Lucid dreams

I could taste it. The cruelty of long, lonely days, perhaps years of waiting for something better, something good, something right. As I was sitting on that van on my way home with two of my best friends, a myriad of questions ran through my mind as the landscape raced outside the window. Questions I’ve asked countless times before. Answers that have eluded me for too long.

Little did I know that all that was about to change. With a single message it all started. And what was initially supposed to be a long, mournful weekend became an exciting seduction. It became the start of something new.

I allowed myself to engage in harmless flirtation, being careful not to be hypnotized by his wit. We got to know each other in the way only modern technology can afford us. But I was in no hurry and frankly quite apprehensive. I was content with our mild flirtation and witty banter which I planned to turn into a pastime, he wanted something more. He asked, begged for us to meet. When asked why, he only replied,"because I want you to know me. I want you to know who I am."

And so, days later, I found myself sitting at a cafe, listening to his story. Dumaguete put on all her pretty colors for us that lovely afternoon as he bared his soul to me. As I looked at him in that afternoon light and digested what he called "shocking revelations", I thought to myself, "this is someone I could care about."

Afternoon turned into evening and our first meeting turned into our first date. It would be a night of many firsts. Our first movie (together with friends of course). Our first holding of hands. Our first dinner together which also happened to be the first time in years since a guy spoon-fed me. And as time dragged on, it unexpectedly became the first night we’d spend together.

When he and his friend finally saw us home, rain came. We had no choice but to let them spend the night. As we crowded in the room, the events of the day took its toll on me. I fell asleep on the thin mattress on the floor, next to him but as far away from him as possible and with my back to him. Lulled by incoherent dreams I slept.

And then, in the middle of the night I woke. As I felt him reach for me I turned to him and let him wrap me in his warm embrace. With his hand he traced my face as if memorizing its every line in the darkness. A breath of space between his face and mine, lips almost touching, he held me in his arms. An eternity within a moment. And then the first kiss…

I felt loose, loosed limbed and opened up–as though someone tugged at a thread and started unravelling me. And there, in his arms, I became someone else… Someone more like myself.

He held me long after it ended. And I feel happy. It is pure and undiluted happiness that brought tears to my eyes. And just when I started to be afraid that it would end there, he wiped away my tears and whispered, "this is our new beginning".

Trauma. n. An injury, wound, shock, or the resulting condition or neurosis.

When you spend the better part of your life looking for love and, have instead kept finding heartache, it almost certainly gives you considerable amount of trauma. But no one, not even yourself, really knows how "traumatized" you have become until you find yourself in a relationship. Most of us would rather say that we’ve become stronger and wiser. Clearly, this is what everyone hopes for in a world filled with bullshit you can’t swing a bag without hitting an asshole. But what happens if instead of emerging stronger and wiser, you emerge with a trauma?

After years of fruitless dating and many many assholes later, I have decided that I would know how to handle a relationship. That was until I found myself in an actual relationship…

I had always assumed that since I’ve been through so many psuedo relationships and countless jerks, I would know what to do in the event that I’d find a good man and be in a real relationship. Not only would I be stronger and wiser, I would know what a perfect relationship would be. In my arrogance, I forgot that not only was I never in real relationship, I have never been with a guy who wasn’t an asshole to me (except of course for the few good ones who I always seem to pass up). Sure, I picked up my lessons. But I hadn’t become stronger or wiser. I had become someone with a trauma.

After all the failed attemps at a relationship, I formed my idea of a perfect one along with my idea of the ideal guy. I pictured it all in my mind and made a firm resolution never to allow myself to settle for anything less. As far as I was concerned, the only way to avoid hurt and pain is to have that perfect relationship with the perfect guy. And this is where my trauma manifests itself. Whatever deviates from my ideal switches on my defense mechanism–thinking negative. I then panic at the thought of being made a fool or being hurt that I run and hide behind the pretense of being strong and knowing better. I got burned so many times before that I got stuck on a ledge scared to take a leap of faith in my new relationship.

Who was I kidding when I thought I knew better? What was I doing thinking that a perfect relationship can be defined in the terms of what I thought it is? Was that love you saw in a look, the flush of a cheek, or swollen lips after being properly kissed? We know so little when we go by what we see, don’t we?

It took a major meltdown for me to realize that I cannot make a mold in my mind and expect reality to take its shape. I went into this relationship thinking it would, should be a bed of roses. Thinking that he would and should be perfect. Forgetting, or never knowing, that perfect is a word no one really achieves. The slightest sting and I snap. I expect everything from him yet measure what I give. In my fear of history repeating itself, I lost myself and almost lost the first real relationship that I had. All the while I thought I was guarding my heart, I was losing my mind.

There is no such thing as a perfect relationship. And we won’t always know what to do no matter how much experience we have under our belt. We all go into a state of insanity when we fall in love. I took it to the next level. Because I forgot that love isn’t always gonna be a bed of roses and let my fear cripple me. 

“The face of love isn’t in the face nor the kiss nor the touch that makes one’s body arch.” It’s in the startling moments you find yourself in someone else’s self-revelations, that joyful ache when you realize a story can indeed write itself, each ending as much completion as it is continuation.

***I am pleased to report that we have survived my meltdown. Yes, I have finally found someone who loves me–even if I am neurotic.

I wanna thank my friends as well. For being there in my bouts with paranoia. And for loving me enough to stay with me and knock some sense into me when I am on the brink of lunacy.

“The danger of vagabonding,is in having your eyes opened.”- Ed Buryn

For lack of anything else to do, I have been campaigning for my father who is running for office. Now I’ve become the campaign manager. It’s a tedious and tiring job-if you can call it that. You talk to leaders, you go house to house shaking people’s hands, on top of this you go to all barangays under the heat of the sun.

I have to admit that in all of my 21 years, I haven’t been to all the barangays of my hometown. Although I call myself adept of the issues and problems of this quaint city, I now realize that that was an arrogant claim.

I was passionately indignant about our local government officials’ utter lack of accomplishment in the three years that they sat in office. Where they most likely did just that–sit, literally. I was mostly confident that I knew the extent of the inaction that they are so good at.

It wasn’t until I actually went to far flung barangays did I see how sad the current situation of my hometown really is. Roads–if you can call it that–are almost impossible to pass through. With a few exceptions, there are countless barangay roads that have yet to be concretetized. And although we are blessed with an almost limitless supply of water thanks to numerous springs scattered all over the city, we lack water tanks and hoses so that people can benefit from this resource. These are but few of the problems that have yet to be solved.

And so now I sit here and think of how many times we thought we know and understand… I wonder,  "how many of those times were we wrong?"

And how can we make it right?

Vote and make a difference.

“Don’t let your throat tighten with fear. Take sips of breath all day and night, before death closes your mouth.”
- Rumi

I’ve never been religious. I choose to call myself spiritual. And in the spirit of the lenten season, I decided to take a step back and become just that.

You see, most people in the country define salvation by going to church every Sunday, praying three times a day, fasting etc. I, on the other hand,  live by a simple mantra when it comes to religion: I believe in a God, and I shall speak to my God in any way and at any time.

Some may find this incredibly arrogant or simply unorthodox. But years of studying in religious institutions and countless hours of attending masses have made me realize that most people do not go to church to hear God’s word. In fact, it would seem like that is the least of the reasons why they go at all.

While there are some who go to church and actually hear what is being preached, I’ve found that their numbers are few. Most of those who go to church go just to showcase their new outfits, stare at other people, even talk behind their backs. It’s sad, really. But oh so true.

I know this all too well because admittedly, I have been one of those people. And I’m sure I’ve been a victim of others too. It has become all too superficial and phony. And I do not feel good being under holy roof pretending to be holy while being unholy. I’m sure you know what I mean.

And so, I spend my Sundays at the beach or elsewhere. Contemplating. I spend it slowly–even lazily–trying to take in everything that was created beautifully and admiring the work of the Creator. I drink it in, sipping it slowly like you would good wine. Intoxicating myself in the wonders of my God. I spend it laughing, talking with friends or even just sitting and staring out into the open. Lent will most likely be much the same.

By traditional standards I should probably be doomed to hell and my soul would probably be burning by now. But I have never been the victim of that fear. The only fear I have is not being able to live my life to the fullest.

So call me crazy, sacrilegious or whatever. You can put me in a burning room for all I care. As long as I have my God with me, I will slow dance while it burns.

It’s amazing to think that it’s been a year since some of my very good friends have graduated from college. And today, yet another two of them are goin out into the "real world".

Although graduation is supposed to be a happy occassion, I cannot help but became a tad sad. When you’re young and all you want to do is have fun, events like this remind you about the real world. That it really isn’t gonna be all about fun and good times forever. And that as time passes by, changes come in turn.

I have become the constant audience and sometimes center stage performer of the many dramas and experiences that we all fondly share together. I’ve watched and participated in most of these people’s ups and downs. It’s a bittersweet thought that they are now moving on…

At the risk of sounding overly sentimental, I admit it’s a thought that would always irk me. Probably because if I had it my way I’d much rather stay like this forever… To be in this cocoon. But at some point, we all have to leave it’s shell -no matter how comfortable we’ve become in it- and allow ourselves to be released out into the world.

And so, yet again I watch as two people venture out into the so-called real world. Feeling as though I am a mother hen watching my little ones take flight.

So, to you my dear Nitz and Shang, spread your wings and fly high. Make me proud. Make us proud. 

I’m bored to death and the thought of your two-faced self pisses me off. How wrong I was to trust both of you. Gawd. I should have known you are a snake.

So yeah, I should have punched you and HER both. Just so you know, I probably will the next time I see your scrunched up lying face.

Hope is addictive. The least of us pin our hopes on a lottery ticket, a rich and dying uncle, a sudden twist of fate that places us squarely in Lady Luck’s path. Some of us hope the more fortunate ones choke on their steak dinners, because the only way we can feel lucky is for other people to suffer some horrible misfortune. And then there are those of us who plod on, grinning and bearing it but giving life our all. We hope our sacrifices bear fruit. Bodies exhausted but hearts renewed with every day we do our best despite whatever circumstance, we live, thrive. We can’t be alive and not hope for something, anything. But the virtue in this exercise is not what we become after the wait or the struggle, because we already are what we hope for