the art of survival part I
Reading White Oleander by Janet Fitch has influenced my thinking with its poetic but sometimes cheesy words. Miggy was telling me that summer really is the time you get to think about everything. You scrutinize every detail and take it to much larger proportions. I remember three or four summers ago that I suffered through such a depressing period. I locked myself up with my boombox, charcoal pencils and sketchpad. I started drawing everything I saw, felt and desired. It was painful not having anyone to talk to for weeks. I cried for no reason but we don't need reason for tears. Last summer was milder but still I had my share of frowns. I drained my emotions on paper. Dreaming of wood and zombies. Writing so-called poetry then tearing them off and burning them. I drew on covers and kept them hidden. Now, I have reasons for a melancholic state. Its getting worse as the days go by. Taking its toll, painstakingly. It reminds me of Macbeth's soliloquy upon learning of his wife's death. Then Janet Fitch's words delivered by the character Ingrid echoed through my head:
Just make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I've told you, no one becomes an artist unless they have to.
I never considered myself an artist but her words were precisely what I needed. Why not manipulate loneliness into positive, creative and productive energy? I've been in this state since mid-February. I shall borrow another analogy from the book. Pain was a country they had heard of but one whose stamp has not yet been made on their passports. This is the reason I have been distant with a lot of people lately except for a few. Kat calls them her good company. I guess I have my own too. Its odd that not my whole barkada part of it and some of them are the least expected ones. How can I find something in common with a person who doesn't even know what pain is? I guess my good company would include those whose passports have been stamped.
All my dreams are crumbling in front of me. Though the hopes build up because there were reasons for it to get high. Then you start running for it. Only to find out that the mountain you've climbed was actually an overhang and you've fallen off of the edge. This is much painful than having an impossible dream. An impossible goal doesn't even have an anthill to climb so there's nothing fall off from. Having an impossible goal as opposed to having a goal which is within reach but failing to achieve it is like falling off from a one foot stool to free falling from a plane naked. It hurts more and you realize your dignity is gone. You lay there naked, broken and bleeding. In such state, "dead" is an understatement. Such a cheesy analogy but I think I am within reason.
Its the worst feeling in the world to be let down... hard. Especially if its an in-your-face kind of way. I dare not expose any other detail but yes, it does hurt. This is especially emphasized when you see all the people around you indulging in their self-absorbed happiness. Its human nature. If you're sad, you want sympathy. You want people to share in your misery. You start hating all those jubilant people around you. How dare they be happy? Leaving me here, alone, sulking. Maybe its not human nature, maybe its just a glitch in my system but that's just my two cents. If you're down, you could be selfish as well. Its normal. Being in such state, I deserve to be selfish. I deserve to be self-absorbed because it is only myself which I have.
Selfishness is inevitable. I am getting sick of being happy for other people. I deserve to be happy too but why can't I seem to reach such a point? I always have to live off secondary happiness which is being happy for the people around me. Nina kept telling me that this is just a phase and some day, I will be happy. I'm getting hopeless. I know I'm impatient but sometimes I feel that I don't deserve the pains which I endure. I know its partially my fault but I'd like to handle the ones which I brought about to myself. Not the ones which fate seemed to have blessed me with and are out of my control. I know I am free therefore I shall receive the penalty for my actions but what is up with the extra load? That was something I could never quite comprehend. I am talking about the pain which other people's actions have caused me. I don't deserve it. I didn't do anything wrong. It was out of my control. Why the hell, then, am I the one who's suffering?
Maika's words in one of our conversations were indeed painful. She revealed something which I didn't expect or maybe chose not to consider. Sometimes some things should be left unsaid and filed under History. Yet it is innate in me to know everything. When Maika told me something which happened in the past, I craved for more information. I wanted to know everything. Yet I know with the little knowledge I have, I'm already in agony. How much more if I knew all the details? Maybe I'm suffering right now because I want myself to suffer. I bring about the suffering as opposed to feeling apathy (paradox!) and indifference, I'd rather feel pain. I thought about those who hurt themselves deliberately. They watch blood flow from them. They then realize they bleed therefore they are alive. I thought to myself whether I would reach such point, but I don't think so. I guess its the vanity in me. I hate scars. How profound. I never got the point of suicide attempts. If you want to die, kill yourself already. Imbed a bullet in your brain. Stab your chest. Harakiri, at least you had your honor. I don't want to die. I'd rather solve things, these things I'm going through, rather than bail out and say "its been real." I'd rather be sorry than dead.
Is this about a boy? I wouldn't be honest in saying no. I wouldn't be honest in saying this is entirely about a male specie either. If I reveal further details, then my friends would already recognize. The situation was just vague. Everything just stopped. No goodbyes, no explanation, no nothing. He was like inertia. He was the outside force which stopped me from spinning. Here I am, suffering from the aftershock of the sudden stillness. Still dizzy, still wondering. I guess it was better this way. Everyone was against him. I could understand why. I never tell when something good happened. I only spoke when he did something wrong. Though, I saw his good side. The good side which he doesn't let much people to see. Heck, even his closest guy friends don't even know it. He opened up to me in our many hours of conversation, which was surprising. I saw the almost non-existent good side. Now, that's what I miss right now. I can't do anything. I won't do anything. I just need to get up from where I fell (refer to paragraph 4) and start limping on my own path. I've known it was a dead end. I was just in denial. Now, I need to get up, leave and save the dignity I have left.
As I said, I would be lying if I say that this is entirely about a boy. He's just a mere fraction of it. Someone who wrote a beatifully honest entry which I hold dear to my heart has inspired me yet made me realize a lot of things. I was a coward which I completely regret. She was the one who was brave. She deserves all the credit. I had my faults. She forgave me for them. I don't want to sound preachy but everyone could learn a thing or two from this. Even myself. Decisions in life can never be undone. You could make up for it but it won't erase anything in the past. Everything is etched on stone with fire. Yes, people can forget but its still there. There is time for regret but it doesn't end there. Getting up and moving on and being able to smile at the ones who hurt you, the ones who drained you of tears, the ones who made you lock yourself up in your room, I could go on and on... that's life. That's what's real.
What's beautiful about misery is when kept for too long, it turns into anger. As aforementioned, let nothing go to waste. I love the feeling of anger. The sudden surge of energy, the warming of the nape, the flushing of my cheeks and the feeling of invincibility. If I'm angry, then I'm productive. I suddenly want to set everything straight. My senses are at top shape, my reflexes are quick, my competitiveness is unbeaten. I could even kill and get away with it. Its beautiful. I won't be beautiful tomorrow. Its too quick, its too fast, its bound to die down after a while. Its better that way. Anger is a drug, I'm not just going to leave it in the dumpster.
So picking up from the quotation I shared above, this is me making sure nothing went to waste. This is me taking notes. Taking note of every tear, every insult, every poison I encounter. This is me trying to survive and somehow doing one hell of a job in doing so.
There are more to come hence this is the art of survival part I.
P.S. - Thanks to Kat, Maika, Nina and Miggy for inspiring sections of this entry. Thank you to my own set of good company. Thanks to Kat for providing me the courage to post this with her beautifully honest March 23, 2005 entry. (:
P.P.S. - This was written in a span of a week. Some emotions described may not be applicable anymore except at the time written. Feel free to personally question me about it. (:
P.P.P.S. - Screw censorship. Abstrusity is the in thing.