How are you?
This is one of those days when I really should be writing down my thoughts because there are a lot of them swarming my mind. I stare at the monitor and wait for the words, the glare tiring my eyes, and still, nothing comes. These days, I am wont to say God doesn’t answer your prayers when you need Him to, when you really, badly need Him to do so. When I am this hopeless, jaded and exhausted, I feel like I am at the wrong place, with the wrong people, doing the wrong thing. How can I be teaching those kids when I myself have become tired of learning? Seems like all I ever do is learn from my mistakes, from other people’s and then that’s it. Nothing comes after. No fucking light at the end of the tunnel.
Hope costs a lot these days and I just can’t afford it.
***
Angela won the poetry writing contest in school. When I first noticed her in English class, it was because she couldn’t even write a paragraph about her seventh birthday party. Then I had her for Creative Writing class where she retold “Little Riding Hood” and made up her own John Wood, and at the age of twelve had characters asking about the meaning of life. Last Friday, she shined and amazed us with her words. She’s one of my dragonflies that keep me going.
***
Last night, in a tough feat of showing P that I am interested in people, his friends specifically, I joined them for some booze and banter. We first caught ourselves dying in a schmaltzy QC joint with a band blasting off Dust in the Wind and Hotel California, bad fish and sisig, and the cheesiest crowd ever. We ended up transferring to the bar across the street, where a costume party and salsa night was going on. It was a tad better there, thank God.
Then it dawned on me again. I am such a bore. P asked me to dance five times and I rejected him. After my first beer, I ordered coffee and longed to bring out my book and just tune out. Sometimes I feel so sorry for P because he’s married to a geek like me who’d rather have coffee and good conversation on a Saturday evening—and doesn't care if she'll have to do the same thing every Saturday evening. How blah, right?
Well, now that I think about it, I talk and think about my students five days a week, and on weekends, which are supposed to be mine, could you blame me if I just want to sit down, have some quiet and talk about…me?
Anyway, last night was a change. Mindless, testosterone chatter. I’m glad I went and hopefully next time, my dearest P, you could have that dance.
***
I dread the thought of going home to my family in Manila later. I can’t bear hearing about problems anymore. Also these days, when my friends call me, it’s about their own baggage, too. Come to think of it, when was the last time I was asked, kumusta ka na, Tin?
Hope costs a lot these days and I just can’t afford it.
***
Angela won the poetry writing contest in school. When I first noticed her in English class, it was because she couldn’t even write a paragraph about her seventh birthday party. Then I had her for Creative Writing class where she retold “Little Riding Hood” and made up her own John Wood, and at the age of twelve had characters asking about the meaning of life. Last Friday, she shined and amazed us with her words. She’s one of my dragonflies that keep me going.
***
Last night, in a tough feat of showing P that I am interested in people, his friends specifically, I joined them for some booze and banter. We first caught ourselves dying in a schmaltzy QC joint with a band blasting off Dust in the Wind and Hotel California, bad fish and sisig, and the cheesiest crowd ever. We ended up transferring to the bar across the street, where a costume party and salsa night was going on. It was a tad better there, thank God.
Then it dawned on me again. I am such a bore. P asked me to dance five times and I rejected him. After my first beer, I ordered coffee and longed to bring out my book and just tune out. Sometimes I feel so sorry for P because he’s married to a geek like me who’d rather have coffee and good conversation on a Saturday evening—and doesn't care if she'll have to do the same thing every Saturday evening. How blah, right?
Well, now that I think about it, I talk and think about my students five days a week, and on weekends, which are supposed to be mine, could you blame me if I just want to sit down, have some quiet and talk about…me?
Anyway, last night was a change. Mindless, testosterone chatter. I’m glad I went and hopefully next time, my dearest P, you could have that dance.
***
I dread the thought of going home to my family in Manila later. I can’t bear hearing about problems anymore. Also these days, when my friends call me, it’s about their own baggage, too. Come to think of it, when was the last time I was asked, kumusta ka na, Tin?
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