Single Journey: Of the MRT and of my Career

Today is my third day at my new work. Let’s just be honest about something — I feel like flipping everything.

For starters, riding the MRT at 8AM and at 6PM every weekday is one of the most dangerous parts of my day. I don’t want to scare you or anything like that, but let me just say that if you’re wearing a button-down top and you’re to ride the train at those times, consider bringing an emergency sewing kit and extra buttons. And that’s just saying something.

Anyway, I’m on a week-long training which consists of reading very looooooong manuals, my “superior/trainer” making me explain what I understood, some activities regarding them, brief Skype conversations (and oh, I’m still using the Skype account I used on my previous work) with current colleagues as well as with my previous work buddies, and endless wondering where I’d eat for lunch. Yep. We eat lunch during the actual lunch time, not at 6PM. And that isn’t quite a good thing because I was used to having 3PM (first break at previous work) as my first meal time everyday.

And really, I miss previous work friends KT and Marj and Maine whenever the idea of eating dawns on me. I miss how they always despise me when I think of eating at McDo’s (it’s my favorite fastfood, I can’t do anything about that LoL). I miss the times KT and Marj will talk about where to eat something healthy and I would cringe like I always do, and Maine will be there *most of the time* to save my intestines from falling apart. I miss not caring about the time when eating because overbreak wasn’t an issue. I miss having the pantry at reach when I want to eat my boredom away. I miss the coffee-milo-juice-iced-tea drink choices. I miss having mini-chats with everyone when we’re making coffee or anything. I miss the five-finger sharing on meetings. I miss being awfully quiet whenever you-know-who’s around. I miss Tweeting and Facebook-ing when I need distractions. I miss those times I get so lucky I’d see my crush *hihi* and so unlucky I’d see the person I loathe (I mean, I hate him for no real reason). I miss my 21-or-22-inched monitor. I miss my very slouching-friendly chair. I miss the free candies and crackers. I miss casually dropping by everyone’s stations when I am really bored. I miss everyone. And that’s still just saying something.

We have free coffee at my new work office too. I have cool and friendly colleagues now. The mall’s at reach. But I feel like flipping my looks-like-14-inches monitor and my not-slouching-friendly chair and everything else at 12PM because I feel alone. And lonely. And awkward, like I always feel. And that’s just for starters.

More rants pouring in next week. LoL.

Write This For Me, Please

Is there a way to determine the certainty and success of our decisions?

This is not another episode from the horrible movie that was my life. To be honest, this is worse. Tonight, I’m giving you behind-the-scene previews and an exclusive pass to see how every stupid act on this terrible movie was being made backstage (which some people took the liberty to refer to as the ‘mind’). Bring your lucky map because you’re in for a hellova freaking maze.

I hate how unfocused I can become. I hate how I can be so scared of what may happen if I do something or not. It’s so unfair that while everyone’s out there being great and the world’s out there adoring people who are great, here I am feeling so betrayed even though I know that the world doesn’t have to do with how I feel because this is about me. It’s all about me. It’s always about me.

One good (or worse, whatever) example is my I-do-not-think-I-can-call-this-my-dream-but-it-is-somewhat-something-somewhere-near-to-being-a-dream “work” in life: writing. I do. I really want to. I think if I would just seriously take this idea and go to school to study Creative Writing or Literature or something related, I would really really enjoy it. But then when I see someone doing something, this “dream” slips away from my mind, and I end up wanting to do something instead — Bill Gates talking about codes, band dudes being perfect because they’re in bands, etc.

Another dilemma is that I look at “writing” as my sanity-keeper. When I mess up on something, I will write. When I feel good about something, I try to write. When I stare out the window and see a good story inspiration, I want to write about it. But I can’t. I can’t write when I want to. It’s like my mind is so full of ideas that makes my head throb and my breathing shallow, but I don’t know how I would start the writing. I can’t even explain it right now! Someone feel me here?!

Moreover, I don’t want to spend all my life writing even though deep inside I really want to because of the simple fact that when I devote my time and effort and everything on something, I always end up ruining it. It’s like the more I focus on something, the more I fail and then I’d hate myself for doing it.

And seriously, what if one day I wake up and realize I can’t find inspiration to write anymore? What if one day I realize I’m no longer writing because I want to — and that I’m writing because I need to because I chose to do it as a “job”?

I don’t want to hate myself for writing. I can’t.

For the Love of My Favorite Cup of Coffee

It occurred to me as I was having coffee this afternoon. Coffee tastes so good.

It’s been a week since I left my job and posted an obligatory farewell should-have-been speech on my website, and I would be a hypocrite if I’d say I don’t miss the people I used to work with. It’s not the first time I felt this for them (if you know what I mean and what happened March of last year) but we all know that this time around, it was my choice and come on, we all know there’s no way I’m gonna work with them on that same company anymore.

It’s been a week since I started sipping coffee again on my favorite cup during my favorite time of the day at my favorite couch with either my favorite music on the background or a book that would soon become another favorite. It’s amazing, you know, to find myself thinking life is so great at such a routinary coffee break — to not be bothered too soon that my coffee’s getting cold. To realize I’m drinking this coffee because I want to, not because I need to. To be relieved by the fact that drinking two cups will keep me awake all night — which is nothing new — and that it doesn’t matter because I’m on my favorite couch and I would be here on my favorite time probably watching a favorite movie the next day.

And so, having the glorious time to think and write about this on my own time is probably one of the real reasons why I quit my job. It isn’t mostly because I don’t feel the same eagerness I used to have for my job. It’s me. It’s always me.

This time, I would like to share what I wrote on my resignation letter. I believe this isn’t that confidential, so I’m doing it.

Trivia: if you found this quite informal, I should have let you read my resignation letter for my first job — it sounded something more of a speech given out on rallies, now that I thought about it. LoL.

Dear all:

When the same cowboys are shooting the same animals on the same mountaintops, it will be best to fold the seat and walk out the door — without turning back, right?

I would like this letter to explain briefly the reasons why I have come to such decision.

During my coaching with my current team leader, I was asked what my plans are for the next six (6) months. It was then that I shared my thoughts, that, now serve as the reasons why I am doing this.

The first reason, I believe, is understandable: I am pursuing my studies again this coming academic year. The second one, I still believe, I will have to put emphasis on: I would (and I am doing now) resign when the time comes that I no longer feel the same drive that makes me function the way I was expected to. And that has happened. Not that I intentionally did this non-performance thing, but there’s some reason I can’t fathom that makes the fuel, that once sent me flying to work before, vanish. I have other reasons actually that I would be willing to say on my exit interview, but I think this is the one that summarizes it all. Please know that I hold nothing against the company and that my actions were based on my personal goals.

Thus, this letter is to officially inform the management and the client that I am resigning from my position as a [not gonna say it] effective immediately.

Thank you for being a rad company. I have learned a lot.

Truthfully, I have a lot of things to say that I didn’t put there because 1) I don’t know how to explain them, really, 2) I am not sure if they would be happy to hear those, 3) reasoning out just leads to a lot of discussions and I don’t want to discuss things that day, because yes poetic as this may sound: I just want my thoughts to be heard, and 4) I was writing that letter on my station during work time and I felt kind of awkward, like I always feel.

So there. Woa. It’s amazing to see how coffee does to my mind, right?

But then

I know that there’s something wrong with me when I can’t bear going to church.

Okay, let me get something straight: I don’t hate God or anything like that. And I’m definitely not into being a character on the next top-grossing exorcism film. It’s just that the “politics of church” is getting into my skin — and I figured out that the more I force myself to go to church, the more I start to feel away from God.

You see, I’m not saying this because I want you to think I’m an anti-God twat. I am not. I love God. Aside from being a part of the choir for almost a decade, I even held a lot of church office positions until last year. I just woke up one Sunday, went to church like I used to do, and realized there’s something missing. Something’s wrong. I have been going to the same locale since the day I realized I’m a human, and honestly way longer than that. I believe I have been going to that small church longer than I have actually lived because my whole tribe is a solid believer of this religion. And I really don’t have a problem with that. I love everything this religion had taught me. I breathe and live its doctrines. But somehow, amidst everything that happened last year, I started to slip away. One skipped worship service turned into two and so on, until I felt like attending the service started to get in my way. I hate the thought really. I’m really sorry now that I thought about it.

Again, let me stress out that I love God. The thing is, the people I see at church made me come up with the “politics of church” theory. I guess there are really times when people feel acting like they’re so good and nice that they start on trampling over others’ lives, finding ways to mock and belittle others by showing them how perfect they were. I will not go into details, but I swear there are people like that now and I can prove it if I needed to.

When I was a tod, I know everyone at church. But then when I get to my teen years, those people I know started transferring to other places. Then new faces started to grace the scene. And I just hate the fact that they make me feel like I were the new person here. Like, wow.

So there. Today’s a Sunday and I know there’s a service. I’m sorry — I really am.

Don’t wake me uuuuuppppp

At 7:30 this morning, an unidentified object went flying to the other side of the room.

I seldom have either good or long night sleeps, so it is a serious offense against humanity to wake me up at an ungawdly time FOR FUCKING SELFISH REASONS. The logic is that with this abnormal heat lately, my body gets so uncomfortable that it automatically wakes up on or before 10AM. Therefore, nothing will be considered urgent and important enough until 10AM.

Hate me all you can, but I won’t give a fuck. Please know the fact that I CAN’T SLEEP at night until 3AM (the earliest) and I am forced to wake up at 10AM. That’s only 7 hours of rest, people! Once I get out of bed on a weekday, there’s no turning back because 1) it’s so hot to go back to sleep that I might melt if I will try doing so and 2) I have work to go to. So please, do not, I beg, NEVER wake me up at 7AM because you need to make me do something for you — or else I will have no choice but to throw onto you the first thing that my hand touches.

You pick your fate.

Dear Diary

I honestly respect and adore those people who have developed the habit of keeping a diary/journal for their feelings and thoughts and reflections in life — because I have always failed in doing such. Aside from the fact that I’m apparently an at-the-moment kind of doer, I believe I have very valid reasons for avoiding diaries.

You see, when I was in high school, journals were so popular as a requirement for quite a number of subjects. As far as I can remember, there was this one academic year when we were to have two journals; one for an English class and a separate one for our Values Ed class. Seriously, what did they expect us, or should I say “me”, to write? I really don’t understand the concept of writing my secrets and thoughts on a notebook that I would have to eventually turn in to my teachers at the end of the period. No offense intended, but journals and diaries should NEVER be a requirement for any class because doing so destroys the sanctity (yes, I used that word) of one’s privacy. And in case you might want to know, I just wrote stuff like “I had a great day yada yada yada” “I helped out at home blah blah blah” and basically all the goodie goodie actions I could think of, lest I want to get a failing mark on my Values Ed class. Also, I don’t really understand why teachers have to check journals. Do they do it so they can check on the students’ mental and psychological stability? Not that I intended to lie at some entries, but I simply don’t want the world to know the way I see things as they are — one, because I want my confidentiality, and two, because I tried a couple of times to be honest with what I write before and all I got was a not-so-good feedback from others. So yes, after four years of faking a lot of entries on should-have-been-very-personal journals, I managed to stick to the idea that I can never write on a journal without lying on how I really feel. Yes, until now I still buy a journal in hopes that one day I can finally make myself guilty over buying a notebook for nothing. But honestly, tricking one’s self on things like this gets harder as one ages. So again, yes, you can all start putting me on a guilt trip now for the very saddening ratio of our trees — I feel slightly obliged to take some blame.

But for the record, I was able to keep a real diary a long time back, and after a week of honest writing (crushes, hates, people to kill), I thought I was on the right track. Until of course, someone stole it, and God-knows how that person sees me now. Never keeping a journal again. Never.

And then there was Dida — or maybe not

It just occurred to me some helpless-attempts-of-trying-to-empty-my-mind-so-I-can-sleep moments ago: I miss my Dida. So bad. So this one’s for her. How I remember her.

If there’s one thing I used to feel really grateful for in life, it’s that my Dida was my Dida.

To set your minds, she was the aunt of my mother, making her a tita-lola. I don’t talk much about her, really, because when I do, people just end up blabbering on how Dida has touched their lives and how she was with them. It’s kinda entertaining at first — to hear how others see her differently from what I’ve seen of her — but later on, I start hating them, because I feel like they’ve known her more than I’ve had. Luckily, no one seemed to remember to talk about her. Aside from me, of course.

Whenever I have “reminiscing” moments with my cousins before, it’s kinda funny to hear them brag on how they think one of them was my Dida’s favorite grandchild. Haha, no. I have always known I was her favorite. Her pet. But I never told anyone that really. I just sit there.

You see, that’s my point. My Dida treated us her grandchildren equally, but there were times that I just felt I was special for her. That we have our little secret. When I won my first campus journ presscon, she attended the awarding ceremonies and brought a bag full of delicacies, a little teddy bear, and a plastic flower on a pot. That was our secret. On the day of my graduation from middle school, she gave me a ring (she didn’t give anything to my cousins when they graduated, hah!) and though everybody knew about that, she secretly told me that that ring had a matching pair of earrings — and so I know that was our secret. When I was in my freshman year at high school, she went to our school to attend a seminar, and she brought me with her in that closed-door meeting. That was our secret. Sophomore year, around December before she got admitted to the hospital, she visited me and talked to my adviser as to how I was struggling in class. Then she excused me from my next classes so we can eat at McDonald’s (the cat’s out of the bag: that’s why I love McDo, folks) before I went home the usual time as if she didn’t went to see me. She said I should keep quiet about it, because my cousins would get jealous once they knew, since I was the only one she visited at school. That was our secret. When I took my vacation at theirs and she couldn’t sleep at night, she’d spend the night telling me how successful I will be. And that no matter what, she would be there for me. And that when the time comes that no one will understand me, she would be there to listen. And during those nights, I cried, mostly over nonsense stuff that I can’t tell even my mother. And she said she’d keep that as our secret. That was our secret. Before she got into a coma, she told me how much she believed in me and that I can tell her my secrets. And all those times when she was saying she’s okay, when she showed everyone how strong of a woman she was, when she inspired everyone with her wisdom, and everyone believed her, I knew she’s not okay — that deep inside, she felt weak, and that she wished her wisdom was enough to keep everything seem okay. That was our secret.

I can go about telling everything about her, but does it matter now? When she died, she took the part of me that believes in what I myself can do. She took with her the part of me that dreamed I would be great. That day, I mourned for her thrice more than I did when my father died. That day, I never talked to anyone over how I felt again. I decided to keep everything to myself. After all, no one will understand me the way she did. No one will remember how I love books. No one will realize I don’t have a cake for my birthday yet. No one will notice I was there on that family picture.

It’s the month of April — that time when she brought me to the school where she used to teach and let me took a glimpse of the world she loved. And that’s why this one’s for her.

I now remember why I liked writing: I want to write about her — to write for her. But I stopped writing because I never get it right. And I never will.

‘Gonna change you like a remix’

Excuse me. I just want to share these. I thought of doing this earlier actually, but welp, got tons of stuff to do. So here it is. Posting something about these on my new website soon!

The Phoenix — Fall Out Boy

 

This Song Saved My Life — Simple Plan

‘Leaving the paper towns and never coming back.’

I want to move out of this place.

I’m being serious. This is not some impulsive idea. This is something that I am unconsciously looking forward to. Every morning as I prepare for the day, I find myself sitting in a corner or at the stairs and as the thought that I should start moving about registers on my brain, the first seemingly-next-logical-thing-to-do idea that pops out is that I want to move out of this place. On my way to wherever the heck I am headed to that day, I feel sick of the same views and the same streets and so I think I want to move out. On my way home, as I walk, I think to myself I want to move out.

I do. I really want to.

But then later on, the questions will start to pour in. Where? Why? How? I don’t know where. I vaguely know how. All I have is the reason why. And I end up saying to myself, “one out of three vital answers — hah. Who am I kidding? I can’t make it out there with only one question answered. What I have to do is sleep because tomorrow I’d have other chances to think about this. I’ll just cross my fingers that the answer to the other two would magically come to me.” So I sleep. And then I wake up again. And then I think about it again.

So, why? Why do I want to move out?

It’s very simple actually. I just want to go out there and find myself. Like, really just find myself. Sounds so teenager, I know. That’s why I myself never find this reason valid enough. Sure other people move out because they have “reasons”, like a baby’s on the way or they just want to live-in with their partners. Or they’d just be staying with a friend. But here’s the catch: if I would have to be really honest with you about my family, it’s that they would take my proposal to move out really really wrong. Everyfuckingone will think I’m pregnant or I’d be living in with someone — JFC I don’t even have a boyfriend and srsly, do I look like I would do that? Holy fug, they seem to have known a wrong me all this time then. Yes, they’d rather misunderstand things than listen to me. And I’m not talking about just my immediate family. I’m talking about ALL of my family; from coast to coast.

You see, I’m just so sick of being here. I feel trapped. I feel like I can’t go anywhere else. Because honestly, I feel like everyfuckingone here wants me to die here. Me and my dreams dying here. Die here. Die just here. Die just here like everyfuckingone who died here before I was even born. And I don’t want to die here. Even Rizal wouldn’t want to die here. I’m not referring to the place physically. I’m all metaphors here folks.

That’s why I want to move out. Because I can’t be who I want to be by just being here. I feel like my dreams are not safe here. And my dreams are the only things that keep me safe from myself. And so I feel like I’m not safe here. It’s not because I hate my family or anything. In fact, if I would just have the chance to move out and find myself, I’d go back here and take them to where I’d find my dreams — to where I’d find myself.

I just want to go out there and see the world through my own point of view. I want to hear my own thoughts, because everyfuckingone’s thoughts are so loud here that I can no longer hear my own scream. There’s too much noise. I can’t think with too much noise.

I need to move out of this place.

Too lazy for words.