Thursday, December 31, 2009
New Year, New Blog Name
.. this year, and the coming years, will be all about being happy. period. Hear that, 2010?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
I eat vegetables. All those green leafy stuff parents trick their little ones into eating. I can sit as comfortably in a hole in the wall food house as in a fine dining restaurant. You can bring me from the chicest to the shabbiest places and I’ll still enjoy. I can say I’m not finicky, at all. Well, except when in comes down to books.
I am very particular with the books I read, whether it be by an extremely commercialized author or just a random one with an interesting cover art. I take time researching about them first, going over reviews and comments. I don’t care if every bookworm in this planet had already read it, except me. If I don’t think it’s worth my time, I won’t mind. That’s why I never bothered reading New Moon and the rest of the so-called Saga.
Looking for the perfect book is like looking for a perfect match. And more interesting is the fact that there can be a million perfect matches. The criteria don’t have to be selfsame at all times. It depends on your mood. It must please no one else but you.
Sometimes, there seems nothing fit to match and you leave a 4 story bookstore I call heaven empty-handed. But there are days you get lucky, and find a whole 2 months worth of read in one go.
My being picky, of course, has a reason. And it’s this:
Books for me have magic. They save me in the same way Miley Cyrus called Britney Spears her hero. Books inspire me, teach me and, sometimes, exasperate me. (in a good way, of course) Do you know how it feels when a friend consistently deceives you and so, in the long run, you don’t want anything that has to do with her? That’s exactly how I don’t want to feel about books. I’m picky, because I don’t want to lose that connection, that trust of knowing you’re in for a good ride everytime. That regardless of how you’re world is turning, at least, something alive, although not breathing, won’t let you down.
Books are my heroes.
They can save you, too, if you give them a chance.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
…I answered the phone on its third ring. And on the other end, I received the most wonderful news.
… I almost cried in joy. Almost, because I tried my hardest not to let the tears fall. I was shaking, as if the nerves in my system don’t know where to put the overflowing joy, excitement and pure bliss. I scrambled some random words in my phone, hoping they will capture how I felt at that moment, even though I know head-on that would be impossible, and passed on the news to people who cared for us.
Not so long ago, it was exactly the same scene, only then I was the one receiving all the glory. But at that point, I never had the same amount of happiness; one that had a sense of finality because it wasn’t, yet, the moment to say, “we made it”. It wasn’t anything like what I felt today, more of just relief that at least, we are half-way through it. Then again, today, we made it until the finish line. And I couldn’t be any more proud.
I love how we get to share all these “big moments”, be extremely joyful, yet knowing this isn’t going to be the happiest of all. Because still, nothing, and I mean nothing, can actually beat the first kiss, the first exchange of I love yous. Amidst everything, we know the real things that melt our hearts. And they are not the titles and achievements. It’s the feeling of having someone to celebrate life with- regardless.
Hopeless romantics believe there is one point in every love story, where the prince will give a foot-popping kiss to his princess and fittingly, “happily ever after” will come into the picture. Realists say, at that same point, the curtains close and you never get to see how the princess turned into a green-eyed monster and the prince into a forgetful, average guy. I say this: there is no single moment for the perfect kiss nor the final closing of curtains. A real love story is filled with numerous “happy ever after”s, and a couple of closed curtains. The secret to a lasting love is hanging on during the in-betweens.
That day we shared another “happy ever after”, a picture fitting to be carefully placed into a scrapbook. But when that fades away, we retreat back to our simple way of loving each other; of holding hands and petty arguments and lost moments. We will love and hold- on and be happy silently, until the next big chance to surprise the world.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Getting back the Rhythm
Obviously, I haven’t written anything substantial for ages. I believe I wrote some witty, worth-reading tweets, scribbled a couple of quote-like lines, but microblogging isn’t really writing. Writing takes time and effort and the quest for the perfect words. Microblogging is more of smart ranting, babbling and a mere band-aid.
For the last 4 months, my evenings are occupied by, well, work. I spend almost 15 hours in the office daily. And those hours aren’t enough, still. The virtual pile of work hasn’t even diminished. As a matter of fact, it grows by the day and I have no idea how I would catch up. I am praying for a miracle. My weekends, oh free days, pass by with me just sprawled in bed, unbathed and unconscious; happily dreaming, until it’s time to wake up and face the world again- sporting my corpo wear, high heels and baggy eyes.
Needless to say, I am uninspired. If I want to write about interesting rulings, unbelievable client practices and work recommendations, then perhaps I can write a good 5-page instantly. No sweat. But I just don’t miss writing per se. I miss writing about life, about emotions underneath a heavy blanket. I miss writing about seeing a saturated rainbow of beginnings outside my office window, where everyone else would have just seen taller buildings and tainted walls. I miss seeing a pearl white page turn into black and white with unforced words and a soothing song in the background. I miss it. I missed it big time.
So one day, when, unexpectedly, my bosses didn’t turn out for work, I forced myself to write again. Let’s call that day today.
Today, I braved facing the computer, opening a word file and not the usual celled worksheet. I stumbled at first, pressing the backspace button more often than striking actual keys. But I got the rhythm soon after, and now I got this page almost filled.
All the while I was waiting for the perfect time, the perfect moment. That one sunny afternoon when my head isn’t clouded, and I wouldn’t be able to stop my fingers from striking the keys. But it never came. I got frustrated, up to the point of avoiding the idea of writing altogether. And then it just hit me. All it took is the courage to sit in front of a computer and bare the torture of staring at a blank page and a blinking cursor. Writing is a process. And for me that process starts with the state of being lost, being clueless, until I find my way again.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]