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Morning Pages

It felt good to go back to my favorite bar last night alone. It has been a long while since I have done that, to go there alone, that is. For recently I have been there with friends and family. Last night, after slumbering the whole day, I figured I'd treat myself to a haircut and drinks after. And that somehow excited me: doing something that was not planned, spending the night alone, and making some room to breathe. Not that I am suffocating here. It's just that, I have been quite confused by my emotions. One day, everything is rosy and I could not wait to get it started; then I will find myself unable to move the next. It could be tiring sometimes to just wait on your moods and be unable to will anything. There are days and there are days. I just console myself into thinking that I am on the verge of happiness and that very soon, I shall find myself strong, driven and unstoppable again.


But while it has not come yet in full force, I wait. And to pass the time, I am resting. Resting for what? I do not know. But I know that I am preparing for something. Achievement, bliss, confidence, renewed strength, or perhaps nothing at all. But I know that this is the time of transitions.


On my way to the salon, I was ecstatic as I was driving. I was talking aloud and reciting verses. I miss talking. I miss speaking loudly, delivering speeches and lectures, trying to impress people. I am a bit of a performer, I presume. Which is quite ironic since I am by nature an introvert and shy. I guess it depends on the mood again. I don't know, I am full of contradictions and I have somehow long ago stopped trying to reconcile them.


Perhaps this is why I like writing. I have tried long ago to work on journals and God knows how many notebooks I have already. But I almost never get past the first few pages. I fail to continue writing in them. And I know why. It's because I know no one will read it. Whereas when I was in grade school, high school and even college, when a teacher will require a journal for our class, I would write and write and write. It's not that I want to impress the teacher or anybody; but I guess I do not see the point of writing for yourself. I have a clue as to why that is for me: it's because I already talk to myself all the time, think about things on my own and understand myself better than others that I no longer have to address myself or write to myself. Perhaps, what I long for is dialogue and a listening ear to my ideas and stories. Now I realize that that is much like having a class: people you can dialogue with, learn from and impress and be impressed upon.


And also, nothing could be worst than losing thoughts forever to forgetfulness. I know how painful it is to remember that you forgot an idea and find yourself scrambling for it in its trail. This is again perhaps why I write everything down--on tissue papers, index cards, scraps of paper, cell phone, little notebooks, and sometimes even on monetary bills. (I saw this movie recently, "Memento" where the lead was someone with a condition which makes him unable to process new memory, so he suffers from short-term memory loss. So how did he get by? He carries a Polaroid camera with him all the time, taking pictures of people he meets and place he goes to and makes notes behind them. He even has a lot of tattoos in his body so he will always be reminded of the most important details of his life. And when something new happens to him which he has to remember, the first thing he looks for is a pen. I smiled when I saw that because that reminded me of myself very much.)


That is why when I am gone, I will not leave behind a coherent and comprehensive story of my life or body of work. Much like how ideas come to me and leave me, I will leave notes, quotes, aphorisms, and short essays. Anything longer than that would not only be uncharacteristic of me but also quite boring.


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