Rock Stars and Revolutionaries Die at 24

Haruki Murakami said that. I think he meant that ideals die as we spend more time in the world. The more we stay, the more we fear losing the things we've began putting up. We learn to worry about insurances, security, until such time we forget our music, our art, our principles, our philosophies, and, yes, our romantic loves. I'd like to say, "No, Haruki, you are wrong. I shall not die." But I'll only be lying. I've indeed learned to love the world, and I'm glad I have a valid medical insurance card. (I even told a friend once that maybe I should marry the boyfriend already so he can get one too.)

My music. It's been a while since I last played my guitar with such a passion that only sleep could tear me away from it. I know I only need a new song; but as I've been telling another friend, I'm new with this happiness thing. With sadness before, I could whip out poetry after poetry about the loneliness of my heart; but now, with my newfound happiness, I just can't seem to find my way around it just yet. Sometimes, after a hit or two of weed, I do remember how it was like, and the longing to play returns (certain scents really make me nostalgic), but I fight the feeling off. I love weed and all, but I don't want to be that kind of artist who can only play while she's high. Maybe I'm on this phase right now, of outgrowing certain habits to be better at what I love doing. Maybe the independence that I seek includes independence from these "things."

My art. The last drawing I made, I let the ants devour. I thought then, Well, isn't this nice, the ants made better art than me. The watercolor I use must be sweet; I really have not tried tasting it, as somebody suggested to me. And again, yes, everytime I get a whiff of weed, I find myself itching to wound a canvas again. And I fight the feeling off again. No more artificial art, artificial music. I think I'm done pretending, squeezing myself dry for beautiful pieces when truth is my ideas are still pretty premature. I do feel, some time soon, I'll start conceptualizing again, and now according to my own pace, and with as minimal influence possible. No more art and music out of heartbreaks. It's just too juvenile for my taste now.  

My principles, my philosophies . . . I think I still have the same views regarding things, issues. I still wish love, happiness, peace, and prosperity for everyone. I still think racism roots out of ignorance. I still think true love exists (and it sure as hell can surpass all expectations and fantasies). If I were a Christian fundamentalist, I would also say I think the signs are here for the second coming (bitaw, simba ko!). No, kidding aside, really, I find a little pleasure out of the sufferings of the richer countries. It would seem like Mother Nature herself decided to make the move of evening things out, as humans can't seem to practice what they preach regarding equality. But I do hope things get better in the end, after the lessons are learned.

And with my romantic loves . . . I smile at the thought of this. I would always remember them boys with fondness, sans the betrayals and the self-preserving moves of breaking hearts of course. At least, I'd have stories to tell. And as it is always heard, I wouldn't have found the need for somebody to fix me if I had not been broken. Some say to fall in love for real is like dying. You lose yourself to be a part of a twosome. I am 24. Maybe this love is my death.