wistful glob

The impulse to write left me a long time ago. Back then, writing relieved me of my angst. Of course, those were the days when I had plenty of those. Angst today is an outdated concept. People are hip, blasé, and unshakable. This is the age of the survivor, that’s incredible and extreme sports.

To a social nonconformist such as myself, generation x is an incredible thing to watch: I inevitably look back and compare my teenage self to them and feel myself looking more wretched in the process. Would that I were as carefree and unapologetic as they are.

Except that I am the last person to self-pity.

One thing I learned, if I learned anything at all, is to stand up for what I am. So I am no social butterfly, so what? I can swoop down and scale the skies in my own right. So what if, in the eyes of our TV-indoctrinated generation, unfashionable? I dress to please myself and for comfort, not vanity. So what if I am a lowly government worker, not one of our underage-and-overpaid high-rising yuppies? This is the work I chose to do, and until such time that I come up with enough gumption to leave it and start writing again, I shall have enough humility and self-inflicted psychopathic subservience to bear with the weight of my unglamorous existence and grin.

Except that I am the last person to self-congratulate.

After all, I learned the virtue of being not correct most of the time early in life. There was a time I too exulted in my so-called rarefied upbringing. Back in the province, people are extensively poor. Our family was one of those fortunate enough to barely scale above the ubiquitous poverty line. Back then - or over there - that was hot, a thing in itself. I found out several psychic and bodily scars later that it was nothing out of the ordinary. I was just one of so many, and there are many more out there beyond the grasp of my very limited existence. Beautiful people. Proud people. Rude people. Crazy people. Kind people. False people. Great people. Lonely, miserable, confused people. Learned people. Stupid people. Hollywood-bred people. Lustful people. People with money. People with not even enough money to clothe themselves. Distinguished people. Snobbish people. Helpful people. People with gods. People who think they are gods. People who live for nothing at all except for a sniff of a powder reeking with psychedelic odor. Screaming, glass-smashing people. People dying every day. People hurrying past other people in resentful haste, indifference, apathy, distaste, malevolence, evil intentions. Heartbroken people.

I vowed to fight this fear, this cowering, this inability to comprehend. The world does not begin and end within the panorama of my existence. That is good.

Or is it?

It means there is so much more out there to hope for. Almost two decades later, here I am. Still confused. I learned everything and still know nothing. I have forgotten how to write. I found out it made me more alone. Wordless, I took on the world and learned to live.

Except that I had forgotten what for.

Somebody, someone I care for very much, told me I am not using my head. I care very much for his opinion, and his opinion jolted me. I had not realized that. I must have perceived it, somehow, for I have been feeling some lack in my being. Some restlessness. Some lack of direction.

The world out there still confuses me. It no longer scares me, though. What gives me sleepless hours these days (and nights) is the thought that I have not made much use of my time, and there may not be much left. I want to learn again. I want to continue moving on, but maybe not so much in the same direction again.

Count: there are 35 “I’s” in this work, and then there are the “me’s” and “myself’s”. How typical. How selfish. How unimaginative. And I was talking about the world.

There, that makes it 36.