A precise, precisely stark “thank you” after I’ve said I love you won’t suffice for the night. All I need is the thought that whatever happens to us, whatever demon that contaminates the purity of our intentions and motivations of persevering in this relationship, I still have my peace of mind, and you have yours. Humanity has used the concept of language to communicate; we better use it.
Otherwise, we will wilt.
From time to time, I reflect. The reasons for leaving here seemed more “logical” than those for living here. I had much time for myself without the perceived obligation to keep my blog artistically cluttered, as blogging nomothetics warrants most people.
It’s the fourth time I tried writing a post here, after months of myself M.I.A., and say, I still haven’t anything to talk about — at least that of something that might interest you.
Sadly, the drudgery of school had infested my life, and perhaps the only reasons I still smile are the quiet moments of him taking me home and the catharsis of theatre.
I desire not to bore you with my ramblings, so I decide to end before even unravelling the point of this account.
I was keen, and a bit hopelessly enthusiastic on finding ways to talk to you, but I couldn’t even breath properly through my nose. Everything, even the most basic necessity for biological survival, has gotten difficult ever since I declined the ability to take care of myself. Fucking, stuffy nose won’t get me anywhere. One of my best assets, at least in self-perspective, was my voice, and for two days even that has turned out ugly and sore and scratchy.
So I won’t speak, not to you at least. You’re someone I like very much after all, and I am designed to be my best when I’m in front of people I desire for. I’ve always known for a smart assumption I was a great pretender.
Of course not many people are aware of that; that’s enough evidence for my conjecture.
stress & inebriation
Everyone’s having their sembreak, except for me.
And instead of having the grandest time being on bed until lunch’s served, I’ve the commitment to come to class at 8 am, sit on an armchair (which for some strange reason has gotten more uncomfortable) for four hours, a jargon of alien language concerning anatomy and disorders and what-not, and not even being able to decipher a single correlation, a harmony or a conducive association that ties these words together. Four hours. Four hours gone to waste.
Not completely, however. One piece of information strikes relevant. I have finals tomorrow.
Meanwhile, since 1 pm, I’ve decided to go to a Starbucks nearby my university to have a serious sit-down date with my textbook, but it’s not progressing well. See, when someone plays lounge music on loud speakers, and feel the palpable quiet of vacation spirit in this particular Starbucks, it is a definite you won’t reach any conclusion to work.
My afternoon ends in the termination of my review and the half-assed aspiration of getting a high grade for tomorrow’s exams.
On a darker note, I need to finish Act II of my play by next week. And an ominous case presentation is on the way this Thursday.
So help me God.
Me: So, why did you break up with him?
Him: I had enough.
Me: Hope you learned you lesson. I learned mine from you, you know.
Me: Never to trust.
My bitch director moment #1
It’s that particularly horrible feeling when you’re the playwright, and your script’s not playing right.
Or at least that’s how most of the members [of our theatre guild] feel.
At least I’ve worked my way through every dialogue and every imagery — half-enthusiastic and half-anxious about my writing capabilities — that I come to pass as I type away my netbook, not noticing my coffee’s gone gold when I sip a little. Blame Starbuck’s incessant air-conditioning, or the mere passing of time.
Come our first production meeting, I’ve decided to let them grasp the mood of the first few scenes. Unfortunately, while my cast were reading their lines, I tried reading their faces, and they weren’t very good. A good number of them looked quite constipated, almost shocked and in a loss.
I opened a short forum afterwards, and them claimed my script boring with dialogue too obscure to understand. We won’t be getting much acclaim for having too serious dialogues. Why does it have to be so matalinhaga? Can we just make it a comedy (or more accurately, a farce)? It’s too bland, what do they give a fuck about political arguments among datus and princes of an ethnic minority, much more, in a language we can barely understand? CAN WE, LIKE, DUMB-DOWN YOUR WORDS JUST SO PEOPLE COULD APPRECIATE IT?
You know what I said? Pretty simple: No, you cannot. I always make it a point to perceive my audience as thinking people. If they can’t appreciate, at least we’ll educate.
My legs hurt.
Out of reflex, I groaned this morning when I rolled over my bed to feel the soreness of my thighs. I mean, I didn’t want to move, or assuage my morning wood. It was that painful.
I even had to hold securely on the handrails while going downstairs to eat my breakfast, otherwise I’d feel as if I’d stumble downstairs and hit my head, surprise! surprise! a splatter of blood. Or a systematic fracture. Or complete paralysis. I wonder what’s better, but one thing’s for sure: sometimes I feel like taking these hypothetical hyperboles seriously. That is, to account for recurring bouts of mild depression.
But I’m not writing this to talk about my depression. I’m sure you had enough of those.
Say, I’m here to remind myself I need to listen to my body. Obviously, it’s telling me I need to rest. After all, yesterday, I was too enthusiastic to target my leg muscles while I was at the gym and I overdid it. Three sets of squats, dead lifts, leg and calf raises — twelve reps each — were just a breeze, I thought.
Oddly enough, my intuition, despite my being Cancerian, has failed me. Badly. Badly. Badly.
A very brief apology
I’m confused as to my inactivity these days. I’m not very sure if I’m just so uninspired, or if I’m just so proactive every day that when I get home, my creative instinct just shuts down, or departs from my being.
Concepts used to hit me often, more especially by the charms of nicotine and casual chitchat with a few friends.
I wonder, and at the same time I’m sorry for being too silent.
Today will officially be my find-yourself-amidst-all-the-bullshit-in-your-life-and-write-until-sunset day. But before commencement, let me have my sleep and hopefully wake up with dreams still fresh in mind.
Yesterday was packed. Another hosting dib in the morning for a seminar held at school, circuit training in the afternoon, and a three-hour meeting concerning our upcoming play on December 12th.
I’m graced with a whole day all to myself. I hope I come up with a decent working script before Friday comes.
Please pray for me that I make my Thursday pass without banging my head on the wall.
school boy post
Taken while I tried to my best to maintain as much tenacity in finishing a Biostatistics homework. Frustratingly though, we haven’t even covered half of what needs to be finished. My groupmates and I gave up in an hour and spent the rest of our break eating M&M’s: Melts in your mouth, not in your hands.