Recovery Room
She writes letters to random people. She claims that this new blog is the lovechild of the persistent, pervasive boredom and the chronic, innumerable stress she is experiencing at the moment.
This is where she vents out. And because she possess forgetfulness- a trait she considered undesirable.This is her pensieve,her recovery room.Because everybody needs one.
And oh,it's all about me. I'm self centered.Hah!
Dear Reader,
By the moment you come across this letter, I have clicked the log-out button.This will be my last entry for this month and maybe, for the next month. There’s no certainty.
I’m off to a long hiatus to prepare for something big and formidable. Perhaps, life or perhaps not. I am after all looking for the great perhaps. (And yes, cheers if you got the John Green reference)
For the meantime, you can read this blog’s previous entries. (I did not use my because this, this does not constitute me alone. Maybe, just maybe, you were there in my stories.
And here, I am leaving you a smile.In case, you need some.
Maybe your greetings got lost somewhere in the pages of a letter tucked in a postman’s bag. Maybe they’re still trapped in the invisible lines your trusted networks provide. Or maybe, you forgot, you one amnesiac.
This is how I celebrated my 20th birthday - waiting and waiting. Waiting for someone to give birth in the delivery room so I could finally say “Hey there, we’re born on the same day”. Secretly hoping it’s a girl so I can tell the mother she could name her “Reda” or the other name.Or the other name.
But no one gave birth on that shift 11 pm-7 am. There must be a truth in the myth called friday the 13th. But even that statement sounded incorrect.
Then there’s the other part of waiting. Waiting for your best boy bud to discuss serious things over cheese burgers and fries. I told him I’m taking him to a fast food chain because I intend to clog his arteries with fat deposits.Hello Atherosclerosis.
Then there’s home.And the other matters that need not be put into words.
photo taken last year. this is actually a gift for my other best friend.
The street sweeper greeted me “Good Morning Ma’am!” while on my way to the jeepney terminal. I’m getting old.
Happy Birthday to me.Say it with a cake :)
Tell me about Quarter-life-crisis.
I sent her a blank message. She replied with, “Why are you sending me spaces?LOL”. And I answered, “Because I know you need some”. I appended it with LOL.
I’ve been sending spaces ever since. I’ve also been waiting for people to send me the same.
Justsoyouknow,spaces.
Maybe we don’t have to say the words “I like you” out loud. Perhaps we just need to show this ballpen and let the thing speak for itself.
Like is not very significant, Is it?Not a very strong feeling as compared to love. Not translated to an array of languages as it is with the latter.
Why not?
Sir F: Como Estas?(while eating pancit)
Me: Muy Bien!
Sir F: *looks at Henry
Henry: Delicioso!
Sir F: *creases began to form in between his eyebrows* Malicioso!
Me: Sir, yang pancit daw po na kinakain niyo, delicioso!
:))
15 days before my last day of being a teen, I was walking in the aisle, in a red carpet, clad in white. No, I wasn’t in the church about to tie the knot with the man of my dreams. I was in a hall filled with 300 something graduates , flashing smiles that spells bliss but not the same orange lipstick.
Four years in the university wasn’t a walk in the park. (Yes, and that is a cliche.)It’s actually a strenuous activity that demanded great time and effort. And lots of patience.
Four years of losing yourself and finding it. Four years of ambivalence in nursing school. Four years of learning, speaking in medical jargons, witnessing life, death and the best of all, being able to appreciate the capacity of a human being to love another - and unconditional at that.
This course, this road they say that is overused and we, the people who dared to venture it despite the uncertainties in the employment arena. This is the battle I will win over.
After four years, I have collected a nameplate, a cap, a nurse’s bust, a pin, a paper that speaks of my name acquiring a degree. But this is not the bigger picture, is it? It’s just one color in the rubik’s cube I am trying to form.
Then there’s the license. Then there’s that photograph of a weighing scale balancing the idea of college and how to make the most out of life.
Clueless.
Me: *phone pressed to my right ears while talking to Merelle.
Mia: Did you know that Marie Curie died of radiation?
Translation: Use your earphones!
