Madman speaks

I should have been religiously attending my Sunday commitment but either spiritual or physical decay has been keeping me from it. Always, I get tarnished with guilt by nighttime. Only an extraction of logic could have been a balm to my blunder: “It does not follow that all who attend the class will pass,” or “I have a twinkling grade back in college so my chances are higher.” Then again, what am I doing with my life really?


A college friend sent me a message in Facebook and told me that I can standby for a job opening in their company. That was great. She promised me that she will refer me once the internal opening lapsed and the position was made available for external applicants.

In the interim, a veteran reporter asked me if I could be a concurrent news stringer for an online news media outfit. Fortunately, the editor looking for the stringer is my former colleague. Small world. We covered the 2010 presidential elections together and she knows my salt’s worth. I haven’t contacted her still. Something’s wrong with me. I know.


Then again, I would like to take my chance to totally abandon my supposed calling and call it just a “young love gone awry.” Scrap that. “Take my chance” should not be in the sentence. My mom gave me a stern warning. It’s a do-or-don’t decision. I cannot go through it and abandon ship midway through the deep sea. Leave the port; arrive at the port. Her words were more of a reminder than a warning. She knows I’m not a quitter. I finish my battles; except my meals, sometimes.

It’s easy to push along and just be nonchalant had it not been for anecdotes though. A college friend quit, simply because “she doesn’t see herself in it.” She was a freaking dean’s lister! And, yeah, loquacious Miss Temporary Teacher also quit. How that for redeeming factor? It’s not something to emulate, eh? Tough luck for an ups.


Do I really know where to go? This road? People, mostly friends, see me as someone who’s good in making my own path. Mostly because I roll out a slew of my equipment from the smallest to the gargantuan: a pick, a shovel, a jack hammer, a backhoe, a cement mixer, a rollers, an armada of life-paving machinery, and my middle finger for the world.

But sometimes, life plays a pitiful joke on you. You busy yourself doing your road only to end up facing a fortress. More pitiful, there’s no point in making a road! So there goes fear: am I ready to accept that I could only be a dirt road? One that’s undone, rustic, and sentimental to the sight of city-dwellers, but still dusty and reeking of muddy potholes? Beyond being a finished road, which is better: to be a dirt road or a half-finished super highway?


I would like to bask under the warm radiance of consolation that sometimes the doubters end up finishing the road. The ponderers always ask and ask and ask and won’t stop asking, so much so that they wake up one day finally reaching the finish line.

I don’t know. It may be me, the sweet scintilla of twenty-fifth’s quarterlife crisis, the iota of doubt that snowballed into nagging midnight questions–or!–I just need sleep.


When in doubt, I open my bedroom’s door and remind myself of this: “Don’t let life randomly kick you into the adult you don’t want to become.” I wish to be omniscient for a day. Life, why are you so hard?

Malamig, malagim ang gabi.

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