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!
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.
