Chapter 1 Sanity Aside

Yes, for a seemingly normal hot summer Eid holiday break I, pictured above sat huddled on an inconspicuous multi-purpose (desk) ironing board pondering on how tragic my life has become and how I abandoned the thought of writing in a self-mutilating fashion. Me, the always curious writer. Me, who had often said I write for therapy, had long accepted I'm not good at it anyway so I stopped writing. I am far from what they call a writer. If I was a director, I'm probably the Clint Eastwood, with the drive of Stanley Kubrick, the self-indulgent and transcendent with the intellect of Forrest Gump, and execution of a 5-year-old who replays an episode of Spongebob like clockwork on the breakfast table and leaves his meal untouched in catatonia. I am Quentin Tarantino, high on meth. I often have the vision, always have the vision but lack God's providence to act on anything useful. But I also know deep inside that this self-effacing attitude will probably what will kill me than any other illness. It's probably how everyone on the planet is simultaneously rethinking their existence that I managed to pick up my laptop and write away. 

As I write this, Covid19 is ravaging every nook, every continent of the planet. I have no one to turn to but the Bible and my sanity and my faith in Jesus and the embrace of our Mother Mary. Yes, this is not the time to think of writing a book. Not the time to look at our selfish legacies, what we will leave to our kids or our families. We are here to look after each other and prepare ourselves for what tomorrow brings. I would like to be a little ray of hope, a beacon of light, as they say, someone who can give relief to all this madness. Although I for one always had nothing to say. I have always been lost for words when confronted with an emotionally charged situation. I remembered standing beside my Uncle's deathbed, as a child in her teens choking the words as I said goodbye to my Uncle who was in a comma. I choked like it was a public speaking moment when I could have told him I love him and I have always been thankful how he took me in when my parents moved back to the province and left on my own in Manila. 

I guess the idea that we will always know what to say is something not innate in me. I often am stuck to process the words. But they say what you lack in words you compensate with a deep inner life and a bottomless pit of meaningful connections here and there. I may not always say it but I care, deeply than anyone and you will know it by my action, my show of support, and my constant presence.

Lately, I found myself praying, just praying. Hoping I do not get lost in the intricacies of relationships and the push and pull and tug of wars within my circle and family. I am often the butt of jokes, always the scapegoat, never knowing how to verbalize, never knowing how to share what is in me. But I cry inside cause I often have this 'knowing' that I cannot explain. Alas, nothing matters. I will still be here and offer support where it is needed. For I, pictured above will not stop loving unconditionally, like it's a bottomless iced tea!