocent; so sure about what our tomorrow will be.

Now, I pray to God every single moment of every day, “please, Lord, let me think about something else.”

Yesterday, when I was looking at all the things I have summoned into my room to cover up the scent of your perfume, I thought about not thinking about you. That finally, it’s been a while since I last thought about you. That at last, I was too busy to think about how I missed you, and how you don’t. How happy you are in the arms of your new home. But thinking about not thinking about you makes me cringe even more, because I just did. I just thought about you. Again.

I like to believe in the now. I like to believe in something real. That I am my own person, that I am not living a lie. But it can never be more difficult than now. I would have given up anything for you to be nothing but an eye contact; a chapter skipped; a plan A that could never be. I would have given up anything, because in the now that I am in, you are taking so much of my time. You are taking so much of my space, that even as I took all of you out of me, you still left me with every day.

I still have every day with you.

I like to believe I have let you go. Problem is, every day.


This is a piece that is very close to me. I wrote this leaving very few edits. This is as raw as can be. Hopefully, this will be the last of its kind.

Good luck to all of us.

Give Me A Script to Write

I am not soft bass beats.
I am not your dark, silent screen.
I am not fire dying with ignition.
I am not your indie movie.
I am not quiet conversations, bodies sunken halfway underwater. I am not moon meeting sea- fingerbeds burnt, rotten open by the unceasing lifeline of a cigarette. I am not the folk song playing softly on the background, much more the waves of the tsunami waiting to disrupt your eyes from staring into mine.
I am not your indie movie.
I am not your Celestina; I am not the mother of 9 children, the hooker who made love to her husband, her happily ever after, her dungeon for thirteen years, only to get half her face in dissection from broken vodka bottles.
I am not your indie movie.
I am not the one you seek, mountains and mountains over; I am not the plane ticket you strongly hold on to after years of saving up, I am not the motor boat that flew your hair to the sky and made you feel alive, the skiing trip that made you offer yourself to the cold, freezing wind.
I am not your indie movie.
In our little, short episode, there is no director. There are no cast. No volunteers. No creatives. No scenic views. No dialogues. 
I am not quality. I am not little money for integrity. I am not your principle. I am not your belief. I am not skins and bones, hair tangled, pressed unto my face, screaming in passion, chest in rise and in fall, in collision with the soft smile you make from the sheets and pillows of our dreams and reality. I am not inception.
In our little, short episode, there is no director. No cast. No volunteers. No creatives. No scenic views. No dialogues. Because I am not your indie movie.
I am not soft bass beats.
I am not your silent, dark screen.
I am not fire dying with ignition.
I am not your indie movie.
But God, how I wish to be.

17 Years

We convince ourselves; the moment we discern the soft tugging inside our chests and crumble into our blankets, we convince ourselves. We seek to induce our bloodstream with the in-betweens of clarity and obscurity: 1) “get up!” 2) “5 more minutes.” We immerse and alleviate our needing by the satisfaction of the opposite. We are walking paradoxes and sleeping truths. These, let’s talk about as I rumble upon being at the almost-end of the bridge and at the almost-verge of the slope. Seventeen is waiting for its replacement.

This is quite something, I believe. The thought reverberates and I think more profoundly. I deem humans mostly as those choosing the opposite. Most of us are worn out from last night’s battle but we decide on going further. The providers. The earners. The passionate. The need for a better life. The need for shelter. The need to answer prayers. The need to shoulder the needs of others. Humans, most of them, ignore the sounds of cracking bones and wheezing lungs because they believe in something bigger than pain. They do not hear the applause- but they do it anyway. Even in the persistent, inhibiting selections between clarity and obscurity, they open their eyes once they are conscious of their heart beating. Some are even unsure if they are alive, but they head on nevertheless.

Clarity. The ones who see things from a wider perspective. I believe they are souls brave enough to feel what kind of blue the sky is. If they reach that kind of height, I do trust that they did not journey their way up to see how little skyscrapers and humans and automobiles are to reckon themselves as superior. They have sketched their voyage the night before their flee; they keep their visions locked in their chests. They heed likelihood of specters that they take in a good dose of spontaneity. At times too, I suppose they camouflage their setbacks and sadness and doubts into smiling and kindness and hope to stay aligned with their  idea of a destination. In addition, they are most true to themselves; they know when to to take a rest and when to start again. These weary yet visionary eyes know exactly what their plea is to the mystic. They have sent them already— their little, buoyant letter for the universe to grant.

Obscurity. The ones who look from a tiny lens but whose minds are rather bulking with so much thoughts. Sometimes, the lack thereof. These are the ones who fail to recognize their need for adrenaline and exhaustion. They crumble into their clouds of musing thinking, “this is how I could be” but simply choose to end it at that thought. They may feel as though they are neglected— but really, to me, they are on the process of finding their spot in this allotted space in our universe. They choose the delay for reasons they consider but mostly because they cannot see distinctly. They have baggage they choose to unpack and unload first before they could curate their route to embracing the light of day. Eventually, they will know which plane to board while knowing it could crash any second. They will choose it anyway because they are certain that what comes with relief comes with torment. A little push would do for them to get up, but let them take that 5 more minutes. Believe them. Believe in them.

And then there are people who rove the in-between. The mortals who could do it—who could have done it. The ones who are about to send their letters off for the mailman to deliver. The unsure. I presume this is where most humans lie. This is where I have lived all my life. Lastly, this is how it feels like to be propelling myself forward.

While having gone through 17 years, I have predominantly observed humankind. The struggles, the successes, the yearning for tomorrow and even for different kinds of pain. But I have only known so little—that I am certain of. I think for a second I know better, but taking into account the contradictory and incongruous nature of things, I know I have yet to know more. It took me a long time to understand the state that I am in; it even took me a disturbingly protracted time to assure myself: this is real—I am real.

It is odd though, because I have never felt so alive. I am in complete control of my expedition. I am capable of loving and of loving enough. I am capable of growing and growing more. Every two seconds or so, I blink; I blink the melancholy away and open my eyes to a brand new feeling I am always so eager to feel. I know now; I am done roaming the in-between of clarity and obscurity. I have got to choose. And I choose clarity. I have sent my letter for the mailman to deliver. I hope the universe accepts.

There is always a choice. If there are no options, make options. Choose. Choose where you belong now and where you belong best. Clarity or obscurity or the in-between. If you find yourself satisfied with choosing the same option every day, then you are right where you should be.

Good luck to all of us.

©

Look Who’s Back!

Hi.

Again.

After months of long pause.

It’s November. You don’t know how many times I opened this blog the past months after June (my latest post) hoping I could share whatever lies in my system. But alas, is it hard!

I can’t go welcoming myself every time I come back three or four months later, can I? Seriously, I should be more committed to this blog if I want to share bits of my understanding to all of you. I’m sorry. I’m trying very hard. I have reasons, very personal ones; it’s not easy to figure out, nor is it easy to tolerate and recognize.

I would also like to say that I’m willing to post on a weekly basis- I’m just not sure what day of the week. If it’s unclear to you guys, I mostly post my writings, travels, events, and I also talk about my lifestyle here. I shall also squeeze in a few of my opinions here. I think it’s my responsibility to speak, as a member of the youth, of my country, of human race.

In addition, I’m not being a social media superstar here, nor am I stating that I have the greatest feed and the wittiest tweets but you can go check them out nevertheless (I don’t even care about how they look most of the time):

Twitter: @rfzss

Instagram: 

personal – rfzss

poetry – midnightvows


 

Let’s have a quick talk; that’s kind of the point of this post, isn’t it?

 In here, I would be my purest, unfiltered self. I do not want to preempt anything, however. Know me through my upcoming posts. Also, feel free to comment on my blog posts for constructive criticism and for other concerns. I will see to it that I reply if necessary. Not that I’m expecting that much comments and readers: *cue nervous laugh.* I really do hope, nevertheless, that I could gain friends here and acquire new learning experiences. After all, I created and devoted my time for this as a form of establishing a journey to self- betterment.

Disclaimer! The photos are not mine unless stated (photos are probably mine if the blog post is categorized under travels); I took them at the website, weheartit.com.


Until our next chat.

©

Time Check 12:33 AM

It’s been a while! 

I have lots to tell you.


Halfway through the year and I am not feeling my best. I had so much plans for myself this year. What I remember most is telling myself, “be more.” Now, I feel ugly. I feel utterly loathsome and beastly. I could not find my way to quietude amidst the unruly stampede of thoughts willed by my conscience and fear. I could not grasp my unbecoming and that is the least I could do with this internal emulation. Soon, if I let it, it will be more and more dreadful. I will be more and more intolerable; it will result to a lot of pushing away and deactivation. Everything will detach. I will relapse into partition.

No, this is not about academics. I am no longer that woman who bases everything on numbers. Or is this just a mere cover- up for what I have truly metamorphosed? This is not about my personal life. This is not about my country nor is it about society.

It is about me, and me alone.

Sure, there are catalysts- but to whatever extent I pushed myself into relies solely on the fact that I settled for release. I freed myself upon dominion.

I could not precisely describe the feeling of losing control over my own self. But if I must: it is as though travelling an empty road that goes on forever, without even stepping your feet on the ground. You feel weightless. You hurt no one. No one hurts you. You only get to hurt yourself.

I have tried so many times; I prayed so many times. And out of all these times, nothing lasted. Not even when I prayed, “Lord, help me.” I do not even know what to fix. I just know I need fixing and I need it at the soonest possible time. The consistency of my feelings were increasingly fading. And for months it felt like I surrendered to no one and nothing but the void.

 I come home to my parents every weekend, visit my girlfriend every weekend, hang out with friends at times, do a lot of academics day and night. My grades are fine. However, nothing really satisfied the seeping emptiness.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, my friends, my girlfriend. They are not the driving force as to why I am slowly becoming a slave to nothingness.

As a matter of fact, I can no longer will myself to write.

It’s much better to write broken than to not write at all, I have figured. For at least, when I am angry and sad, I know I am breathing. I can feel my heartbeat; whereas when I am emotionless, I can only feel the air touch my face and see the people I love crumble as I turn into something I must not.


Into contemplation, I realize that it is my utmost commitment to life that also brings me into grave abandonment. I pressured myself into all these becoming that I soon lost my grip on to what is right. I lost my grip on the dream. I cannot accept who I am that I scrutinized myself into becoming someone I am not. I think so little of myself! I am not my mistakes. This moment right now is to be remembered always; someday, the new, fulfilled and complete Rea will thank this exact moment. There is nothing to be ashamed of, I know now. I am not to be ashamed of having to transform ever so often. I am not going to be ashamed anymore that I am not as smart as I ought to be. I am not going to be ashamed anymore of having lower grades than my brilliant block mates. Instead, I am going to raise my head up and I am going to start being thankful. Rather than moping around the corner wishing I had the same writing skills than him, I would approach him and commend him for a great poem. I am no longer going to dwell on what I lack; I am going to delve into filling the lack thereof. I am not going to let it consume me. I am going to be kind. That way, I will be strong. I will know how to fight the silent fight. I am no longer going to repeat people’s criticism about me in my head every second and question my being; instead, I will gulp it all up and see what I can do. It’s okay to return to wishing I was someone else, because I know for sure it is normal. But I won’t feed it my courage and resilience of being better. No. Scratch that. Of being the ideal Rea.


But really, what is there to change about me? I keep saying, I will, I will, I will. But what are these things that I would like to change?

  1. Not helping my family members with chores around the house.
  2. Not being able to balance my time with school works.
  3. Settling for, “bukas na ‘yan!” (“I’ll do it tomorrow!”)
  4. Going for, “bahala na. Okay na ‘yan.” (“Whatever. That will do.”)
  5. Resorting into fear.
  6. Lying. (To God, to parents, to myself)
  7. Feeding my insecurities. (Like getting mad at myself for being dumb sometimes.)
  8. Being ignorant. (About rules, schedule, deadline, simple things.)
  9. Not being practical. (Being too miserly)
  10. Being a spoiled brat.
  11. Not paying respect to my parents.
  12. Being too lazy.
  13. Forgetting proper hygiene. (I often forget applying my medications for my pimples.)
  14. Saying no to friends because I’m lazy.
  15. Complaining so much.
  16. Not being grateful enough.
  17. Always forgetting things.
  18. Being insensitive.

You Will Miss Her

When she tells you leave, leave.

Give her rest. Give her all the time she needs until time itself tells her to come back to you. She is going to tell you words that will crush your insides; she will dissect each and every bone strong and firm and break it- without using her hands, without using her fists. All that it will take her are her goodbyes. It will haunt you.

Before you sleep, you will remember how the pain turned all your guts into screaming- into tears-  you will need the world to collapse, you will need the walls of your room to give you wings so you could fly and shout and yell. Because it hurts. Because you would want to feel a lot less than the hurt- than the pain. Because you want to feel more sore and numb and shaking than you already are. Because it hurts.

Give her time.

You will know then that it isn’t her speaking.

It was her weakness and her brokenness and her defeats.

It is not her.

If she does not come back to you, tell yourself it will be okay. Tell yourself that you are going to see sunrise like you have always imagined you would with your own eyes, standing with both your feet, alone. Tell yourself that soon enough, you will feel your blood rushing into your head and into your heart coming from all the places in your body which she has left cold. Tell yourself it will be okay. Tell yourself: I will be okay.

Even if it hurts- even if you know you cannot be.

Fake it. It will hurt.


Chase her.

She deserves the love she wants. She deserves a consuming love that never gives up on her. She deserves the love she needs.

However, how can you chase someone who does not want to be chased?

You never gave up on her. When the world told you to stop, you went for it. Because you love her, more than you ever did for yourself. I understand, you never gave up on her like she has on herself. You loved her. You love her. And no matter how painful it is to have your heart broken, you will reach for her hands even when she has clenched them so hard her knuckles turn white. No matter how painful it is to get your heart broken from the distance she has set between you both, you will get up and walk and run so that you can wrap your weak arms from the back around her waist. And silently, even as you will run out of breath, you will ask her to stay. And you will smile- dear God, you will- even as tears fall one after the other.

Both your mind and body are weak. But your heart is screaming, it is worth it.

When you can no longer get up from the bruises the tragedy has left you- when you can no longer raise your head up to see how many wounds and scratches it has left your face the other night, rest. Do not run after her. Do not make her a cup of coffee when you know she will toss it on the floor.

Give yourself time. To heal.

When you finally do, chase her.


When you get a headache so bad from crying, sleep.

You will need a lot of sleep. Make sleep your best friend. This is the only heaven you could let yourself fall into while you are going through hell.

Should I talk about them nightmares?

Yes. Nightmares. I mean- when you dream of waking up next to her drawing circles into your back; when you dream of the way she caressed your hair when you cried yourself into misery; when you dream of her waking you up in your sleep telling you that she needs a hug; when you dream of her laughing so hard her eyes close; when you dream of her asking you to stay.

It will be more painful than the way she spit the word, “leave.”


You will miss her.