1. I write poems about the things I miss but I don’t want them back. Just moving forward from here on out, but not without a few nostalgic glances at what was.

2. It's dangerously easy to fall in love with ideas. Harder to let go, too.

3. I got so good at being alone; I forgot there are other ways of being.

4. My cries for help take the form of excessive journaling and reckless decision-making. My hands cramp, but I've gotten used to it. The consequences have been handed down, but I pretend they're not there.

5. Turns out I'm good at pretending, too.

6. I guess my real problem is not being able to be fully present in a situation. I never feel things as they come. I can't. My mind is either obsessing about the future or deconstructing the past.

7. Sometimes I mistake my selfishness for introversion. I don’t know if I will ever apologize for it.

8. I never believed silence could be louder than words until I felt it bouncing off walls. I wish the elephant would leave the room so I can breathe.

9. I dated someone for a week and realized I don’t have the emotional energy for any of it.

10. Some nights are harder than most but as long as I still have words, maybe I can get by just fine.

11. I think about holding your hands a lot.

It's been a week since I arrived, and this is the longest I've been in Manila. Sometimes I still think I'm on an extended vacation, but then I enter my room and see my things laid out-- on the bed, inside my closet, or arranged in the organizers I've bought. They're not anymore recklessly crammed inside my luggage. This, I think, is the clearest indication that I'll be staying here for a long time. And the fact that I've already bought a Beep card (thanks, Fiel!).

I'm still trying to get used to everything around here. I'm living with six other people (or more in the next few days, but hopefully not). They're mostly in the BPO industry so their shifting schedules would often leave me alone at night. I don't really mind.

The urban noise keeps me company. I like falling asleep and waking up to it, honesty. There's too much quiet back home. And here, I realize it's oddly comforting to listen to the otherwise chaotic sounds of the city: cars honking and speeding through wet asphalt, the occasional distant sirens, the blaring horn of the PNR train as it passes by.

What I like most about being on the eleventh floor is that I get to look out into the cityscape (especially at night, or at dawn). It's something I've always dreamed about! I zone out a lot when I'm by the window. It's by far my favorite space to clear my head.

So this is me now-- a small girl in a big city. Who would've thought I'd have the guts to leave the familiar comfort of my province. I've been called brave for doing it, and I would like to believe that I am, but deep inside I'm still shaking. 

I'm constantly overwhelmed by the enormity of everything around me, by how little space I seem to take up. The recurring thought is this: I'm just another passing stranger in a sea of millions.

It's hard trying to make a home out of a space shared with strangers. Well, living with strangers isn't really ideal, to begin with, so. Maybe it just takes time getting used to.

It's not like I'm totally unhappy with my current situation. I've always longed for my own space, to live somewhere far from where I grew up, and try to get by on my own. And while my own space for now is just the top bunk of a double deck, I think I'm doing fine. Things turned out way better than I expected, actually.

Still, homesickness has become like a fever I'm trying to ignore. And it shows-- in many different ways, in varying intensities.

A few days ago I was seated across someone who was born on a Wednesday, June 9. I know because she was named after her birthdate, and because we used to go to the same school--I think. I was pretty sure we recognized each other, but such recognition was left unentertained--as it should, because small talk inside a jeepney is the worst kind. (Mentally rehearsed) surprised reaction, a brief hi-hello-how are you, then a dismissive laugh about something that is neither funny nor interesting. The next moments until either of us have to get off would be torturous, as I would be needlessly fidgeting on my phone and doing whatever to avoid eye contact.

I feel weird writing this because we weren't close enough for me to be talking about her on my blog. Or anywhere else, actually.

But anyway, what I'm trying to get at is it was one of those random encounters that made me think back to something I haven't given much thought about. It's strange, yet fascinating. Having been to the same grade school, her presence made me remember my last years there: being pulled out of classes to spend the day in the library, training for the next round of journalism contests, enveloped in an air of false superiority because I wasn't busting my ass over formulas and historical timelines.

I was hell-bent on becoming a journalist. Me, a pre-pubescent kid with the terrible sense of style but with a heart that aches for the written word. So I guess it was where the fondness started. I tried to keep it 'burning' when I entered high school but there wasn't really much opportunities. High school was a wasteland.

And, well, in college I took pride in calling myself a journalism student. Then shamelessly trampled on that identity by involving myself in a sketchy website for the bucks, but let's not talk about that. So I had journalism and advertising classes. It was draining but I wanted nothing to do with production classes so, there. The (exhausting but fulfilling) combo turned out to be a great decision because it opened up for me a lot of opportunities to explore.

It's been almost two months since graduation and I'm still exploring. It's a bit uncomfortable for now but every time I feel like I'm about to shift gears again, I go back to what a client has told me--about taking small but necessary steps to get to where I want to be. It doesn't always have to be a huge leap--which is a great point because me? I'd probably fall hard on my face.

I feel like I've already achieved something just by being able to hold on to my childhood aspiration of being a writer. And things may not be as rosy as I'd hoped it would be but that's okay. I'm definitely more patient now with things in general, but most imporantly with myself.

I can't remember the first time I envisioned my own wedding--or if I ever did. Growing up in a household where marital warfare was more common than eating together just didn't seem to be a conducive environment for me to be thinking about marriage. But I did make dresses out of blankets secured by clothespins, so I guess my childhood wasn't so bland. It was a rite of passage, but one that gave me a scar on the left side of my cheek. (Thankfully, it has faded through time and religious application of Cebo de Macho.)

But anyway, weddings. The more I am exposed to the oftentimes unnecessary extravagance, the more I fall for the idea of an elopement or an intimate wedding. Having more than fifty guests would just be too much for me, but that would probably just be half of my side of the family, so...

By eight am I was already in the hotel lobby, casually jealous of the people enjoying their breakfast buffet but also feeling accomplished. I was the first in my team to arrive and this meant being spared from buying coffee for everyone as a penalty for being late. This also gave me time to mentally and physically prepare myself for today. You'll never really know what you're getting yourself into until you're halfway through the day and you just want to pass out cold on the floor. The first time I assisted in a wedding was a little over two months ago and I swore I would never do it again. And yet...

The renewal of vows was at Molo Church, whose aisle is the longest in Iloilo City. The running joke is it's long enough to give the bride plenty of time to mull things over, and especially to swerve before she reaches the altar.

I was setting up place cards on the first few rows and couldn't help but glance up to the altar. I felt like I should be feeling something, but instead I felt foolish (then a bit guilty, and ultimately, irritably confused). What really am I missing here? was the recurring question as I finished up what I was doing. It was a difficult thing to process, honestly. I felt out of place.

Just before the entourage arrived, I was requested to transfer to the wedding facilitated by the other team. They needed an extra hand since the number of expected guests for that one was almost five-hundred. I already got tired just by knowing that.

It was at Jaro Cathedral and by the time the ceremony was starting, the place was packed. It was exhausting to look at, and facilitating it was even more so. 

Doing things for my so-called career has a certain way of making me want to drop to the floor, hold my knees close to my chest, and rock back and forth just until the feeling dissipates. But it never really does. If I'm lucky, it just turns into an altogether different kind of dread. It has become an inside joke among me and my friends--our imagined immediate reaction to anything that agonizes us. Rock back and forth, remove your earrings and put them back again, think of every single failure you've committed, think of yourself as a failure, try breathing exercises and give up five seconds in. Pretty much the reason why I'm like this.

I was scheduled for an interview today. I fell asleep while revising my resume last night so of course I had to cram everything hours before. It was like college all over again, except with an intensified sense of apprehension.

Thankfully I got up earlier than usual so Jett and I had the time to have breakfast at Monkey Grounds, which is this hip cafe reputed for its healthy meal choices--meaning food I don't normally eat.


This was my meal. I didn't even dare touch that bowl of greens.


And this was Jett's. I'll forever be envious of people who can drink coffee on an empty stomach.


So the interview went well, or at least I think it did. I wanted to withdraw my application halfway through it, though. I wanted to just pack up and leave, say sorry I don't think I can actually do this please hire that guy instead--but thankfully I didn't do that. I wore my only pair of heels for this, for fuck's sake. I'm not letting that bit of effort go to waste.

I was riddled with uncertainty afterward, but not about whether or not I'll be hired. It has more to do with this attemp to enter the corporate world fully knowing that I did not prepare myself (in many aspects) for this. I'm still trying to make sense of it, or at least comfort myself with the idea that by working in here, in Iloilo, I will be able to minimize my expenses, actually spend time with people I care about, et cetera. Still, this familiary is more exhausting than encouraging. I can only hope for the tables to turn soon enough.