Disclaimer: The names of the people in this story have been changed to protect their secret identities.
You have to admit, people can be pretty narcissistic. They could go on bouts and bouts of getting wasted again and again just to try and lose control of themselves only to wake up the next morning and be amazed at themselves. "I did what?" Yeah, there's a shock on their faces, but you know they can't wait to hear the rest of the stories. "I actually forgot I did that!" But the sound of their voice alone tells you, they're proud of what they did . . . and forgot.
"I was talking to a tomato!" I could only give Chay a grin. More often, when I get the "allergies," I remember the entire night's highlights and, well, the lowlights too. That would be because I would then have to stop drinking and dilute the alcohol in my blood lest our drinking session instead turns into an ER episode. I then went on to tell Chay what happened, as I remembered them, the night before.
It started with the "new" drink. It was in a green bottle, not soju, and came in quarter-liter packaging. I think it was gin. I am not allergic to alcohol per se (thank God!), but certain nights just are, well, weird. So yeah, I can remember nights by the kind of drink we had then. Don't ask me dates nor special occasions. "Do you remember Ika's birthday last year?" I only would if I'm pretty close with the person, otherwise it would just be one of those nights to me. Forgive my drunkenness, really. "You remember that night we had ______ (name of drink)?" I would readily say I do. It's a gift; let it go. So it was the green night, as we now call it. "How do we drink that?" We started being concerned on how we drink new products when once we saw some Koreans down by a service station convenient store drinking sangria with bananas for pulutan. It's not that we think they were being weird or anything (we welcome that around here), it's just that we thought maybe that's how it's really done in some other part of the world. Who knows really, right? If we decide to be original and drink beer with banana cue, how are we to know if it must be how they also do it in a town in Liechtenstein? In the case of the green drink, well, it was just gin. We can handle that. We decided on lemon soda for our chaser.
It would seem there had been many bottles of green gin that night. It's like this, like when once you reach that certain level of intoxication, all else either become slower or faster from thereon. I'm rooting on the latter being what transpired that night, only a little faster than usual. There were four of us then. All I remember was one bottle after another then another then Lyla crossing the street as fast she could, pissed it would seem, and hurrying home. A guy friend somehow found himself with the remaining three of us, already drunk, and ended up going home with En-en, leaving her bag behind. The next coming days would, of course, find us interrogating her on what happened, perhaps something worth leaving her bag behind for. She said she was only very drunk. So there remained only Chay and me. "You were crying!" I laughed the moment I remembered what happened. "Whatever were you crying for?" I had to stop when her face started to took on her pikon look. Then, almost in exact synchronicity, "The pictures!" Lyla was our official photographer and kept a site where she posts our pictures. Usually, we would be excited to see our pictures after our nights, but this time it was different. En-en was shaking her head. "Let's blame the drinks." Lyla and I only looked at her, as though to say, Duh, what else? These are not us. Chay said it, "We're ugly in these pictures!" We laughed at that. They were pictures of how the green gin took on various forms using humans, us. Lyla got pissed. En-en got horny. Chay got dramatic. And I turned into a tomato.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
In the Blood
Call me sick, or twisted, whatever, but it was the most logical idea I could possibly have at that time. I wasn’t trying to make her become like me, or anywhere close. I was only trying to protect her. From the possible jerks who might fool her into thinking freedom is only in insobriety. Her world is as charmed as mine already. The only difference between us is that she’s in the sober world. I wanted her to see that the grass is just as green here as they are on her side.
We talked about family. I told her, well, yes, my drinking money I used to get from the parents. And yes, I feel guilty sometimes. I think guilty is not actually the word. I’m thinking pride, but that would require of me deeper reasons and more profound ideas and a possible nosebleed. So I decided to stick with guilt. I remember a friend, Adia, she told me she wouldn’t mind if her children become drug addicts in the future as long as they don’t ask the money from her. I was thinking the same thing about alcohol. As long as I have a job to pay my intoxication, I should be all right. And I did get a job. Only, I wasn’t able to foresee that I’m not alcoholic enough to drink down all my earnings. And I am not boasting. You should wonder why there are many alcoholics in the slums. It isn’t so expensive to get drunk. Drinking is the only thing I’m good at. And well, yeah, writing and words, which is my job, but you get the drift. I was earning more than I was drinking. That’s a big problem, to me at least. When I said drinking is my only forte (let’s make writing a given so that we could take it out of the picture), I wasn’t exaggerating. When I have money, I drink. When I don’t, I look for money; and when I do, I drink again. Clear enough, so far?
So there, my first justification. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was starting to feel sad for me, like all along I was a big disappointment in the making. After I told her, well, we still were not that rich to think about doing charities, and we really have everything else provided for, for us, already, she seemed to understand my point. Alcohol was an end. I don’t drink to be anything else, to serve any purpose, whatever; I drink because there is nothing else left for me to do. For me, I repeat. This should not apply to everyone else. Intoxication is customized. She was about to go further into the future; I stopped her. That’s a different story there. Let’s be egoistic for now.
I told her, well, the parents were big drinkers too, in their youths. We laughed. We had to agree on that. Even if they question my alcoholism again and again, they still would have to insert now and then their stories on how once upon a time, they would sneak at the stock area of bars, with a handy bottle opener, one at a time, with an excuse of taking a leak, only to feast on the stacks of cases of beers ready for their taking. The bar owner would wonder how, even with only a set of beer on their table, they would come out of the place ass-drunk. Those kinds of stories make one see the essence of drinking, and those same stories were the ones that made me realize the scolding I get was simply the SOP of parents to their children.
She was starting to burn on the cheeks a little. I had to smile to myself. There is this “zone” in drinking. Once you’re there, it’s where and when you realize why people drink. She must be there already. She was starting to laugh harder and was even telling some stories herself. I knew the guilt would catch up the next day (it always does for me in cases involving my intended manipulations), and so I doubled the toasts and the cheers to lose myself that night and let the next day worry for itself. It wasn’t going to get twice my worry time, that’s for sure. I only reminded myself again and again, this won’t happen again, and I’m doing her good. Ignorance and innocence are two different things. It’s not like the deal with cancer that you harm the good cells while trying to kill the bad ones. I only wanted to kill the curiosity before it gets to the cat.
The thing about drinking is that it’s done sitting down. Thus, one can’t really tell if he’s had enough not until the time when he tries to stand up and walk and go home. And a drunk mind has way more strength than the body actually has. It’s kinda like, mathematically speaking, the inverse proportionality relationship. The more alcohol one takes in, the stronger his mind thinks it is, while the otherwise is true for the rest of him. In other words, I, again, had too much to drink that night. I made a temporary enemy of a friend, who, for some reasons, shared our table that night, the details have escaped me I’m afraid. I was to wake up the next morning with a nasty bruise on my left elbow (much as I had wanted to take all the blame, I had to be honest and give credit to the alcohol as well). Then my sister woke up. She laughed a bit before saying she wouldn’t go through one of those ever again. I succeeded.
We talked about family. I told her, well, yes, my drinking money I used to get from the parents. And yes, I feel guilty sometimes. I think guilty is not actually the word. I’m thinking pride, but that would require of me deeper reasons and more profound ideas and a possible nosebleed. So I decided to stick with guilt. I remember a friend, Adia, she told me she wouldn’t mind if her children become drug addicts in the future as long as they don’t ask the money from her. I was thinking the same thing about alcohol. As long as I have a job to pay my intoxication, I should be all right. And I did get a job. Only, I wasn’t able to foresee that I’m not alcoholic enough to drink down all my earnings. And I am not boasting. You should wonder why there are many alcoholics in the slums. It isn’t so expensive to get drunk. Drinking is the only thing I’m good at. And well, yeah, writing and words, which is my job, but you get the drift. I was earning more than I was drinking. That’s a big problem, to me at least. When I said drinking is my only forte (let’s make writing a given so that we could take it out of the picture), I wasn’t exaggerating. When I have money, I drink. When I don’t, I look for money; and when I do, I drink again. Clear enough, so far?
So there, my first justification. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was starting to feel sad for me, like all along I was a big disappointment in the making. After I told her, well, we still were not that rich to think about doing charities, and we really have everything else provided for, for us, already, she seemed to understand my point. Alcohol was an end. I don’t drink to be anything else, to serve any purpose, whatever; I drink because there is nothing else left for me to do. For me, I repeat. This should not apply to everyone else. Intoxication is customized. She was about to go further into the future; I stopped her. That’s a different story there. Let’s be egoistic for now.
I told her, well, the parents were big drinkers too, in their youths. We laughed. We had to agree on that. Even if they question my alcoholism again and again, they still would have to insert now and then their stories on how once upon a time, they would sneak at the stock area of bars, with a handy bottle opener, one at a time, with an excuse of taking a leak, only to feast on the stacks of cases of beers ready for their taking. The bar owner would wonder how, even with only a set of beer on their table, they would come out of the place ass-drunk. Those kinds of stories make one see the essence of drinking, and those same stories were the ones that made me realize the scolding I get was simply the SOP of parents to their children.
She was starting to burn on the cheeks a little. I had to smile to myself. There is this “zone” in drinking. Once you’re there, it’s where and when you realize why people drink. She must be there already. She was starting to laugh harder and was even telling some stories herself. I knew the guilt would catch up the next day (it always does for me in cases involving my intended manipulations), and so I doubled the toasts and the cheers to lose myself that night and let the next day worry for itself. It wasn’t going to get twice my worry time, that’s for sure. I only reminded myself again and again, this won’t happen again, and I’m doing her good. Ignorance and innocence are two different things. It’s not like the deal with cancer that you harm the good cells while trying to kill the bad ones. I only wanted to kill the curiosity before it gets to the cat.
The thing about drinking is that it’s done sitting down. Thus, one can’t really tell if he’s had enough not until the time when he tries to stand up and walk and go home. And a drunk mind has way more strength than the body actually has. It’s kinda like, mathematically speaking, the inverse proportionality relationship. The more alcohol one takes in, the stronger his mind thinks it is, while the otherwise is true for the rest of him. In other words, I, again, had too much to drink that night. I made a temporary enemy of a friend, who, for some reasons, shared our table that night, the details have escaped me I’m afraid. I was to wake up the next morning with a nasty bruise on my left elbow (much as I had wanted to take all the blame, I had to be honest and give credit to the alcohol as well). Then my sister woke up. She laughed a bit before saying she wouldn’t go through one of those ever again. I succeeded.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Miseros
You made the introductions,
Between sadness and me;
What can I do but take such soft hands,
which seemed to have only known a few.
When I looked deep into those watery eyes, I knew,
loneliness would be an eternal company.
For without knowing this emptiness,
How would I have known what your embraces were for.
No, I don’t need your love because I am sad.
I am sad
so that when your love reaches me,
I would know why all the time without it,
I was in misery.
Requiem per Desiderio
People don’t ask for forgiveness sometimes,
not because of fear
nor of pride (nor of laziness).
They just see—it is pointless.
Maybe, if every time we say sorry,
we can also offer a witch’s vial—
a concoction to forget,
an agreement to forget.
Desire can be so powerful
to render one weak, yet free.
Yet desire can be the biggest coward;
rejected, unrequited, it hides.
Jealousy, the great traitor—
that which holds in suspension
outbursts, yet peeks out
through eyes, unveiling itself instead.
Arrogance, what else? A lie.
Again and again, a plea for consideration.
Poke a blind man’s eyes.
It will still hurt.
Rage. Passion. Fusion.
To create this great structure,
For you to try to chip off pieces, unknowing
that its fall could be your death.
Is there love there at all?
When infidelity takes a new name—
being true to (or, in your case, denying) one’s nature (blah!).
Semantics’ act of betrayal.
You give me not what I seek.
I hand to you what you don’t.
A constant swing between fascination and disappointment,
just another clash of indifferences.
Maybe, there is love there.
Why else would today be cursed with heaviness?
Only . . . I smelled the scent of great desires this morning:
yours for me waning, mine for you hiding. 03092007Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Stoning for Dummies
I started when I was eighteen. I think that part is a great factor
on why I didn’t end up a junkie (although, to be honest with you, I really
wouldn’t mind having turned into one—my only worry would have simply been where
and when to get my next high, or how for that matter). Because I’ve had had
some time with the world as it is, let’s just say, I was already grounded
before I started taking my flights. It’s both a bad and a good thing. Good, in
that I could always return to the default me; bad, because I can never
completely let go (but there were rare moments when I did get a glimpse of
total surrender; it was bliss, at worst).
Let’s start. The
keyword here is “heightened senses.” That means, you don’t get superpowers, you
don’t instantly become a better version of yourself; although, you might start
to “think” that you have and you do. That’s okay, if only for the mere
realization of your “self” and your first experience of going through the
process of dismembering yourself from society even if only temporarily (some
people experience this by other means, thus those rare sober individuals who
still exhibit nonconforming behaviors). Back to the senses, your perception of
things change—sounds, sights, smells, tastes, and feels. But it’s still you,
and it’s still your mind.
Personally, I’ve known the feeling of really wanting to know how other people perceive me. I have this unhealthy need to please everyone. If you long to reach that divine state where you have “unconditional love for all,” sometimes your human side would seek to be unconditionally loved by all also. When I begin getting thoughts on how I might be perceived by others, I find my peace when I let go of trying to manipulate their views of me, acting out what I know would accomplish applauds. Let them see me as I see myself. For anyways, one of the more crucial moments in our lives are those time we spend with but ourselves judging us, and the voices of other people either praising or criticizing really don’t amount to much anymore.
Back to the lighter side of stoning, the laziness part is only half true. We still move a lot, although, yes, sometimes it’s already after being in a vegetative state of unsleep. What we do while in that state, it differs for us. For me, it’s like dreaming, only awake. I let my thoughts run free, not of my willing. Sometimes, I see beautiful things, and sometimes, I get nightmares. Then when I have the thoughts that I need, I take a more active role, and I mix them all up here and there until I come up with some form of logic, any form at all (whether sublime or mundane, universal or specific, eternal or momentary). It’s the awe that I’m after, regardless of the doses. It’s a lot like making love—it’s best when I reach my peak, however it happens and however long or short it lasts. And when I do, nothing in the world seems threatening anymore, even if not indefinitely.
It’s true what they say about food tasting better, but just a warning, you have to wait to feel the munchies (when you’re really craving), or else, you’ll have system overload. Prematurely, even just a slight taste of whatever it is you’re having would send your senses flaring, and it’ll be just too much for your enjoyment—well, unless you’re really the indulgent type.
Music does sound better, but not in an otherworldy way or anything. Nobody becomes a better singer or a better musician when she’s high. It’s just that there’s this isolated feel to the music, as though it is the only sound you’re hearing, and thus you’re able to thread through the layers and listen piece by piece until it seems that the music has intertwined with you in a very intricate pattern that it has already melded with every aspect of you. As though you’re a puppet attached to the strings of a guitar and you’re dancing on top of a large bass drum lying on its side. Boom, boom, boom, boom. And you’re feet gladly follows the rhythm.
And you begin to see the images at the back of your eyes. The puppet, the strings, the instruments, the dancing—and oh how you’d like for your eyes to see them as well. And you get your brushes and dare to recreate what you’re seeing with your amateur strokes. Earth colors for the guitar and the puppet, black and grays for the strings and the drum, and you let it all out with arrays of bright and dark hues intermingling together to portray the movement of your doll’s dancing.
[Deep sigh of relief]
I’ve reached my peak for now.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 6, 2009
silent falling
The thing about intellectual conversations is that they are almost for certain never funny. And even if they were, you only get the mild ha-ha’s that end as immediately as they started. Like if you talk about Hitler’s funny mustache while talking about the Nazis and genocide and the Jews and the great conspiracy of this and that. You laugh a little, yes, but it’s just not it. Not that we are boring people, it’s just that sometimes even the funniest people need to be serious too, and need to be seriously taken.
A heaviness always falls over me every time I sense that my humor should stay somewhere hidden for a while. Even if Bonaparte would sure as hell give me an idea that would draw some chuckles from my friends, there just is something that whispers to me to save it for the rainier days. Not this time, dear, not this time. I then counter the heaviness with a heavier sigh. All right, what now?
I remember I heard this from a movie, and the actor (Bruce Willis in Rumor Has It) just quoted somebody else as well. Che Guevarra had said, although nonverbatim, “A revolution is characterized by a turn of the heart.” Yeah, I figured too, there’s nothing funny about what he said, and although laughter is a very genuine thing, there are just some things that although are as real aren’t as light to the heart.
We talked about respect and hospitality. Visitors should respect the place and the people inhabiting such said place, while the locals should welcome their neighbors and make them feel as at home as they could. Then one of us, Tops, came up with stories of how some places aren’t as welcoming. I was—how do I put this?—in a state where my senses were heightened above my average consciousness. (We had been drinking from the moment we finished breakfast, and it was already after dinnertime.) And so I had to react to diminish the fear he was starting to draw from me. I could ask him to change the topic, but that would be asking for too much. Newton’s law of equal and opposite reaction to every action tells me I could come up with something. I had to, and well, if I don’t, I could go down in history as the one who thought up of using Newton’s laws for the laws of reasoning and discourses and proved that the opposite is true for matters of ideas.
“It is wrong to draw respect from a person by threats.” Tops looked at me. I was over the edge, he must be thinking. I then went on to explain. He then told me, “But I’m just telling the story as I’ve heard it!” It dawned on me. Yeah, maybe some people are just more territorial than some. I almost drowned myself in the sadness of that thought. The thing with me is that I have learned the logic in the “unconditional love for all” philosophy. But when one single entity pisses me off, it becomes “unconditional hate for all.” I then decided to heave out another sigh and admit to myself that having partiality for some things over other things is not a bad thing. “Good thing this place is not one of those places, huh?” He had a look of disbelief in his face, like saying, “Duh!”
Laughter, for my case, has a life all on its own. It knows I need it. Like a nurse who knows when I’ve had had enough sadness and immediately comes to my rescue. But that night, somehow, it preferred to stay in slumber.
We continued to talk, and our discussions reached to our ideas about paranoia. “What if the people were only unwelcoming because the visitor already had in mind a fear? What if all along the people couldn’t care less actually, and the hate for the visitor only started because in his mind, the fear was too real that it decided to just manifest itself in reality to get over and done with the limbo (of whether that fear is real or not) the visitor has placed himself into?” We all became silent. Maybe every person has some paranoia in him, only that it differs in levels from one individual to the next. It is after all defined as a feeling of greatness for the self. Nothing’s wrong with that. It is only when we draw other people into the stage we set for ourselves and force them to join our tableaus that conflicts arise. Perhaps it is hard to do our own thing without needing to hear the applause or the boo’s after. We all want to know if what we’re doing is right or not. Some people, though, have learned to find that out for themselves.
I remember this situation we discuss in one of my philosophy classes. If a tree fell in the forest, if none was there to attest to that event actually occurring, then there really is no point in the falling, is there? But to the tree itself, that event would be the most significant event in its entire existence. Then I felt the silence. I tried to listen to the sound of a distant tree falling. I then looked around at my friends. Good thing they were around; we weren’t going to be like that tree.
A heaviness always falls over me every time I sense that my humor should stay somewhere hidden for a while. Even if Bonaparte would sure as hell give me an idea that would draw some chuckles from my friends, there just is something that whispers to me to save it for the rainier days. Not this time, dear, not this time. I then counter the heaviness with a heavier sigh. All right, what now?
I remember I heard this from a movie, and the actor (Bruce Willis in Rumor Has It) just quoted somebody else as well. Che Guevarra had said, although nonverbatim, “A revolution is characterized by a turn of the heart.” Yeah, I figured too, there’s nothing funny about what he said, and although laughter is a very genuine thing, there are just some things that although are as real aren’t as light to the heart.
We talked about respect and hospitality. Visitors should respect the place and the people inhabiting such said place, while the locals should welcome their neighbors and make them feel as at home as they could. Then one of us, Tops, came up with stories of how some places aren’t as welcoming. I was—how do I put this?—in a state where my senses were heightened above my average consciousness. (We had been drinking from the moment we finished breakfast, and it was already after dinnertime.) And so I had to react to diminish the fear he was starting to draw from me. I could ask him to change the topic, but that would be asking for too much. Newton’s law of equal and opposite reaction to every action tells me I could come up with something. I had to, and well, if I don’t, I could go down in history as the one who thought up of using Newton’s laws for the laws of reasoning and discourses and proved that the opposite is true for matters of ideas.
“It is wrong to draw respect from a person by threats.” Tops looked at me. I was over the edge, he must be thinking. I then went on to explain. He then told me, “But I’m just telling the story as I’ve heard it!” It dawned on me. Yeah, maybe some people are just more territorial than some. I almost drowned myself in the sadness of that thought. The thing with me is that I have learned the logic in the “unconditional love for all” philosophy. But when one single entity pisses me off, it becomes “unconditional hate for all.” I then decided to heave out another sigh and admit to myself that having partiality for some things over other things is not a bad thing. “Good thing this place is not one of those places, huh?” He had a look of disbelief in his face, like saying, “Duh!”
Laughter, for my case, has a life all on its own. It knows I need it. Like a nurse who knows when I’ve had had enough sadness and immediately comes to my rescue. But that night, somehow, it preferred to stay in slumber.
We continued to talk, and our discussions reached to our ideas about paranoia. “What if the people were only unwelcoming because the visitor already had in mind a fear? What if all along the people couldn’t care less actually, and the hate for the visitor only started because in his mind, the fear was too real that it decided to just manifest itself in reality to get over and done with the limbo (of whether that fear is real or not) the visitor has placed himself into?” We all became silent. Maybe every person has some paranoia in him, only that it differs in levels from one individual to the next. It is after all defined as a feeling of greatness for the self. Nothing’s wrong with that. It is only when we draw other people into the stage we set for ourselves and force them to join our tableaus that conflicts arise. Perhaps it is hard to do our own thing without needing to hear the applause or the boo’s after. We all want to know if what we’re doing is right or not. Some people, though, have learned to find that out for themselves.
I remember this situation we discuss in one of my philosophy classes. If a tree fell in the forest, if none was there to attest to that event actually occurring, then there really is no point in the falling, is there? But to the tree itself, that event would be the most significant event in its entire existence. Then I felt the silence. I tried to listen to the sound of a distant tree falling. I then looked around at my friends. Good thing they were around; we weren’t going to be like that tree.
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