The Wheel and Axle

All of us want things.

Sometimes, we don’t need things.

But all of us want things.

I remember a time of utter selfishness, when I felt the pain of not getting the wants, of ignoring the needs for the wants, of reaching for nothing else but the wants.

It felt like a void.

A void where the wants multiply endlessly.

The void, I remember.

A thousand needles made their way into my psyche, like a heart that beat faster than the fluttering of a hummingbird. There was hurt, yes, but then surprisingly there was also numbness – one that came from realizing just how insignificant one truly was after it kept on hitting your head with a hammer.

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Sometimes, you just want the rage take you over.

It takes a hold of you.

It builds up within.

And it makes you want to… scream.

But you check yourself.

You keep it in because it may be the right thing to do.

May.

Still, it eats at you from inside, and you realize that there has to be a different way to let it out. There has to be a way to let the frustration take form so as not to let it drown you with it. There has to be a way for you to not let the power consume you and him and every single other innocent that stands in the path towards serenity.

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You get pulled in different directions by those imprisoned emotions.

There is a sense of fear and paranoia, of impending pain or loss if things aren’t handled right. As though everything needs to be perfect, and a single  – even minor – lapse of judgment feels like the world falling apart.

Then, there’s the excitement of possibilities, many which may not come to pass soon, but it is intoxicating because of the what might be’s. The what might be’s are a drug, you see, creating a feverish illusion that you know could not be good, but you revel in it, anyway. Illusion is reality in the mind, and mind can shape reality.

You listen to the voices of others whose perception of reality may be more acute than you wanted to give them credit for. Until you realize you want to give them that.

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Recently, I asked my friend Evan whether he’s experienced the desire to just cry, to let it all out in a wave of tears, yet nothing comes out – no matter how much you try to force it all out.

He said yes.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m alone on that one.

I guess not.

The last time I truly wept was a little over six years ago. In hindsight, the reasons were cringworthy and pathetic. It was ultimately not worth the tears, and hell I never even wept that way over the ex with whom I had the most connection with.

But six years is a long time, and since then, I’ve never experienced any kind of major inner turmoil that would warrant a flood of weeping.

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The year was 1998.

It was a time darker than I really acknowledged in the succeeding years. I have always considered it past me, that I’ve put it behind me, that I’ve learned my life lessons, that it was something I could easily shrug off, maybe even laugh off.

Apparently, it wasn’t entirely true, and all these years I’ve suppressed how much of an impact that incident really had in my life.

Recently, at the suggestion of my mentor Jessica, we visited Healing House. We did some alternative therapy, and during my session, I recalled that dark time – the only time I have ever really felt suicidal.

It seems so trivial now. I was an immature, barely-21 young man. Then again, what seems trivial now meant the whole world to someone so hopeful in life during that time.

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The last time that I ever had truly suicidal thoughts that I seriously considered actioning upon was in my early twenties. I was still in college. I was in an emotionally bad place, and when you’re that young, everything is the weight of the world. Even if, in hindsight, I now think about how shallow the reasons had been for my depression, I cannot discount the fact that it was a reality in me at that time.

What makes one think about taking one’s life is never truly shallow. We must always keep this in mind when we deal with people who may be suffering.

I can confidently say that I have not been at risk of such thoughts since the late 90s. I have never seriously contemplated taking my life since I started working and being independent, even in the most trying of times – situations perhaps worse than what I had in college.

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I don’t know how I’ve been rendered speechless.

It’s not like me to be quite at a loss for words.

I pride myself in my capability to find the perfect sentence, the right turn of phrase, the exact word that makes things right or moves things along. Admittedly, I am stronger with the written word than the spoken, and yet despite this I’ve rarely found it difficult to express things to anyone, at least not in the last decade or so.

And yet here I am, rendered incapable of expressing my thoughts, of speaking my emotions, as though the mere act would consume me.

Overly dramatic, for sure, and perhaps therein lies the shame I feel for something I should actually be joyful about. But where is the joy in the thought of risking all that you want with just a mere utterance of a phrase or two?

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15 August 2018.

Originally posted on my Facebook account. I was on vacation in Thailand – first in Bangkok, then Chiang Mai. I never thought I’d ever get this opportunity, but wow.

Ok, forgive this fanboy moment, but I’ve been such a huge fan of Pluem Purim ever since Slam Dance the Series. Yes, I do watch Thai soaps and shows. Sue me.

Yesterday, I found out from the fan club’s IG that he’s flying from Chiang Mai to Bangkok tonight, several hours before our own flight to Bangkok (where we would stay until Friday before flying home to the Philippines).

So I went for it.

He’s really nice and personable with the fans there. It was definitely worth the effort seeing him in person, and it was a nice thing to have experienced on my birthday vacation trip!

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Charlie was always interesting. On our first day in class, she reiterated that she was Fernandez, not Gonzalez, and woe be to the ones who made a mistake when making submissions. This was the mid-90s, and Charlie was tired of getting papers addressed to the beauty queen.

Charlie was always supportive. She was one of my first mentors, one who encouraged me to continue writing. She believed in me. Not only did she give me a 1.0 in her class, she also used my final paper on Anne Rice for succeeding classes. She often told me the story of how my paper was stolen from her office, and after a couple of years, some student submitted it as her final work. It did not end well for that kid. I guess I should just be proud that my paper was good enough to be sold to plagiarists in those Recto thesis mills.

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He took his hand,

they slipped out the door.

Down the corridor

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