I was asked if I ever tried to be emotionally strong. I paused and thought about the what kind of strength I have consistently been trying to exude these past years. Because I felt like an emotionally strong person, only I can't put a finger as to what kind.

Looking into the worlds I dip myself into, I have been patient with the rants and raves, and have been hiking with my sister's medical journey. I have been ra-ra-ing her into finishing, comforting my parents when they feel that they have not done enough, I have advised my dad to take it easy on my sister. I have put all my small "me-s" aside, knowing that it is not as important as having the eldest become a doctor.

I have tried to level up my relationship with my mom. Woman-to-woman. I tell her how there is something left for her to do. I try to make her listen and tend to her garden of desire. I try to make her ride the guiltless train. I try to tell her, "It's okay. The world forgives you."

I have also tried to be a supportive friend. Only, there are just some circles that I cannot afford. So I do the nest best thing, retain individual friendships. I try to be as loyal as possible. Fierce with friendship, that's me.

And with all the seemingly real or possibly fake "loves", I have tried to inspire. Even if I don't admit that I have enough ember to fuel my own fire, I share. I share my own hopes and dreams hoping to fuel some fire. I try to motivate. I try to fan whatever it is they have going on. But more often than not it turns into limbo. And I feel crazy again, as if I have to greedily grab those coals and return them into my own oven.

And so when I am asked, if I have been emotionally strong, I give a mental "fuck you" in my head. And I pack my bags and mentally go on a hike, a strike, a backpacking trip to the Himalayas of my mind. And I wait for the stirring of actualizing GOING AWAY. I wait until the time is right, until I have less to lose. Until the mental "fuck you-s" have started to exponentially give birth.

Or until I see a delicious piece of distraction.

There is no imposition or coercion, I just like to flagellate myself this way.

microheartaches

My fellow coconut trees usually greeted me, flailing their arms for acknowledgement
To-day, as I sulk past them, I feel their breath on my neck as they bend backwards
Offering their consoles, their sympathy, their pats-on-the-back

I sit on the sand with my head on my knees, rocking back and forth
The sand’s playful self would usually pounce on me
To-day, it is collected, offering its massive presence for me to lie on

As I sit upright again, I cry, I bleed
The sea has never been this comforting as it rushes to me
As if for years, saltiness has found its mate in my tears

I thank them and let go, I let the sea take me

I want to ask some people out only because they have no excuses. And I don't have to pay. haha

The Gangster of Love- Lines I Love

I never quite relaxed around him, and so I stayed in love longer than I expected. He fulfilled my notion of love, which meant no one would ever get what they wanted. Love for me had never been a source of comfort, but of anxiety and longing, desire and regret. It was a terrible emotion, really. I learned that from observing the way my parents cruelly danced around each other (Hagedorn 1996)

Feeling Old and Old Feelings

Thinking about being lonely, but having family and friends around makes me think about what point in my life has been most effortlessly happy, exciting and pure. And I can only summon one image-catching dragonflies in the front yard of Lola Azon's house, and placing them in cans, and then riding the yellow jeep to go to Balulan. The cycle of garden-beach-Tita Dais' room makes me so warm and fuzzy inside, and thinking about how those memories slowly slipped from my consciousness because college rolled by makes me sad. I wish I could have spent more time there than here, because I did not really experience or witness how lola slowly lost her health, how it must have been for Tita Dais alone in the house, how everyone was trying to cling on to Lola Azon.

The memories are like jagged puzzle pieces.

The nostlagia hits as soon as the plane lands, and enters the frenzied state as the car rolls by the driveway, up to the porch. Whenever we'd go back after lola died, I noticed that the garden was unkempt, grass uncut, plants wild. The house's red paint was dull, and the house smelled wet, like wood decaying. The dogs were unfamiliar, as if they were only kept as guardians, and not as pets or companions of Tita Dais. Neighbors were also strangely unfamiliar. It was like Manapla was occupied by people unknown to us, like migrants. The old people were gone, and our playmates either moved to the city or had families already. As Tita Dais would say, "...hindi na parang dati."

If you take more time to feel the place, the original feeling comes back, somehow. Like how in the Dancing Hall, vandalism of barkada names are written all over the walls. And I don't know why Ate and I keep on doing it, but we would look for the names of our old friends, hoping that we would see someone familiar. Or how I would walk all the way to the lone tree on the far right of the sea during low tide, to look at whether the old carved heart was still visible. The memories would flood over me, and I would just walk away, extremely sad and happy at the same time.

Makes me think about the bearing of my medium-term dreams. Something inside me wants to go back to Manapla and do something. Stay there for several years, whatever. I know change will never wait for me. Tita Dais might not know me too well anymore, old friends may feel differently about me, but the mere connection with it is something that I want to feel all over again.

The remaining months will be good to me, I hope. Will heed the call of my first love. Haha. I'm 24 years old, and I have decided that there is no pressure to do anything, be anyone, achieve a certain mindset. :) Salamat, dagat.