Staring at a ceiling for minutes at a time, when was the last time you did that? Most of us do it as a reaction to exasperation, exhaustion, or stress. We blankly stare to a still, plain canvas that hovers above our head, to break away from our continuous thoughts that play in our minds–a normal human condition that extends our resistance for work. If that’s the case, it would seem that I’ve asked the wrong question. So let me rephrase it. When was the last time you freely decided to stare at a ceiling for minutes at a time?
I’m at Saint’s Alp Teahouse typing this on my iPod, taking brief moments to stare unto this black painted, egg carton covered ceiling. Before I was so desperately trying to find a muse to this writing, I was reading The Family Fang, a book that I decided to finish by the end of the day.
To my left is a group of Atenean freshmen that unexpectedly have a novel each. I am so taken aback by this that I keep staring at their hands. I’ve never seen such a group of people like this in Taft. I check around to make sure I wasn’t jumping my gun, and I see other people reading as well.
To my right is a beautiful Atenean girl studying Physics. I enjoy her company since I do enjoy beautiful women. Even though we’re not talking to each other, the one-foot of air between us is very comfortable. I could stay in this spot for hours–and I have.
Sometimes, I put my book down, stare at the ceiling, and soak in the things around me that make me so grateful to be alive: a beautiful girl beside me, a group of readers to the other, and the Katipunan chameleon sky filled with nothing but large clouds and a backdrop that morphs its pallet from blue, purple, gold, orange then black.
I stare up for minutes at a time, then finally notice the beautiful girl is looking at me, then at the ceiling, then back at me. It amuses me that people have been trained to think, when someone is to stare at something, it would be if something had caught their attention.
A strange thought crosses my mind. Do people not enjoy the simplicity of just being alive? Of being existent at that particular time and at that particular place? To simply just be there? People look at me when I walk down the street in my village, because I stare into the big blue sky. I don’t want to stop and smell the roses; I can smell them as I pass by. People just don’t notice the roses anymore.
Have you ever looked at the big blue sky? People tell me that the ocean hypnotised them when they go to the beach, and it makes them feel so small. That’s what I feel like when I look up. The sky I love is my ocean that floats beneath the stars. The sky fills my eyes so much that I sometimes forget that my feet are bounded by gravity.