“Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?”
“You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.”
— Yasunari Kawabata, A Thousand Cranes
So this is what I have been doing for the past few hours, reading (and posing with) Kawabata in midst of awkward conversations I have been trying to dodge — which is pretty stupid, I have been realizing just now, since coming to a conference absolutely called for human interaction. I tagged along with mom today because I wasn’t really looking forward to a gruesome three hour class, and because commuting’s a bitch I don’t want to put up with today, for some reason.
And so, I ended up in Sulu Riviera Hotel in QC, because mother is covering this campaign urging for the representation of children’s rights in Senate. Lounging in a picturesque lobby sounded – and, for the record, actually was – better than being stuck in a GE class half-populated by boisterous freshmen. I sound like a snob, but hey, that leads me to another point I have been meaning to address: honesty. The truth, or at least conversations that would lead to the abolishing of gray areas, is something that I have been trying to avoid over the last few weeks. Also, this blog, if anything and for all its worth, reeks a wee bit of sugarcoated trivialities.
Perhaps it is a grave error to connect this account with Facebook and Twitter in hopes of appeasing my vanity by garnering readers — but then, really, come on now. Who am I writing for here? I am no celebrity-slash-fashion-blogger-slash-epitome-of-perfection, ergo, there is really no point in censoring how slapstick-terrible/funny/both reality usually is. I don’t know what took me so long, but here it is, and perhaps I have always known, (Plato called knowledge nothing but reminiscence, after all), writing for an audience of one’s a shot of sanity we all need as much doses of as possible.
That being said, hopefully done from this point on, I just realized as well that March is about thirty hours away and, for all intents and purposes, I have yet to perform my best. My marks are above-average, I believe so, and I have kept up with most, if not all, of the required reading to finish papers and whatnot. Feels good, I have to say. But still, not enough.
The multitude of things we could be distracted with is just amazing, and I have rightfully indulged, just because Oscar Wilde said that the only way to get rid of a temptation is, well, to yield to it. I have been doing a lot of this lately — not just allowing myself to be swept off/away from the things that truly matter, but concealing my procrastination with lines culled from books. I have deluded myself into doing/thinking/feeling or not doing/thinking/feeling anything if I have some abstract rationalization to convince or save myself with. Is that so bad? I don’t think so.
Work, though, is a beautiful distraction. Aside from the ego-boost fueled by the sense of accomplishment, you get so busy that you seem to just forget things that used to hold your attention captive. How will you be able to overthink a forty-five minute conversation that pretty much made your week, if a position paper is due in four hours and you have yet to differentiate this particular -ism from another, much more synthesize it with a personal philosophy? When we want something so bad that we feel the burning desire in our bloodstream and we imagine our skin chipping off because of how insistent the yearning is, whatever it is that we desire embeds itself into us, fusing its entirety into our flesh. We no longer hold ourselves separate, it is a communion — a body enmeshed with another.
This, however, is not absolute — much to my dismay, because I have always been hyperbolic (not merely hopeless) – romantic and believed that restraint and forgetfulness would never be options; all I want is someone I can’t resist, sings Steven Tyler. But, perhaps, also to my delight: once in a while, we exorcise our demons. They reside inside us only when we have nothing else that enamors us quite like they do. They enter us because we are empty vehicles, our minds frail and wanting. Have your hands full with work, and they leave, in search of a new host.
Meanwhile, Dumaguete results will be out in less than a week and I realized I will have nothing to look forward to when the list of fellows is out, which is just, well, sad. I have become too aloof that people probably have just grown tired of inviting me to places. I knew I had to resort to drastic measures, and so I asked one of my friends when the next climb will be, but unfortunately they are all twenty-somethings who for some reason are just so busy with their jobs this month so I would have to wait for about three weeks before I could jet out of the city. That, and they are broke from the weekly hiking trips of January, which I all missed because I was too busy staring at my ceiling on weekends.
I’m seriously not expecting to make it to Silliman this year, and I mean it, not only as a means to prep myself up for the disappointment. It’s a leap of faith, that submission. There are so many things I have yet to learn. I realized that I have an iota of talent, at the very least, and it is because of this moment of epiphany that I have decided to move after graduation to the south in order to pursue a Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Did the math, and realized that if all goes according to plan, I’ll finish grad school by 2016, which coincidentally is the year universities would stop hiring new instructors because of K-12, according to a professor. He says I should probably just head straight to a Ph. D.
“But sir, wala na ‘kong love life lalo nun!”, I replied, half-jokingly. And that was that.
Either way, with this love for Philo-Lit, I probably won’t get a job, master’s degree or not, so the difference is that I get to avoid ‘the real world’ for another two years if I do head straight to grad school. Which leads me to this: I think I want to study Philosophy again. It’s not like Creative Writing boosts my opportunities for employment, but the thing is, I have yet to scour the world for material. Else, what am I to write about? I’m too young. Too sheltered. I’m an eighteen year old with my head in the clouds, yappity yappity yap.
So it’s 5:34 PM and I told myself I am going to transfer to Starbucks to deprive myself of wifi, but this empty conference room where I am billeted for the night is just so cozy. I really did not mean to cut class today and tail my mother around the Metro like a five-year-old, but hey, I have been complaining of everyday being too mechanical and so, impulsiveness seemed like the best way to go to break the curse. Unfortunately for me, that meant all I have right now is Kawabata and worn-out readings for another class. I could actually work on a paper since I’m supposedly stuck here for another three hours, and I might as well do. I can feel a ghost about to come back.
two particles can become entangled if they are close together and their properties become linked. remarkably, quantum mechanics says that even if you separated those particles, they could remain entangled — inextricably connected.