I have not been writing in good impression lately and I know that. I was so full of emotion which usually stands a requirement for me to write well, but I guess there are too many of them I'm being drowned by my own words. I don't know anymore which to summon - the proper, the rhymed, the beautiful, the romantic - I would pick the nearest, too tired to search for the right one. But I needed it. I needed to write and spit out the few words I can or I would get burned by my own fire.
The attempt to hide behind the towering political write-ups and the grandeur of literature failed dismally. Although nowhere in my attempts did I honestly expect to succeed. They were just escapes even then. But I consider it a sin which I know I must pay despite the grave sentence of Fate I am already serving now.
But the biggest sin I guess is not writing truthfully. No, I'm not referring to my job as a journalist (so you can rest assure that my reports are factual and are written in greatest tune of objectivity). I meant that I am not writing truthfully about myself.
To be honest, I am ashamed of my recent failure. I am ashamed because of the repetitious cycle of my journey to romance. The people I've met are now happy enough with their respective partners. Yes, they found love in this hopeless place. It was great and all and believe me when I say that I am very happy for them especially for this person which I think most of you here know. But as I watch them from afar, I cannot help but feel humiliated. There were no more delights on my pretenses. I am becoming the very same character I adore, Erik the Phantom of the Opera, pretending to be an Angel of Music, trying to deceive the world he's Don Juan behind the cloak of deceit, though even himself he could not convince. Alas I could no longer pretend.
So I present myself in front of you now, down on my knees, collecting the pieces of what’s left that are good trying to rebuild. You can throw stones. You can laugh at the silly young boy, bastardize his frail body and pleasure yourself with it. But you see, one day I will rise. I may have yearned for him, but I don’t need him or anyone of you to pick myself up. That I can do alone.
Lately, I was finally blessed with the opportunity to play a carillon. In case of those who didn’t know, a carillon is technically a musical instrument consisting of at least 23 bells (two octaves) housed in a bell tower and are played serially or simultaneously to produce a chord. From Wikipedia, it explains that it is played by "striking a keyboard - the keys of which are sometimes called batons - with the fists, and by pressing the keys of a pedal keyboard with the feet." Unlike any other instrument, the artist who plays the carillon is not seen, that only the captivating music emanating from it reaches its spectators. In UP, they say this is a show of the perfect surrender of artist to the music. That what was important was "for the bells to be heard, for the listeners to be reassured that there was order in their universe."
For now I think that's what I need to do: surrender and just let the sweet music of my grief be carried by the vagrant wind. That’s why I’m writing this down. Let it be heard to reassure others ravaged by the same fate befallen unto me that they're not alone. And for friends and dear ones I've been avoiding, let this serve as a reminder that no matter how the vicious pain of failure binds me, it can never imprison my music, my hope that someday the right one will step forward. I cannot promise that Life will be kinder next time, but this I swear: I will be just fine no matter what.
Once in my humble job as a journalist, I met a man that said this: Move on. It’s just another chapter of your life. But don’t close the book. Just turn the page. In music, just when you thought the final chord is about to fly by, a note is carried half place higher and you’ll know it isn’t the end yet. Now I understand it better. Maybe that’s why they call the move “sustain.”