Sunday, April 28, 2013


I noticed this blog is having its biggest downfall since its birth three years ago. Blame it all to its writer who seems to have lost all his sentences when he tried doing a headstand in one of the metro's weekend waterhole. So I guess apologizing is in order.

But then when I started blogging, I was not a fulltime writer unlike now. So writing became too taxing that no more I consider it something therapheutic. I'm just too tired of fact-checking, interviews, plain thinking and then facing a blank computer screen with a ticking bomb inside my head as my deadline.  

The good news is I found a new way to go around writing. I'm into poetry now, which is hard, but I always love the challenge. Sometimes I get frustrated reading works of those young poets, some even way younger than me, for I find them achingly beautiful. I just couldn't find the soul of my words yet. I suspect it is lack of inspiration, a muse to drive my heart, mind and fingers in complete sync. But I'm in no mood finding a muse. Or entertaining one. 

Music is always there to help. I'm in love with Florence + The Machine and recently I discovered Angus and Julia Stone. I listen to them all the time especially on my way home as the slow hum of the car's engine making its way out of the city and the flashes of street lights blurring  provide the best brooding background. 

I'm also thinking of going back to writing music but my piano keyboard at home, apparently, is not in the perfect condition for it since the lowest C is no more working. Most of the times I work on Bb so it would really be a bother. It's a shame, really. Last night while walking along the driveway that leads to the house I had a melody inside my head but I lost it as soon as I took of my clothes. It never came back though. 

The "Project Hot Bod" isn't working exactly as I had hoped for. Sometimes I suspect my chest and tummy area were sloppily made by God. Or He forgot to iron it out before letting me go and proceeded immediately to the next hot guy behind me. 

But enough blaspheming. The fault must be entirely mine. I just can't stop munching chocolates and cakes and diving onto a gallon of ice cream. Eating sweets is the best stress buster to me and its taking a huge toll in producing the dream beach bod. So I doubled my cardio workout. However, free weights suffered immensely as I'm already too tired to get serious with it. I might be in need of a personal instructor but I have no money for it. Or I might join one of those overly gay group exercises (I think they call it Body Jam or something) but I really hate them. I don't feel like talking or interacting with anyone in the gym. 

I can't wait for this election to finish. I will be working 12 to 16 hours for four straight days. I just couldn't imagine the level of stress I'm getting but right now all I'm thinking is to just get over with it. 

But I'm also thinking of travelling alone as soon as all these things are done. I'm thinking of going back to Dumaguete and reclaim that innocent thought that dawned on me which said I could be a journalist. I mentioned about this to my mama and naturally, I didn't get her permission. But that's another story. 

But I really want to get away alone. Lie down naked under the sun, swim in the open sea, fuck a random stranger under the rain, hitchike, eat with the street dwellers - so many things I want to do only that I have such little time. And little money.

Finestra is the Italian word for "window" and writing this, thankfully, made me able to take a peak inside my messed-up brain after a long time. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to carry all these thoughts, images running relentlessly inside like a storm that won't wane and keeps changing direction. Alas, maybe it's another way to go around writing. Just pour out some of the mind's content. It matters not that the tenses are correct, or the measure is right for the sentence, or the word is properly aligned with the thesis statement, or if there's a coherence even proper punctuations. Maybe one can write without worrying to much. Can I? 

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Depression (Part 1)

For the past years that I've been writing here, I must have written the most shallow egocentric disgusting drama-filled declamations of self-pity. But believe me or not, even if you wouldn't find me a dramatic entity in person, this is the reality of how my mind works. Or at least a part of it.

When I'm happy, I'm very happy that it really shows. You could see it down from my steps to the last piece of accessory I put on my clothes. Loneliness is a different thing for it has been a constant companion, someone I seek myself from time to time. While it is something that could drag me down at some degree, it has a certain force that I can contain and sometimes that certain quality of loneliness fuels me to manifest this special person in me who even I find it hard to believe that I have somewhere in this monstrous existence of mine.

Happy is a rare thing in my writing. Loneliness, on the other hand is so much easier, I feel like I know it so well like the back of my hand. Yet on the far landscape of the things I write, there is that quiet little voice which I dread, so formidable even thinking the words to summon sends me in deep thoughts of darkness and void. We'll call it Depression.

I think I mentioned a few times or maybe I did devote an entire post discussing my Depression, I couldn't remember, but if ever I think I did it only in passing. So I was surprised to read from the e-mail address of this blog these small comments, even short messages sent by unknown people, relaying how thankful they are because they can relate to my writings dealing with Depression. (Or maybe they view this entire blog as something depressive? I hope not.)

This is a very touchy subject to me because I realized from that how important the words we share even in a lowly blog like this. Second is because the subject of Depression is something that is very vague, and as I've said, so huge that describing, making a picture of how and what it is is almost an impossible task.

For the past 25 years of my life, there was this one instance which is very vivid and I consider the lowest that I've sank out of Depression. It was New Year's Eve, give or take seven years ago, and the feeling was just too much for me to bear that I actually went catatonic. I couldn't move, eat or do anything. Breathing was really hard and all kind of thoughts were just swirling in my head like an endless reruns of some bad Hollywood movie.

If you've seen Lars von Trier's "Melancholia" you'll get a picture of what I'm saying. But if you'll ask what triggered it, I'm afraid I couldn't tell you anymore. All I can say is that a week before that, a heartbreaking scene took place. At first it was fine and everything was easily going back to normal but then all of a sudden it went downhill and Hell just dawned on me.

But thank God for this supportive family that I have, I didn't have to resort to medication unlike a friend and a former office mate of mine. She lost her job because of this massive Depression she suffered from. She tried talking to everyone about it, including me, but she failed connecting to people including her family, closest friends and Protestant pastors.

From the string of people she talked to, I was probably the only one who didn't find it weird, or laughed, or had this oh-my-god-she's-freakin-crazy kind of thought, with the kind of images she shared. To give you an idea, objectively or in a non-depressive perspective, it was something on the verge of Evil. And that's where I thought, Depression is serious and must be addressed carefully and immediately not only for its victims but even for the ordinary people blessed not have it but with risk of dealing with people who have it.

It was hard enough being depressive; being tagged as crazy is another thing. We do not need pity, or tolerance, or even understanding because even us ourselves find it hard to understand ourselves. What depressive people need is care.

To be continued...

 [This is an unedited work]

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