I have lost my faith very early in life, and Philosophy has led me to believe that everything is just possible yet I cannot believe in anything or in any of these possibilities.
Life must have some way of letting our choices, wishes, or even our whims win over our own inexorable fate. There is no organized way of explaining this. I have lost my faith very early in life, and Philosophy has led me to believe that everything is just possible yet I cannot believe in anything or in any of these possibilities. I now have a more crystal understanding of why many had just chosen to decorate their lives with love or deluded themselves with a so-called passion.
Looking back into how I have lived thus far, I could say that I will be willing to die tomorrow. Even though life is just beginning everyday. I can’t even say that I still have any dreams left. Even a flat panel TV and a handful of supermodels. I’ve already realized I can live without those.
This realization has been made concrete when ___, after we had a few drinks at Sidebar and went off off to observe the splendor of the stars in the Universe at Miss Universal. He asked me what my plans are. Of course, I didn’t really have any plans hatched for the future. Perhaps all my self-expectations have now fully diminished. I used to have it all figured fucking out. Now I’m a walking fucking cliché. He told me to make them along the way. I wonder how that really works. Like that classic cliché, cross the bridge when you get there. Where is the fucking bridge?
The universe, with all its suns and milky ways --- this entire existence, is all a potentially meaningful chaos. More often, it has been tragic.
Palm Sunday’s Coincidence and Nostalgia. I started reading Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Another serving of magic realism, and everything Garciamarquesan is the perfect read for these summer months. This is the kind of read that completely absorbs and becomes an indelible pigment in your memory, as the summer heat scatters its kisses on your skin. And that smell of the crisp, yellow, bound pages. Perhaps I am merely trying to re-live the summers before, since exactly after that, I’ve lost love and graduated and took on work. Since then, I think I’ve said it before, how I felt like hibernating, as though a long winter of life has passed.
I am burning with nostalgia for those summers, and thus I try to re-live.
Is it not coincidental; Jeremiah de Saint Amour died on gold cyanide, and thereafter, Dr. Juvenal Urbino died falling off a mango tree, on the same day? Now, as I scan the pages of a book I’m having this big time dejavu.
How do I explain the consistent fact that the neighbor’s German Shepherds not only bark loudly but also howls, cries as though it were tormented, every time the clock strikes 4 AM? O. thinks that a specter visits this part of Malate. Must they have habits and schedules?
Even in dreams, all this chaos must have some sense.
I love watching the neighbor’s huge tree dance with the wind during afternoons while I read, and listen to my play lists. Especially when the streets are silenced on a Palm Sunday, and another holy week, my favorite week, comes into my life.
