You know what, sunshine? They always say it somewhere. Time will heal all wounds, and you'll come out as if nothing happened. Unless it's really life-threatening, you'll probably get up from that bad fall, put some bandage on your wound, and after a few days or so, it's as if nothing happened. That's the case with most of my childhood wounds. A cut on my finger is now barely discernible. A big (by childhood standards) scrape on my knee is now a proud, well, knee.
But they always say another thing somewhere, too. Time will heal all wounds, but things will never be the same again. After the fall, you'll be very conscious of your actions. Better not run too fast or you risk being made fun of again. Better not cry, or be called a crybaby. Better not do this, better not do that. We all learn something from our cautiousness, and we never come out the same again. And that also means the scars that you get with it. My once proud knee got a bad cut, and it's got a keloid scar now. My elbow ceremoniously got its colors that way, too. Nobody may know, but it's there.
It's a way of balancing out things. You can't have the world, but you should have a slice of it. Some may be damn lucky, while others may be worse off, but a slice of the world is better than none at all. But you may not like your slice, wish you had another slice, and that's where it begins.
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The two of us together. Don't we look alike?
Almost siblings, in fact.
You pose fairly nice here. I mean... you look really, really young. Thus, we look almost siblings.
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It's hard to get used to this.
I used to see you around. And by that, I mean all the time. As much as you didn't want me to express it, I did anyway. I guess doing that didn't really turn out well, although it was, as usual, circumstance that made it that way.
I'd tell you stories. Well, actually, I'd tell you of my frustrations. There are, as you know, so many things that I haven't done, and things that I wish I have done. You'd always tell me to push. I'd always tell you that I couldn't, not because I couldn't, but because I shouldn't. You'd insist anyway, and I'd end up presuming. Nothing really has changed, right?
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There's no better way to get started on tomorrow than by getting started on today, so I might as well provide some tips.
Talk to someone. Now that's basic: they say human beings are social beings, so why not start a conversation and not keep it on the original topic? Get that mobile phone of yours and start texting. Better yet, pick up the phone and call, provided meeting up is impossible. Just don't call the wrong number.
Get writing. Mon and I were chatting last night, and she said she's pretty amazed at why I still get to write despite an obvious lack of material. I'm contending that my entries are starting to not make sense, but nothing gets your mind working that getting down in front of a computer and writing, or better yet, getting pen and paper. You can start with word dumps and progress towards exquisitely-crafted essays about the need for world peace.
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Finally, I've sent a job application.
And yes, that's all there is to it.
Oh, wait. Cover letters. Or, in my case, cover emails. How in the world would a certain company's human resources manager be amused by seeing an email from a stranger that only contains an attached resumé? Of course, you've got to state your intentions, or else you seem like a shove-off, and just that.
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At one point, it gets tiring just thinking about different ways of writing about it, but in the end, I still end up doing so.
I'll probably write about the first stages. It'll be behind my head, probably trying to force it out, or it's already out by some convenient coincidence. Perhaps I'll write about how my day went, attempt to force some significance into it, and at the very end, there will be a reference to what is still known by then as something insignificant.
I'll probably write about a growing fascination, and for a moment let my guard down. No clues whatsoever - just me writing about whatever it is that fascinates me. It'd usually be a confusing thing, with the reference at the very end, as I always do, but somewhere after I publish the entry, I'd feel proud that I've finally spoken up about it.
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"Eh... that's more surfer dude than girl,"
Raisa went. I imagined her pointing a finger at me.
It's hard speaking like a girl, especially if you're not one. Although obviously we've been playing at stereotypes - what more after reality shows like
The Hills and your experience with such girls - the
conference was, for the past two hours or so, dominated with girl talk. Choose your pick - American, cockney, gay. I hate to trounce on stereotypes, but perhaps that is the point.
But what's funny, really? Right here we're pouncing on those stereotypes, perhaps because we hate it, or because we can't do anything about it. "I know, right?" hasn't been a buzzword yet, but before I could launch that, we slowly started moving to the parlor. Kently and I - as Kenna and Nika, respectively - have had a hard time keeping up with the lingo. But, then again, it's still ongoing. The girls are in, but we're all keeping up with the gender flip.
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At least my brother and I have something to talk about over the weekend: the
NBA playoffs. Despite the fact that the only games we get to watch are those over the terrestrial channels and the ones shown every week on
Star Sports, and that some of our chats descend into chaos because one is wrong and the other has a serious case of condescension, it's still something to think about. It breaks me from the routine, gets me excited for the duration of the game, and eventually turns me into a sloth.
Over the weekend, my father's been around, too, watching the games with my brother, until the momentum progresses to the living room where I am, which means goodbye to my chances of being able to watch the
CBS Evening News. At least I still, somehow, get stimulated.
Sometimes I find the need to start myself up again. Perhaps read a book or take on a new hobby, but this is my nineteenth summer, and the way things are going, it seems I'm better off dead or anything. And just when I'm supposed to be preparing for my future, I fail myself, because everybody needs a transcript of records.
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I was supposed to write something else, but I guess the feeling is gone until the next trip to the cinema.
So, right now, I'm chatting with Mon. She just told me she's taking a blogging break - something about letting her thoughts cook rather than serve them raw. But you know us two. I start, she continues, and heaven knows what happens next.
"
Sinabawang Monica."
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