Selling Out

A year from now I will be leaving my job. My soul-sucking, mind-numbing, endlessly monotonous job of forcing my lips into a smile, answering insanely insipid inquiries, counting money, getting money from the vault, counting money, returning money to the vault, approving big amount transactions, over-riding big amount transcations on and on and on and on. Needless to say I work as an officer in a bank, which is still quite a mystery to people who know me as I graduated with a degree in Mass Communications.

So how did I get here? Call it greed, ambition, or maybe just plain practicality. Since I could remember I've always been idealistic, always saying I will never ever work just for the sake of working, for the sake of acquiring money. But the time's warrant it, it was either a choice of becoming evil yuppie scum or starving.

And so I became evil yuppie scum. I sold-out. I swallowed my pride, placed my personal beliefs and values aside, and opted for a comfortable life with money.

And yet, almost three years after, I am yet to feel truly comfortable. Sure, I may be able to sleep at night secure that with my big pay I can settle all the bills and buy whatever brand-spanking new stuff I deem to be must-have, but I awaken to nightmares of growing old and not having done anything truly meaningful with my life. I have now come to realize that money doesn't mean anything if you are miserable with your self. Since I started this job, the gnawing feeling of being trapped increases exponentially everyday. I am now at the point where it is just plain difficult to go through another workday. With the pressure, the stress, and the agony, I would have already resigned if there wasn't a P200,000 bond I have to pay if I quit before April 1, 2008.

I am not saying that my current job is frivolous. On the contrary, it is important especially to the people who rely on our services. But it is definitely not fit for me. I want to be a writer, a graphic designer, someone involved in the arts. I thought that I could have this job and do the things I love on the side, but this situation has only made me increasingly frustrated. I want my "hobbies" to be my job, my source of being, my definition. I want to be introduced to new acquantainces as "journalist" or "artist" not as "banker."

Under the Influence of Ibuprofen

I am a very stubborn person. Especially when I need to go to the doctor. For a week now, I've been having these extremely stupefying headaches on the left side of my forehead. Mom and Dad have been urging me since day two of these headaches to see a doctor. Even my co-workers have been telling me off, wondering how I can stand to be in so much pain for so long. It's not a matter of money - my company provides me with a medical program so extensive I'm almost remorseful not to use it. It's a matter of phobia- near it anyway, I have yet to exhibit the real symptoms of a phobia but I'm almost there. I am afraid of hospitals. There I've finally said it.

When I was a child I was in and out of hospitals so many times it felt like a second home to me. I had asthma. At least every other day, before I went to school I went to the doctor's office first. I was there so often I became chummies with the receptionists, nurses, and my pedia. (I was such a friendly child, it's such a surprise to people who knew me then that I've become such an anIam a very stubborn person. Especially when I need to go to the doctor. For a week now, I've been having these extremely stupefying headaches on the left side of my forehead. Mom and Dad have been urging me since day two of these headaches to see a doctor. Even my co-workers have been telling me off, wondering how I can stand to be in so much pain for so long. It's not a matter of money - my company provides me with a medical program so extensive I'm almost remorseful not to use it. It's a matter of phobia- near it anyway, I have yet to exhibit the real symptoms of a phobia but I'm almost there. I am afraid of hospitals. There I've finally said it.

When I was a child I was in and out of hospitals so many times it felt like a second home to me. I had asthma. At least every other day, before I went to school I went to the doctor's office first. I was there so often I became chummies with the receptionists, nurses, and my pedia. (I was such a friendly child, it's such a surprise to people who knew me then that I've become such an anti-social neurotic.) Sure, the people there were fun and warm, but I felt crappy all the time. Which is why I hate going to hospitals. Every time I enter one, I am immediately transported back to those times when I felt crappy all the time and I feel crappy again as a result. Although I naturally possess a sunshiny, spoonful of sugar attitude on life, my pessimistic side somehow latched on to all the negative feelings I had back then and kicked Mary Poppins out of my head. Every time I enter a hospital I feel nervous, anxious. I couldn't quite put a finger on it, but I think I fear I would suddenly come down with my asthma, be confined, and spend another splendid week, at the least, in a room that reeks of antiseptic.

Aside from being stubborn, I also rely on self-medication. I am writing this now under the influence of Advil but a dull, pulsating ache persists.

My dalliances with self-medication may actually be the cause of my paralyzing headaches. Through my powers of observation and deduction I have formulated a theory that pinpoints my addiction to a certain brand of menthol inhaler as the leading cause of my pain. The blasted thing causes my mucousy sinuses to harden like concrete under the summer sun thus making my head throb to near exploding.

I can't continue writing this. I have to bang my head against a wall, the pain is getting so intense the best thing to do might be to split my head open already.

Assessing

I am 22 years old turning 23 this August 30. I am a Virgo. And just like a typical Virgo, I am shy, smart, and sometimes snotty. I can be mean and condescending, especially when I am tired or lack sleep. I find it difficult to sleep at night, my mind races at night. I have no patience with stupid people, though I pity them and feel like a jerk for having no patience with them. I am a jerk. Sometimes. My favorite thing to do is, actually, doing nothing. I want to be a writer. I also want to be a graphic designer. Or a painter. Or a singer. I love books, my favorites of which are “The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen, “Three Junes” by Julia Glass, “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” by Dave Eggers, and “Great Expectations” by Charles Dickens. I hope to create a hybrid of these literary styles one day. I also love music - jazz, alternative, rock, blues, pop, classical, musicals - name it, I love it. I admire John Mayer and Jamie Cullum and hope to grow up like them someday. I love Fiona Apple and her words; pure poetry her lyrics. My favorite movie is “The Hours”. My friends are mostly girls. I have a 7 year old guitar which I still don’t know how to play. I work in a bank, a junior officer for BPI. At 22, I earn almost half a million pesos anually, and I feel guilty for it. I graduated with honors in Mass Communications and received an Outstanding Student Award for Journalism, and yet I work in finance. Huh? My favorite hang-out places are book stores especially cheap, used book stores. I always order fish and chips when I’m out with my friends. I need to lose at least 30 pounds. I wear glasses, corrective for my astigmatism. I have half a degree in IT. I have many, many hang-ups and issues. I am addicted to shopping. Books, magazines, DVDs, CDs are one day gonna bury me alive. I’ve never had a girlfriend, though I’ve had two MUs (such a high-school thing to say) and many many crushes. I don’t know how to approach girls. I can’t think straight when I’m in love. I pine and pine but when I have the attention of the girl I’m pining for, I drift away. I like playing the tortured artist part. I’m messed up that way. It’s just who I am, in case you were wondering.

Love Letter to the Moon

The cool breeze breathes on my neck, and shivers of pleasure run up my spine. I feel the night kissing my skin, my cheeks, my soul; a benediction of the moon. Yes, you are alive, feel it within you, she says. And I feel alive, more than I have ever before, sitting here on this bench in this lonely park with you by my side. How I've longed for this, for the stars to show their true selves to me, with you. How far away they must be, balls of fire glimmering with passion, desire. Such small glints of hope. Hope, what I always find looking at the midnight sky blanketed by shimmering jewels. And you being here is all that I could ever hope for. Stay with me like this forever; no need to speak, your touch is all I'll need. Your fingers speak louder than your words could ever do. Oh, how I wish the night would never end, for you to never leave. You consume me. But in the morning you are gone like all the stars that shined hope. No, not really gone, just covered by the powerful brilliance of the sun's reality.

Imagining Crashingmirth

June 14, Friday evening. A deluvial rain pours over the city causing the dirty streets with clogged drainage to be submerged in at least knee-deep water. Inside a passenger jeepney struck in traffic a young poet ponders on his next piece. The rain, the wetness, the smog seem to incubate his thoughts.

By midnight, he arrived at his apartment at last. He opened the creaky door and proceeded to go inside the dark and cramped space. He fumbled in the darkness to switch on a lampshade. He went to the bedroom, took of his wet clothes and sprawled on top of the bed to collect his thoughts.

Almost three a.m. and he still faces a blank page. "This sucks, I better just try to sleep," he said.

The Waiting Room

Alone in the waiting room I feel the earth beneath my feet shaking and the sky above my head collapsing.

"The enemies are approaching! They're attacking!" I distantly hear someone say.
I rise from my seat and peek out of the window. Dull grey light filters through equally filthy clouds. A strong wind flings dry leaves, plastic bags, and posters to every direction.
I take my seat again and notice how unlike outside the room I am in is. The thermostat is keeping the air inside all nice and toasty. Several downlights give off enough light to convince even that small potted flowering plant that it is still morning.

But is it really still morning?

I've been waiting inside for quite a while now. I wonder when my name will be called.

Manifesto

It is time. It is time to rip open this huge, black, Hefty bag of ideas I've been lugging around for more than a year, sit in my thinking chair, and let the half-finished thoughts and first sentences congeal into a cohesive mass of superb writing. It is time! IT IS TIME!