my life is just a collection of poorly made decisions with alternative music playing in the background
Kung wala lang akong pakialam sa parents ko i drop ko man talaga ang subject na ‘to ba. Pero sige nalang. Malapit na ang sembreak. New prof. New life.
Have you ever condemned a professor so much? Well I did.
Bshit na minor subject. Murag kinsa. As if dali lang imohang mga projects. Dili baya. Pahimoon mi nimo ug shirt, original song ug documentary, community outreach all in one week. Ptangna. Mag long quiz pa jud every meeting. You are just one subject. Don’t think as if our life revolves around your class alone. Kung makabigay rin ng standards, grabe . hiyang hiya ako. Nagturo ka sa states diba? Balik ka nalang doon. Wag mo na ipamukha every now and then.
If only you had the decency to look at life the way I see it. Maybe that you’d know how I am doing.
I am under the weight of living. I feel the eyes that expect much. They have pulled my strings to do their bidding. I feel like I am buried under the pressure of the bedrocks of life. I hear the voices that urge me to be in pursuit of nothing but excellence. I was full of it. So, sick of it.
And this old man told me (cliche, right? but mind you it was online): Do not lose yourself to a glass of water.
After a few pondering, I have come to an understanding that what I am dealing with is just a glass of water and I have yet to plunge into the sea.
I have this fondness to black and white. Of how it tunes down the noise of clashing colors and focus on what matters.
I was just holding on my warm cup of latte one misty morning. I always had my regular walks around the neighborhood. Everything was just so ordinary only until I spotted this young boy.
The boy had on some worn out sneakers, an old battered cap and clothes that told me he was quite well kept. He may seem just like any 10-year old boy, well except for one thing—he was staring at a blank wall.
Out of curiosity, I asked the lad, “So what are you staring at.”
He just looked at me with those eager eyes and pointed to the white, blank wall. I just looked at it. All I see were some visible cracks and other than that, it was simply plain. I tried to think so hard what was so amazing about this ordinary wall. I gave up.
"Tell me, what is so special about this wall?"
This time the kid looked up, “I am admiring an artwork.” I was befuddled and I looked at him in the eyes and saw a few shadows that have cast upon his face.”What do you mean? You must be nuts spending time on this.”
The boy glared at me saying, “You’re just like everybody else. You keep telling me I’m being stupid or ignorant. All adults tell me to study and become a doctor or an engineer. You know what I say? I want to be an artist. I want to make works with the splashes of every single color that exists. Everybody thinks that I’m just throwing away my life. They think that I’m imagining too much. Don’t people like you know that this world is but a canvas of our imagination? My mom says that she can’t buy me paint and I have to go by with lectures that do not interest me.”
I fell silent for a few moments. So I thought, I have a few bucks. So I left to a nearby store. I bought some acrylics, oil paint, a canvass and a cheap set of brushes.
Coming back, I saw the boy was about to leave. “Wait a minute. Paint me what you see in the wall.” The boy couldn’t believe what he was seeing and eyed me suspiciously. Putting my hands up as if in surrender, “Go on. I’m not making you pay for anything, just do what you wanted to do.”
At that, the boy squatted and I remained standing behind. He started making shy strokes. But soon enough, he found his pacing. That was how I saw beauty. It was not exactly the most brilliant piece I have ever seen but the beauty I witnessed encompassed even that. What I saw was the passion in the boys posture, in the way he handled the brush and in the joy I found in his eyes as he kept looking at me for approval.
He seemed to be satisfied with what he has done. What he showed to me was a quaint house with a nice little garden. There was a sort of hush that was set upon us. Breaking the silence, the boy began, “We used to live in a small house by the countryside. But unfortunately, I began to fell sick and my mother decided to move to the city. I never knew my father but at least I had a sister. My mom is trying to send us both to school here but we find everyday a struggle to get by.”
Meaning to change such a depressing topic, I started, ”Where did you learn to paint like that?”
The boy answered, “These are the things I envisioned in this wall, my first canvass. I thought this was the best thing to do with the remainder of my life. I never wanted to live a life of despair and pity. I wanted imagination and colors.” It was getting hot in noontime so I told him to hurry off home and bring with him the things I just bought.
The next day, I wanted to see the kid, again. I wanted him to paint me another picture. All I saw there was a young girl, she looked vaguely familiar. I asked her, “Have you seen this kid who—” The young girl cut me mid-sentence, “This is for you. My brother had pneumonia for quite some time and last night he was asleep when the angels decide to bring him to the sky. He said thank you for believing in him.”
dreams are shattered
hopes are crushed
promises are broken
love is ruined
faith is shaken
you are being destroyed
and one thing shall end
but that won’t be your life
rather it is pain
it ends as you move on
I was five when I dreamt of a woman with strings of pearls upon her neck and clothes that clothes that scream “adore.” She fell into the pit. She came out with her now tattered clothes and the head was there no more. She came up to my window. Young as I was, I was mortified.
I was ten when I dreamt of falling into that pit. I saw it was the color of blood and I was hanging on to a rope. I felt the pull from something below. But I woke up before that dream ever ended.
I was fourteen when I heard a story of how we are all marching towards that pit because of greed, pride and cruelty. We were given clean clothes the moment we are born and this has been stained by the choices we make.
I am seventeen when I remember these dreams and encounters. These are just few of my memories that I did not know that I had. I only recalled them after staring at the window where I first dreamt of that rich woman.
I cannot fully comprehend these things but somehow I think they hold meaning for me.
All of us have the right to be sad. We need not to be mocked or sneered upon. Even society has no right to tell us the standard of happiness. People tells us that we should not be sad since someone has it worse. It is like saying we can’t be happy since someone has it better. The downfall of others should not be the prerequisite for us to become happy. All of us have our own source of grief and frustration. You cannot change that. Seen a person with a bad case of melancholy? Hypophrenic maybe? The best you can do is become a source of happiness rather than pointing out the downfall of others.