6/30/2006
Cosmopolitan truths

Red Spoon, at the EGI Tower, is undeniably supposed to be a social divergence point. I'd love to deviate from it - I've been eating there alone for the past few weeks, always ordering their calamares except for that one time when the squid population escaped the kitchen for some reason. I was wondering why Somebody Told Me sounded a bit different - it was extended, it was missing a few synths, and it was missing an adlib. It was a download, I presume - it sounded different, and those guys - the restaurant, not the band - got to show the NBA Finals off cable through a computer set attached to two LCD screens. They're geeks out there, and they're contributing something.

In the middle of the song, a couple came in, the girl jumping around, immediately recognizing the song playing and sang out a lyric I couldn't remember. Then she observed that she's been jumping and dancing around the entire day. They settled on a seat, ordered food, and started to wait. My usual calamares arrived by then. It seemed different.

When Wires came on, I was surprised. I haven't heard that song for a long time, and as far I can remember only four stations (not two like I mentioned before) played it here in Manila. Before I noticed it the couple started kissing. Now that isn't really an unusual scene, but maybe it was me being unexposed for so long, after high school where culture shock gave way for extremely radical outlooks. People were looking at them - could anybody imagine The Sims a notch down? - but they didn't care, until they just ended their kissing and started waiting again. Their food wasn't there, and I was almost finished. I eat quickly, anyway.

Fifteen months ago Chrystel was getting almost every special mention on the blog. It was more than two years ago when I was in places over her, doing almost the same things I find myself doing - unintendedly or otherwise - fifteen months later. Yesterday I realized she updated her Friendster profile - I've somehow lost touch with her, thanks to running away to Boracay, attempts to bring along a classmate of mine, and a loss of conversations on what used to be nightly conversations about Geo and public lives. Oh, and does she really have a child?

Judging by her Friendster photo - she's what, a year younger than me? Or, I could wish it's just a baby sister of her's.

I am the type of guy that speculates. I've realized within the past weeks that all I am, in essence, is a thought bubble that's received a lot of caffeine while being conceived. I think it's been every time when I asked someone - myself or anybody else - about what another thinks of me, or something. All my life was practically propelled by mental activity, with childhood questions peppering, or pestering, my parents' existence. Something like "can news program sets have plants?" or "are earthquakes caused by the rattling of the inner core?", only differently phrased, thanks to my then-limited vocabulary grasp.

When my mind went on what-could-it-be mode again after seeing the photo, though, I tried to stop. We've been talking for a year, and then I've lost contact, thanks to a missing mobile and a lack of interest, not to mention new people coming by. I've somehow told myself that I don't really care about her anymore, even if sometimes, my principles get in the way and my inquisitions want to take the better of me. So far, my mind's trying to stop itself from speculating, instead grabbing distraction from that Up Dharma Down song. It's We Give In Sometimes - beautiful, just beautiful.

Sometimes we just have to give in, I guess. Although I don't act, and my thoughts don't work at night, there are times when I end up thinking, led to the belief that things would turn out very well. It hasn't been always said that thinking is a bad thing to do - recently, it's been thinking too much is a bad thing, probably the reason why I've switched to chillout for two days before switching back to indie rock.

It's the way I panic whenever complicated math equations come up in Economics class. It's the way I panic whenever I fall asleep over someone on the other end of a text conversation. It's the way I usually panic - every time, every single time, every single spotting of a face I thought wouldn't spark me in the past.

Resistance is futile. I don't remember where this line was first floated, but when I caught it somewhere in my childhood it didn't make sense to me. But of course, my grasp was limited then. Only at this very moment did those words echo back and finally making sense, in between bass lines and my scratchy bracelet, ironically bought from Boracay, where a ten-minute phone call I didn't intend to do got redirected to, contacts for a week of unjustified vacations. Chrystel running away from home, and me worried because of what could happen.

For some reason recently, I've been free. I feel free, and thus I feel like I'm too unconstrained. Somehow I was used to lying somewhere - I couldn't nap in the middle seats on a bus - and I've enjoyed the company of bars and restrictions. Ironically I wanted to break free. It takes so long to get used to this - sometimes I catch myself doing weird things lately, or it could be me thinking they are weird things.

I was chatting with Meg one day, and somehow she mentioned that she feels free whenever she talks to me. I'm partly surprised, since we've met only a few weeks ago, her face being a bypassed one because of unfamiliarity. Somehow I also realized that jokes are half-meant, and yet I come to her and nothing gets seriously done - just us exchanging comic banter like we were broadcasting on a crystal-clear signal to the entire nation.

It's still selective freedom, after all. If that recent feeling and the inquisitiveness, or mischievousness, of my thoughts collide, then we haven't got much to do. I could be faced with some alarming situation and yet buckle up without anybody knowing it, because nobody could see what exactly is happening.

My biggest regret last night was not going direct, not getting straight to the point. I could've asked Kizia directly about that guy. It was thoughts colliding with thoughts, both mine and hers, her confusion over my impulse, her confusion over my open arms, my acceptance, my lack of constraints. It rarely happens, yet I fail to grab the chance, feel empty, yet feel unusually happy.

If there's any better time not to understand, it's now.

I did this scrapbook for music class in my senoir high school year, and I happily took Wires to the table and tried to figure out what it meant. I couldn't exactly remember - only that it's supposedly a glimmer of hope in between depressing lyrics and even depressing melodies. Right now there's this spark of optimism, that beyond the moon and the stars lie a pot of gold, made of platinum at that - whatever that means - but simply said, there's this spark going with me recently. Is it the reason why I suddenly feel to free recently? Is it why I suddenly do things again, blurt out a few, sing out loud, maybe make sense for a change?

I once lost hope, but now I've regained it, and now I'm somewhat willing to give it all away.

There's still hope for the ones drifting through nothingness, without any direction, making sense of everything.

There's still hope for the ones staying up, fixing things that have to be quickly fixed, sacrificing in the process what could be more important, and suffering in the results.

There's still hope for the ones who are going thorough their own personal hells, realizing the end has come to haunt them.

There's still hope for me, who's finished one chapter, only to realize I'm drifting into another.

If there was a time to understand, it's always been now. It's always been every single time I asked for it.

And your responses...

Post a Comment