We complain. We complain a lot. We whine that we live as if our life is a routine where all else must fit an unforgiving schedule, like clockwork, or a job that we must keep no matter how bad, no matter how senseless, because without it we are less of who we are. After all, the paycheck buys us clothes, gadgets, beer, and all other material extensions of our being. Or life gives us the world that we deserve, especially if we define ourselves by the possessions that we own. These include other people, of course, the ones we treat as chattel, as accessories to our multiple delusions. But we loathe this cycle, except that we dare not break it. We refuse to abandon the very source of our frustrations. We simply let it be, not because we are afraid but because we are cowards. Even the brave knows fear and trembles at the sight of it. But because we are cowards, we dare not destroy the root of all these. We only dare break ourselves, the unfortunate victims of our own misgivings. We break ourselves, sometimes our hearts, in some cases our bank accounts, all because our lives have begun to depend on our miseries.
We throw tantrums when we fail. We regress into delirium when our troubles compound themselves like the interest on our loans. We expect perfect results precisely because we measure our efforts with the scales of absolute certainty. After all, living is a tall order, and it requires more than the rudiment exigencies of bare survival, so we try hard to fight fire with fire, to nourish our lungs with the same air that poisons us, praying that Nietzsche is right, that what does not kill us will make us stronger, not realizing that it is the farthest thing that will happen to our body and mind. It will only make us stranger. It will only make us a little more different than the crowd. The demand is perfection, and we answer back with an equal measure of it, although it is often too late in the day when we realize that we can only go as far as the things beyond our control will allow us, if at all they will.
It is pointless to try to control what we cannot even hold in our hands.
Life troubles us, the people around us notwithstanding, so we try to skip the monotony every once in a while, or as often as we desire. We party. We party in the night then we rest in the early morning so that we can party again later in the evening. But rest is for the weak, we say. We can rest when we are dead, we say. And yet by the time we are exhausted, we seek comfort in the embrace of a warm bed, or body, on a cold night. It is not really the grave we are looking forward to after ten bottles. We proclaim that we cannot afford to rest, and yet at the end of each day we cannot wait to go home, to feel the sheets as we sleep, even for a while. The hypocrisy cannot be scaled. We say even god took a rest on a Sunday and lived for another eternity to tell the tale in a book, so we try to act like one, like immortals toying around with death. Before we know it, we are already pushing daisies, and there is not even a book for our legacy, all because we settled with putting spaces between the hustle and bustle of life. With or without these breathers, the routine will continue.
Unless you finally decide to end it. Otherwise, your complaints will fall on deaf ears, especially yours.
We throw tantrums when we fail. We regress into delirium when our troubles compound themselves like the interest on our loans. We expect perfect results precisely because we measure our efforts with the scales of absolute certainty. After all, living is a tall order, and it requires more than the rudiment exigencies of bare survival, so we try hard to fight fire with fire, to nourish our lungs with the same air that poisons us, praying that Nietzsche is right, that what does not kill us will make us stronger, not realizing that it is the farthest thing that will happen to our body and mind. It will only make us stranger. It will only make us a little more different than the crowd. The demand is perfection, and we answer back with an equal measure of it, although it is often too late in the day when we realize that we can only go as far as the things beyond our control will allow us, if at all they will.
It is pointless to try to control what we cannot even hold in our hands.
Life troubles us, the people around us notwithstanding, so we try to skip the monotony every once in a while, or as often as we desire. We party. We party in the night then we rest in the early morning so that we can party again later in the evening. But rest is for the weak, we say. We can rest when we are dead, we say. And yet by the time we are exhausted, we seek comfort in the embrace of a warm bed, or body, on a cold night. It is not really the grave we are looking forward to after ten bottles. We proclaim that we cannot afford to rest, and yet at the end of each day we cannot wait to go home, to feel the sheets as we sleep, even for a while. The hypocrisy cannot be scaled. We say even god took a rest on a Sunday and lived for another eternity to tell the tale in a book, so we try to act like one, like immortals toying around with death. Before we know it, we are already pushing daisies, and there is not even a book for our legacy, all because we settled with putting spaces between the hustle and bustle of life. With or without these breathers, the routine will continue.
Unless you finally decide to end it. Otherwise, your complaints will fall on deaf ears, especially yours.
2 comments:
we are all such miserable hypocrites, dont you think?
sometimes though i just wanna fuck it. this is not what i want. this is: the simple life. gusto ko ng farm na may farmhouse where i will grow and raise my 'food'. yung hindi q kelangan ng pera or technology para mabuhay. im sure im not the only one. ironic. how man had gone so far and still can go further. and yet in some parts of him, gusto nya bumalik sa dati.
sometimes, i just wanna fuck it. sumakay ng train, eroplano, barko, with no clear destination, not caring kahit saan ka mapadpad. i tried it once. nung di ko pa kabisado ang manila. it was one of the best weeks of my life. no responsibilities, no worries. i just felt free and infinite.:)
hey splice? whats your real name? you should be a columnist you know? i read the philippine star. magapply ka nga dun. hehe.
You are right, Kae. It is part of our humanity to desire a form of return. No matter how far we go, we always take nostalgia with us, which is why memory is cruel. It always anchors our mind to that distant past [and place], especially during moments when we are alone and have nothing to do. These moments of solitude prompt us to look back, to gaze introspectively at where we once were. We realize we have not really gotten far, as if where we are is not really distant from where we once were, as though we are just neighbors with the years gone, which makes it all the more tempting to slide back to our histories.
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