July 5, 2010, 9:29pm, as per the car clock
going home from work
I lost my wallet. I sulk, I sulk.
I realized my wallet was missing while I was finishing my conversation with Leon, who at that time posed another problem altogether as MFMC needed a deadline extension for the ad in Phil Star.
I tried calling Gian so he can help me negotiate the deadlines, so at least I could focus on finding my wallet. But he won’t pick-up his phone as evident by the constant ringing in the loudspeaker.
My tenses are all fucked up, aye.
Visual stressor (no wallet) + Aural stressor (constant ringing)
= It became harder for me to breathe.
My wallet just won’t show itself.
But what can I do?
I thought work has normalized. It hasn’t. But I’m still convinced that a few more nights of OT will make everything easier in the long run.
It is raining again.
Losing my wallet feels surreal.
if you pause for a while
and be hyperconscious
the world will feel surreal
Bora is now merely a memory.
We only have photos as external memory aid in helping us remember the genuine happiness which transpired.
I wasn’t even able to write about the beauty of the first sunset as it happened. Darlings, it was my favorite part. And I entrusted the daunting task of preserving the moment to my rotting memory.
The trip was a happy drug. Tawa, kain, sun bathe, at tawa lang ng tawa. Bungisngis on the side.
The thought of ending the perfect vacation makes me cry.
I do not want ever to forget.
But reality is slowly creeping back.
And I have to make an important phone call at 9am.
May 17, 10:16pm
Just got in the car after a long day at work.
A chillax song is playing on the radio.
And my stomach is grumbling. I have not eaten dinner yet because I need to balance my petty cash savings deficit of P1,300.
Executing a plan feels oddly mechanical, because the thinking and feeling parts were done during the very quick planning proper phase.
For instance, on Saturday early mornings, I lay down all my to-dos. Then for the rest of the weekend, I trudge through all those tasks. Fortunately or unfortunately it’s the kind of system that gets me to work. Even resting is planned, and/or rationalized to be part of the plan. Ex: I should sleep early tonight so I could get up and work early tomorrow morning. All actions are geared toward achieving the most optimal life. Further, there is an eerie desire to calculate everything to attain the best use of time, scarcest resource of humanity.
It’s official: I have imbibed the economist’s spirit.
Then I daydream about efficient movements when I get home: wash baon in kitchen sink, eat, wash face, brush teeth.
What a fucken freaky daydream.
I am scaring myself.
(De Ja Vu, right here, right now. Anyhow.)
March 27, 2010, Saturday, 10:14 am, at Starbucks GB
To understand why I am so in awe of Bea Mariano’s life snippets in LJ
Read her blog here: http://fuvuh.livejournal.com
Her experiences feel so raw and real because of the palpable detail of the details, yet sometimes they feel fictional because they glow with romance.
Her everyday random thoughts come together in an extraordinary juxtaposition. So very effortlessly at that.
The magnificence of her entries I am so in awe of possess three commendable elements:
1. Tasteful unconventional worldview. The world is perceived differently from her eyes.
2. Diligence. As exhibited by the mere volume of entries she has written.
3. Bravery. She is not afraid to leave her soulful thoughts in a blog. She is not afraid of the public. (I think)
I put her and her writings on a pedestal because I seem to lack each of the three, haha.
And you are so under-exposed. Why why why.
Mistakenly, I ride the ordinary bus.
Some details of the ride:
1. The guy who sat beside me (who had tattoo of a small dragon—ahem, lizard), just left and I’m now sitting on his seat, feeling the ephemeral imprint of his butt heat
2. Our conductor for tonight is a girl. She invited the passengers to go down at Paseo. Her androgenous announcement: “Pasyo” like Tasyo with a P
3. I think I like this experience better. No tinted windows barring the sights, sounds, speeding breeze, sometimes faint cold air from an opened entrance of a building. No tinted windows trapping recycled air. The passengers might as well breathe through each other’s noses and mouths. And then the lost sign pen I remember again, like a recurring itch.
Alfie needed me to understand that we should be extra mindful of borrowed things (congrats, mission accomplished). But he should understand what extraordinary stupor struck me. I had to let go of everything, encompassing abstract (thoughts) and concretes (his sign pen). It was fucking James Jean and I can’t believe. I. touched his hand. And I wasn’t able to mutter anything. I had to let go of my tongue too. Or maybe Alfie was just tired and a bit angry at everything that happened.
It’s official: I overthink.
4. Another ordinary fare bus observation: most of the passengers are men. Ironically the conductor is a woman. Repel the stares by employing the unreadable nano handwriting. I bet no one appreciates the beauty that is writing in a small notebook.
Fragilest of thoughts.
I can’t stop writing.
I am riding Royal Star Transport. People just care about themselves. They’re too busy thinking what others think unless they enjoy a healthy deconstruction like what I did in the last page.