We are conditioned to believe that everything is temporary. I guess it is effortless for us to yield to it because—unknowingly or not—it diminishes apprehensions generated by threats from intolerable impulses. Although the idea per se seems to upset us habitually, at the end of the day, it is easier—it is healthier—at the end of the day, it is what is less scary.
The truth is, nothing is ever just passing. A warm laundry, a cold milk, a bad haircut, parking meters, open doors, job offers, cravings, opportunities, possibilities, friendships, and a two-minute affair. Yes, they all seem to evaporate, fade, disperse, weaken, deteriorate, peter out, vanish, or end at some point, but it does not end there. The thing though is, we do not dwell much on what follows, because more often than not, we are not certain if our pride and heart can take it—we are not certain if we can take the fact that something that is already gone could not really be gone after all—that something that is already gone could leave something undying—like disappointment, misery, hatred, disgust, discontent, disillusionment—like a memory—like a scar—like a permanent alteration. Life is like that. Life is just a three-minute engagement with a cigarette stick, but the tars stay forever.
Nothing is ever just passing except the person we are today. We will never be the same again because of the permanence of it all.
2:59 pm • 19 September 2014 • 1 note
In my head, the way we perceive others is largely a projection of how we perceive ourselves—whether or not we are entirely aware of it. Yesterday, I saw you again after a long time. You were a bit taller, you gained weight, you were tanner, and your hair was longer. Evidently, you changed a lot. What was maddening though is that, despite those changes, one thing remained the same: you still could not look me in the eyes. I cannot look people in the eyes only when I am guilty of something, and I despise how you made me feel that you were guilty of something—because you should not be—because I do not want you to be.
You see, this is most probably the reason why I am inclined to choose people who do not have a concept of liability. I am always ultimately the one who gets hurt, and along the way, I have learned that it is easier to bear pain than to bear guilt. Pain leaves wounds. Other times, they do not completely heal, but I just reach a point where they do not bother me as much—I just reach a point where they already feel like components of my second skin. Guilt, on the other hand, is entirely different. I see its counterpart in others, and even if others become comfortable with that counterpart, I, most likely, will never be. Pain is anesthetizing. Guilt is amplifying. Whatever is in between is the pinch, the cut, the kick, or the blow.
How I wish you were like them. How I wish you just did not mind, too. Seeing you guilty makes me feel guilty, and I despise feeling guilty.
I am sorry I am so selfish.
12:27 am • 20 August 2014
I have always thought it outrageously unfortunate that there is such an enormous gap between my thoughts and what I actually let out in the open. It is just that I have always considered myself as a deviant, and merely trying to make an effort to imagine that others would be able to relate with, let alone understand my unconventionality—my idiosyncrasies—is grueling. This is one of the reasons why the first several meetings in History and Philosophy of Psychology were pretty nerve-racking. In this subject, I am always surrounded by people who put good stress on individual differences, yet, as much as I am tempted to embrace the forthcoming acceptance, the terrorizing feeling rooted from my questionable self-concept prevents me from taking the first step. When asked to orally reflect on the philosophies, my responses are either short or ambiguous or guarded. It is not even how it is in my head.
I am at a point where it is easier for me to associate every scar that I have, discernible and indiscernible to behaviorism. If I were a teeterboard, and behaviorism would sit on the left side, while humanism would sit on the other side, the left side would surely hit the concrete—would surely create a damage on the concrete. Humanism is such a brilliant perspective. Of course, I would also like to believe that I have so much intrinsic worth; it is just that, I am in a phase—I like to call it that—where I believe that my freedom is still largely influenced by my behavioral propensities.
I am at a point where it is easier for me to be guided by Epicureanism—which I could not always say out loud. I live in the moment. I tend to chase pleasure, although not in the abusive sense, because I am in a phase—I like to call it that—where I feel that my earthly life is all I have. I am in a phase where I see death as the last certain stage. Unlike Plato and Aristotle, I could not see the body and the soul as two separate entities. Above all, I could not see the concept of immortality in the latter. I see dirt. I see dirt at the end of everyone’s journey.
These are just some of the many truths behind my short and ambiguous and guarded responses in the first several meetings in History and Philosophy of Psychology—truths that have not been verbalized, yet truths that, with the help of psychology, will hopefully be able to crack its way out of the self-deprecation shell. These are truths that could possibly turn into letdowns, yet I like to believe that they could be the kind of letdown that would help me be able to see the boundaries of the unchangeable—which in turn will also allow me to clearly make out the ones that are changeable.
I am taking my time.
7:08 pm • 23 July 2014
The amalgamation of my problems with my family, and my friends must have methamphetamine-like properties. I could not eat, I could not sleep, but my mind seems like it swallowed truck batteries. The only difference is I am not just high. I am both high and low—if that is even possible.
10:41 pm • 2 July 2014 • 1 note
Human nature could really blow things out of proportion sometimes.
10:40 pm • 2 July 2014
It has only been four months, yet the immovability of the parting already rose. I could not discern the silhouette of your face anymore, and that makes me wonder if we still breathe the same air. Maybe we still do, as sometimes, I feel that I do not have enough to inhale, and my lungs would hurt—just like the occasions when you were too close. One of the differences though is that the melodious moans that usually follow have suddenly turned into sighs of discontent. I am not certain, but what I know is that you are in the cracks where I could not squeeze myself in—you are somewhere where distance is a moot point.
It is just crazy how we have to consistently be in motion just for us to be able to stay where we are. We gallop, we climb, we run, we bop—we go with the cadence of the second hand of the clock given that if we do not, it would unquestionably strike us in its succeeding lap. But what is even crazier is that we do not get to learn all these until we find ourselves on an unfamiliar concrete—bruised, and unable to tell how far we went—and unable to tell if we are still the same person.
I am sorry that we stopped to look at the view.
4:12 pm • 27 June 2014
Is it not terrorizing how our selfish desires could lead us to earn a skill in making others feel like we actually care?
7:14 am • 10 June 2014 • 1 note
When I was 17, I believed that life is a long, labyrinthine treasure hunt. I deemed it a little different though, because I thought that each of us has something different to run after, to unearth, to work loose—depending upon our hearts’ desires; thus, there really is not much antagonism. Well, I pictured that my treasure chest contains a glimmering absolute clarity. I figured that that is what I need, and I understood that having it is having many other things of value.
Now, I am 22. Of course, I believe in entirely different things, including the notions that I was too idealistic, and pretty moronic when I was 17.
Whatever comprises the five-year interval has led me to believe that there is not so much absoluteness in life, let alone absolute clarity. What I understand now is seeing so clearly is seeing that something does not add up, and seeing that something does not add up is deficiency in clarity. It is a pattern. And a pattern is a coherent, indisputable, terrorizing system.
Also, whoever said that our only competition is our own selves probably died first—considering the fact that now, I see every relationship as non-mutual, and we are only either a parasite or a host, and more often than not, we do not really get to choose, although the decisions we make in between could lengthen our stay.
I am 22. Now, I believe that life is a short, survival game—which only feels long because of the struggle. There really is nothing to run after apart from a temporary spot. Life is a short, survival game that has to be played with a compromised vision, because apparently, in this continuum between dirt to dust, clarity equates to sightlessness.
10:14 pm • 7 June 2014 • 2 notes
He has always been fond of calling out loud names of people who are not there. Some already live continents away, some he has not heard of for quite a while, and some are already dead. She hears him call the name of his brother—who has been living in Missouri for eight years now—before he hit the sack. She hears him call the name of his best friend—who got deployed somewhere devoid of every single means of communication—when he is in the bathroom. She hears him call the name of his mother—who has long been dead—when he is drunk. He is so religious in calling out names of absent people like they are gods who do not talk, but answer. She has never really gotten a decent explanation from him, but she has always believed that it is not necessary.
His voice explains it all. The longing, the gloom, and even the anger he himself does not want to acknowledge, all come out as a loud whimper. She knows, because she is the one who has always been there. She knows, because she is the one who has never left.
It surprises her though how lately, he has been calling out her name, too. He calls out her name out loud when they watch the television as their elbows touch. He calls out her name out loud when they eat dinner, and share the same viand. He calls out her name out loud when they walk together, holding hands. He does this using the same voice that comes out as a loud whimper—with a hint of longing, gloom, and anger. It surprises her, because she thinks she is not like the rest.
What she does not understand is that he does not get to pick the names. What she does not understand is how one does not have to live continents away or have to be off the grid or have to be dead to be absent.
4:11 pm • 25 May 2014 • 1 note
The more you hide something, the more it becomes obvious. The more you want something to be obvious, the more it gets trampled on.
6:40 pm • 15 May 2014