Sadness

I left UP in the afternoon after a grueling four-hour comprehensive exam. I was tired, drained, exhausted. This, together with all other life exercises, is deemed necessary in the life of a well functioning, sane individual in a sane society. Deemed necessary by whom? I cannot avoid the passive because I have no idea who deems it necessary.

At a certain point, when I was travelling home, I thought of escaping to the beach and watch the setting sun in the horizon turning yellow then orange to fiery red until nothing is left but a sad indigo hue.

bataan

I gulp another mugful of dark coffee.

Suddenly I feel that unmistakable feeling of sadness. For a long time, I almost thought I’d never feel this again. But I do, right now. And the even sadder thing is that I have no one to share this with.

It’s a bummer to be alone.

How I hate it whenever I begin to sound like a whining college student.

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On the road

Amid frenzied reviewing for the comprehensive exams in grad school on Monday, I’m reading this. And the book makes the concepts and theories even more incomprehensible – and looking more closely, the question ‘what are all of these for?’ is too distracting to set aside.

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”

On the Road, 1957

(from the writer who will endlessly remind me of a friend I lost.)

Kerouac

Excuse me

I had to get going because it got tiring asking questions I could not verbalize, that eluded answers. I only wanted a beautiful Saturday morning. I woke up at the middle of a black and white dream worrying about adult stuff I promised myself many years ago I would not give in to and ask. But just like any young adults, I guess I needed to face them sooner, and in my case, it’s now.

And please, excuse me.

I was tired.

A PROCLIVITY FOR THE MUNDANE

Because I want to be ironic, here’s something I wrote two years ago.

One is often left to wonder what has become of our world today. We are all parts of a system that goads us to look at the ‘bigger picture’ but often we end up nitpicking about the most banausic of topics and non-issue. Most of the time, our nonchalance in the face of most events occurring before us is rivaled only by our passion for the least germane aspects of the issue at hand. What is worse is that more often than not, the issues we chose to get ourselves involved in are those that matter to no one, not even to us, but which we chose to get involved in still because in this age not being a part of a fight, not being a member of an advocacy group, not being driven by something, not having an opinion on something are tantamount to letting go to waste the freedom we are supposed to be enjoying, for not doing so is an unforgivable ingratitude.

And so we’ll fill any space imaginable with all the refuse our minds happen to contain. The internet has become an open dump site for all the trash we cannot afford to bleed into our reality, but, as is inevitable, this bloody business we are a part of is hemorrhaging freely into the material world, all for the sake of the ‘freedom (of speech)’ which we all feel we’re entitled to. It’s not whether what we say is inspired by some noble motive or that it’s a product of careful thinking, the more pressing question for us is whether we have something to say right at this moment. And there is where the peril lies.

This is how we cope with the gnawing insignificance the world is making all of us feel, but which none of us will whole-heartedly admit; this is a very human response to something as dehumanizing as living in this point of our present. It is perfectly human.

When we’re confronted with the uncertain, we talk endlessly, in gibberish, to drown any suspicion that this reality is a mirage. And so, to remind us of our corporeality, we talk, using a language only we can decipher. And the others, yes, they’re our conspirators. Of course, they also talk using a language, theirs, but certainly not our language. And, we talk, mimetically. What is interesting, however, is that there is a semblance of comprehension, a constructed reality existing in a vacuum, a phantasm perhaps, deluding us into thinking that communication has occurred when in fact what has only transpired is a useless exchange of meaningless but intelligent-sounding, grammatically correct, syntactically appropriate arrangement of words we all refer to as our opinion. Verbalizing this is the be-all and end-all of talk. After all, this is a time of unbridled liberty, where one man’s rubbish is as significant and as worthy of our precious little time as the other man’s puke.