Autumn

Summer went by so quickly.

Ito pa rin ako, kumakapit sa natitirang sana. Hindi mo alam kung gaano ako natatakot na nawalan na ako ng pagkakataon. Paano kung sa huling banda siya nga lang pala ang kailangan ko, siya lang pala ang nag-iisang taong nararapat para sa akin — at ngayon huli na ang lahat?

Gusto ko lang malaman kung ano na ang mangyayari. Natatakot akong huli na ang lahat, pero mas natatakot akong magkamali. Gusto kong gawin ang tama para sa atin.

Ang problema ngayon, hindi ko alam kung ano yun. Hindi pwede sundin lahat ng mga kagustuhan.

Sa ngayon

Panahon na para matulog, kahit iilang oras lang.

Paalam sa aking kwarto, sa bahay na ito, sa nag-iisang lugar sa mundong nararamdaman kong ligtas ako sa lahat ng panganib. Ang hirap isiping hindi ito ang uuwian ko pagkatapos ng ilang buwan, hindi ko maisip na ito na ang aking huling gabi rito. Ito na ang huling pagkakataon para matulog sa silid na ito. Sa mga nalalabi kong sandali, gusto kong magpaalam ng maayos sa tahanang ito kung saan ako lumaki, sa kwartong itong nakakita na sa akin sa kung anu-anong kalagayan at itsura. Napakahirap nito, hindi ko kayang haplusin ang dingding ng bahay o hagkan ng mahigpit ang pinto. Kung kaya ng taong magmahal ng lugar, mahal na mahal ko ang bahay na ito. Paano ba magpaalam ng maayos sa lugar?

Sa tingin ko kailangan ko nang matulog, masyado ko na pinag-iisipan ito.

Pre-departure jitters

I’ve never been good at goodbyes. All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go – I wish all my things would pack themselves, the weekend’s been a blur of boxes and packing tape and freshly laundered clothes. I’m leaving behind quite a few take-care-of-yourself consumables behind, all the stress and hype has been making my stomach constantly queasy. This is the one time in my life I’ve ever felt like I have too many books. I’ve had a few more last-minute visitors dropping off more consumables and Paris-emblazoned notebooks. Cleaning out my shelves has made me realize I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember.

I’ve been regretting some things, I don’t want to call it unfinished business, but I’ve never been good at goodbyes. One last delibs, one last hug, one last, one last. Odd how I’m not even leaving for very long, but it’s thinking about what I’ll be coming home to that’s been bothering me. Different house, different faces, different me. No more thinking, I just want to pack mechanically until everything I own in the world is either in a box or in my luggage, and to sleep away the rest of the few days I have left.

Ramble

I no longer remember when I started filling up the empty spaces with words. The difficulty with endings is never knowing where the next beginning is. The words help create some distance; as though closing gaps burned bridges in the process. They call it “commencement”, as if the end and the beginning were two inseparable things. Ask me, and I’ll say, yes, the best way to get over a woman is to translate her into words. Ends are difficult to tie together, especially when they begin to fray and tangle. The etymology of etymology is “the study of the true sense”, etymon. I could write a thesis on the last chapter and how it came full circle with the first. To write what you know, in its truest sense, is to wrest meaning from the opaqueness of shadow. Truth be told, there is be an in-between, a limbo, a state of being in the middle of sleep and wake. Lethe: forgetfulness, oblivion. The end will be a storm, the waves threaten to capsize, but the stillness after will be worse, the time when the damage must be repaired, masts rebuilt, sails sewn together to cover the rents. Alethes, the opposite, is “true”; aletheia, “unconcealment”. Sometimes, there is nothing left to do but to let the currents do as they will — wait as the vessel drifts, wait for the mist to lift, and finally, finally, sight land on the horizon.

Remember me

… Here I am again reviving this blog. I have to give myself some credit though, I always particularly liked this blog despite what people might think to the contrary, also because it still has some really disgustingly old posts from when I was in high school and typed like I was talking to someone.

I like to think that now I can write for myself, and even if other people might read this it’s still first and foremost, mine.

Welcome me home, I am forever your pariah master. Does that make me the slave now?

(And just to keep myself slightly up-to-date on myself, I have six days to go until the big day!)