…something for the faithless in me.
-Words. Darren Hayes
Don’t get me wrong. I am still not unafraid to tread on the dreadfully beautiful path writers set foot on. I still haven’t gotten over the fear of putting—or ending my life in tragedy if I pursue this craft that has been bothering me for over a decade, which happens to be my bread and butter at the moment. It’s been barely two months since I publicly exposed online my worst fears and at the same time, announced my intention to go on an indefinite leave from this thing I eventually love doing. Despite not being able to convince myself fully on my capability/ies to immortalize a certain idea, musings, ramblings or whatever, here I am still being filled up with the desire to put these word plays, ideas, fragmented sentences and paragraphs, and even inspiration on paper that if only I have ample time to sit and stare at the computer monitor, I would be able to release them like a constipated fool finally running his/her way to the john for that much-awaited outburst. To be quite honest, most of them are still about this blue funk I have been harboring since like, forever. Apparently, I am talking about my long time muse here. For the longest time, I have to say that I am quite thankful for this person for introducing me to this excruciating emotion [better known as pain], thinking that it would, in the interim, make me a better and stronger person and perhaps, even a better writer. I reckoned that by filling up my journals stories or what-nots of imageries, adjectives, verbs and adverbs of loneliness and aloneness [solely inspired by my muse, thank you very much], it would someway or somehow change my fate and thus lead me to my happy ending. Or better yet, it would lead me back to the person behind all of these either for a happy ending—or for that much deserved sweet revenge, and my tender triumph. The cyberspace is my main stage, as it is the easiest and the most convenient, and the most accessible avenue for me to publish whatever I have written. Of course, since I am just an ordinary, amateur blogger, I only have good friends, and some friends of friends as readers/spectators. Because I have a particular audience in mind whenever I try to write something, there is this thing deep inside me that I could someway, somehow directly transmit the message. Yes, it may sound pathetic, but that particular thought is the one strongly pushing me to keep on writing. What it has done to me, however, is that my writings transform into a virtual boomerang that no matter how far I throw it, it still goes back and hits me hard—real hard, leaving me black and blue all over. It slices, in fact, my skin and leaves me bleeding even. That no matter how hard and how direct the words are, all I get in return is nothing, not even a single word of retaliation, acceptance, acknowledgement or apology [which won’t be accepted, anyway]. I think that is one of the reasons that made me feel tired. The reason why I wanted to let it go for a while. I feel that my efforts are futile, that I expended my entire energy over nothing, like a mad scientist creating a gigantic contraption which ended up being a worthless piece of junk. And just like what happened to Frankenstein’s creator, the words I conjured up is slowly paving the way for my self-destruction and self-flagellation [imagine whips with a thousand fine, sharp edges]. They are beginning to feel like a hundred rocks in my pockets that if I add more, I would eventually drown and not resurface alive.
I suddenly made an impulsive decision to leave town for a while before I eventually sink deeper into this dark, vacuous abyss, or voluntary push myself to a cliff and disappear forever. I went somewhere far, somewhere that I can at least feel the distance from everybody, somewhere that I can hold accountable to nobody but myself. Somewhere that I can be in contact with my soul and perhaps even ask God on the side about these things that I am going through and have to go through to reach heaven on earth—or, to put it bluntly, finally say to everyone, most especially to myself, that I am finally happy. Unfortunately, my short vacation didn’t turn out that way. I wasn’t able to say hi to God or even to my soul. I reckon God deliberately disrupted my plans, or I should say He thought that it’s not the right time yet for me and my soul to have an intimate chat, as it might eventually drive me to madness. Instead, He paved the way for me to spend my short break by healing my f’d up being. And the best part here is, He made sure I didn’t do it alone.
There is this one person I met during one of my low moments who virtually pushes me up whenever I feel down and lonely. I didn’t know how it exactly began. All I remember is that he came near me, mimicked a funny Indian accent he heard somewhere, and I laughed like hell. I think that pretty much created the “spark.” Then we started drinking out which led to constantly exchanging text messages after that, until there was this one night, in the midst of our virtual bantering that I requested him [tearfully] to say something funny after I was interrupted by a heartbreaking message from my long time tormentor—I mean, muse. In response, he told me about imagining himself being a gigolo in shiny hot pink trunks dancing to the tune of Macarena. It made me forget what brought tears in my eyes in the first place.
The rest, they say, is history. I say, it’s another long story to tell. Anyway, he eventually made sure that we still keep in touch despite distance, changes and circumstances. I am forever grateful over his effort not to lose contact with me. Despite what we’ve been through, I consider this person a treasured friend, a respected confidante, and most of all, an ultimate drinking buddy. A total sanity saver. He actually carries an intellectually cynical disposition over life and love. But despite his bleak outlook in life, his childish smile and his bubbly disposition never wear off, and he constantly gives out a contagious laughter over wacky and silly conversations. He’s one of those people I know who’s incorrigibly addicted to alcohol. I wouldn’t wonder if most friends and acquaintances would assume SMB as his middle initials. Ironically, I find it as one of his endearing traits. Because he always wears this dazzling smile even on his most drunken state, I no longer care if drinking is bad for my liver, or my stomach—especially if drinking also means having his bubbly company around.
Anyway, back to my short vacation. I impulsively mentioned to this guy of my plans of soul searching in a faraway place. He enthusiastically suggested the place where he was taking a vacation that time. I thought it was a good idea. I see buses going to their province often, so I reckon I can handle going there alone. When he started telling me about this place that serves the best burger, I was hypnotized after he connected it with our favorite drink—beer. To cut the story short, I overhauled my itinerary and went by to his suggestion. I figured that having a drinking spree with a drinking buddy is tantamount to finding one’s soul in a faraway province.
And it indeed was. Two nights of intoxication with my drinking buddy flushed away my close-to-lifelessness disposition. His unchanging wit and sense of humor made me forget to find my soul back, being the main purpose of my short, unplanned vacation. The alcohol, instead of putting me to deeper depression, made me take off the rocks I keep in my pockets, making me see that it is more fun to swim in a turbulent ocean without them. That it is fun to be rocked by the ocean waves every now and then, especially if I have people [like him] who care about me around to swim with me. I am glad that my drinking buddy helped me have that kind of insight. He said that no matter what happens to us, whether we’re left alone or defenseless, we are left with no other choice but to continue living anyway. Life is indeed beautiful (especially with alcohol in it, he added). It is just up to us on how we are going to live it to the fullest.
His company, as well as his disposition, made me more restless—in a positive way, of course. I was longing to sit down, either open a new document on Microsoft Word, or just grab a pen and paper, and pour out all the happy memories we made over burgers, beaches and beer. Few days after my trip, I found myself writing again. When I tried to reread it, I couldn’t help but be surprised over what I wrote. I felt overwhelmed to discover that I was able to write something that does not evolve around lost souls or misguided feelings—or to be more exact, I was able to write something without the help—rather, the “inspiration” of my long time muse. I used to think then that this person is the sole reason why I continue to write. I was afraid that if I would finally let go, I would also do the same thing with my literary passion. Or, if I would continue writing, I would enchain myself to writing sad, gloomy, depressing pieces, which might eventually lead me to the tragic, sorry path that most writers tread on. Good thing that is not the case for me anymore—at least at the moment. By writing something upbeat, initiated by that short vacation of mine, I am now more eager to explore this craft even more. I feel that by doing so, I would be able to create something that may serve as an emollient to the scars that my words—and my muse inflicted upon me.
I am still uncertain on where this passion will lead to—or how long I’ll have this kind of disposition. I still think that the wounds I have, though slowly healing, might reopen and create a deeper cut. But then I was told by my mom one time to think positive. Just as long as I would be able to handle enemies and adversities maturely by fully letting go and moving on, nothing would definitely go wrong. So, even though there is a high possibility for my wounds to bleed again soon, I’m willing to set that sad thought aside not because my mom said so, but I believe that’s the strongest weapon I’ve got for now to win this never ending battle [if I may call it one].
And as long as this disposition is with me—is still in me, I won’t stop writing about these things that are making me smile and look forward to another day. Who knows? Maybe this time, I would not only transmit my message to its direct recipient, but I can also get to sympathize to others out there who are also struggling to crawl out of the dark. When that time comes, I would be able to look back and take a look at my scars with a smile because I was finally able to do what I really have to do.
And maybe make my own path leading to my very own happy ending.
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