I have not written in a thousand years, though it’s
been only less than thirty years since my mom expelled me from her womb; the
rest of the period is just overtime. I have forgotten the rules of grammar, and have acquired
a debilitating paranoia. I blame the people surrounding me at times, but I
blame myself most of the times.
I am jobless. This is primarily by choice, and not by
chance. There are times, however, when I would think that this is essentially by
chance so as to avoid blaming myself. But no, I made a choice to be far from
metro. And everything that follows from that choice is just a necessary, although
sometimes undesirable, consequence. I cannot blame my folks for wanting me to
stay in the province after the grueling experience. After all, I was here when I
was fighting the battle. And it is just logical for them to assume that I am
here to stay.
Had I asked to go back to metro, would I be permitted?
The thing is, I do not know. I could not say I was not even given the chance to
ask because I did not even try. And now the result is – a soup.
Yes, a soup; but I’m not referring to the healthy one
which could function as a substitute for one’s regular meals. The soup that I
have lacks veggies or protein. It is plain liquid. It does have some
unfathomable ingredients though; but as stated, they’re unfathomable. In
addition, they are inexplicable. So that even though the desire to express
through blogging is there, the motivation is inexistent. Or that even if the
desire to sift through the intricate pattern of emotions is present, the only activity
my physical body could do is to enjoy a siesta.
And that’s where the paradox begins. The strength has
been overshadowed by fear. The willpower, by daydreaming. Nevertheless, I am
still the “me” who desired excellence, whatever that is. And in my current-but-not-so-obvious
pursuit of areté, I need to be a Magellan. Otherwise, the King of Spain will
not bless my expedition.
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