I was looking at my old entries especially those that were written before my undergrad thesis days. I noticed how much more beautifully I wrote back then. Each sentence was meticulously written where each word meant something, and when you tied them all together it would create a colourful painting.
Ever since I took poetry class, I integrated my lessons into how I would translate imagery into text. I wanted to paint a picture through senses and emotions. It felt close and personal, and almost voyeuristic.
I think that was my main focus on writing–to provide a direct connection from senses, emotions, and experiences to text. But as I got more and more into research, my writing style started to change.
I was more focused at building a narrative, a coherent story, a journey that would take the reader from point A to point B. Think of it this way: my poetry writing style focused on illustrating a snapshot in time while my narrative writing has a beginning, a middle, and an end.
My chest was invaded by pieces ever-expanding shards of ice. What was happening to me? I considered that a long shower would calm me down.
My invader liquefied into a thick hot stream of satin which coursed my arteries till my heart realized it was drowning in adrenalin. I felt so hot, unstable, and dizzy that the wall that protected my naked body from the outside quickly became a mother’s embrace while my shower head continued to rain on me. I tried catching my breath; I say I tried because I only got worse.
I relinquished myself to my veiled invader, not knowing what it was that made me concede. I concluded that I was longing for someone. Why? I thought. I don’t know why, but I wanted it. Of all the people I’ve been with, fell in love with, kissed with, held hands with, gazed eyes with, caught scent with, touched skins with, and shared silence with, there was only one in my mind. I had an unnatural desire to have her.
Do you know the feeling of getting intoxicated to the point where it’s like you’re not in your own body? I can’t fully explain how it is, but I find myself controlling a body through some sort of video-game. All right, let’s move over there and not hit anything along the way. Take your foot off the chair, someone’s sitting on it. Let’s get another drink, it’ll be fun. Don’t talk too loud, people are looking. That’s what I tell myself when I’m not myself. I figure it’s like being on auto-pilot. I kind of felt that way a couple of days ago when I woke up and looked at the mirror. Although, the only difference is that I wasn’t pissed-drunk. I stared at the mirror as the sun struck my eyes, and I didn’t see the person that I thought was peering back. I felt different, terrible, detached even. I didn’t feel like I was living in my body or rather I was living in a body that I didn’t want to have. I felt disgusted when I looked at the mirror; I took a long shower to “wash away” what was left of me. I don’t know what I’ve become.
I’ve noticed something common amongst the people I follow on twitter. Some people have been talking about dieting, because they think their body needs it; some people have been talking about fasting because they want to offer some sort of sacrifice for their god.
I get agitated every time I hear about this; not because I’m over-weight, but because these people think so much of themselves that they forget what they’re actually talking about. When a certain something plays a major role in a your life is belittled, that’s when you should know that there is something wrong with you.
People complain and whine about the traffic, yet they take for granted the fact that they can actually afford to buy a car that has air-conditioning, a radio and a comfortable seat. They forget that a car is a machine that’s designed to propel you from one place to another in a short amount of time with the maximum amount of security and comfort (depending on the car’s feature, of course).
Some time ago whilst I was commuting home, our train conductor told us that we has to disembark because they had some technical difficulties. This station was three stations away from where I needed to get off.
The alternative to trains, here in Manila, is to ride a Jeepney. Now the jeepney was first made from the WW2 jeeps that the Americans left as “gifts”. But if you ask me, I they left it behind because it would be too expensive to bring with them, though that rant is for another time.
So here I am with a sea of people on the busy streets of Manila, trying to get the jeepney to get myself home. Try to imagine, you’ve just come from a concert and you want to get home, but all the cabs are being taken by other people. So you end up waiting over an hour, then it rains. That’s what happened to me.