My Super Woman

            Life and Death - two outwardly different things, but innately alike.  They both stem from one fabric and one would not be if without the other.  Life will not be life without the inevitability of death.  And death, likewise – non-existent without life.  The difference between them is our notion towards it.  We celebrate life, attach it with accolade it undoubtedly deserves.  But death?  We fear it, shrug it like white blood cells shrug gangrene.  But life will not be as consecrated as it is without the faint, yet perpetual awareness that death is the aftermath of life.

            But with all the anticipation and acceptance that we all will eventually die, one will never really be too prepared.  You can only prepare too much. 

            I have been for quite a long time, convinced myself that I have come to terms with the approaching death of my lola.  I have accepted its proximity, and that soon, it will happen.  But when it did, it hit me right straight on my face.  A right straight like what Marquez threw on Pacquiao’s chin.  I realized that all the convincing I was doing to myself were mere lies.  You can never really anticipate.  You can never really prepare.  We are all but captives of an illusion.  A crass deception of acceptance – death is inevitable.  We fool ourselves into believing that we are ready of death’s inescapability.  And that my lola, who got bedridden, trimmed down to mere skin and bones, voiceless, strengthless, wrinkled, and fetal, will eventually have to part this tangible world and I have accepted it, is a deception.  I have not come to terms with it, I just thought I was.

            She is a super-woman – a real-life hero for everyone who knew her.  A strong-willed individual who bends only for God.  She’s frugal and resourceful – qualities which I always wish I have, but was never blessed to be genetically inherited with.  Joyful and always wears a smile.  Laughter that reverberates down the deepest fabric of your soul.  The ultimate epitome of simplicity and less is more.  The backbone that held us together.  A woman I can only wish to be.  Beautiful in every way.  My miss universe over and over again.  My lola.

            You will forever be seared into every neuron of my brain.  You, who God loved so much, will always be loved.  I am endlessly fortunate and I will always be proud to have a lola like you.  You take your rest now, feel the embrace of God.  You deserve it.  Have a blast in heaven lola!  Thank you for everything.  I love you.

Shrug Hiatus

          It’s been a while since I have written anything.  Be it trivial or something relevant, I have been on a hiatus in writing.  There are days where the drive to compose something surges from my subconscious faculties.  I prepare myself for a back-breaking ordeal of scribbling whatever is being carried by the stream of my thoughts.  I put aside a pen and something to scribble on.  I outline a topic.  And as I am about to begin, laziness shoots it down and all the things that I’ve prepared free falls into oblivion.  That has been the tribulation that I have not yet conquered.

            Laziness has its way of clambering down your veins, tie you down your bed and hold you captive.  You try to free yourself, but even that thought is slowly obliterated into specks of unidentifiable shards.  You slowly enter a daze.  Then spiral into a desultory fantasy.  I constantly try to battle the demons of sloth.  But usually ends up laying flat on my bed mesmerized by its seductive offers.  I’m in a hopeless war.  Left only with a peeping faint light of self-belief: I am a decent writer and if I write, I will become good at it.  And perhaps I might just.

            Wounded, freshly-scarred, I grab hold the ropes of silenced desires.  I hang precariously on the edges of no-return.  I muster my strength, immerse in the pains and labors of self-criticisms, and try to slowly ascend my hanging whereabouts one pull at a time.  I gather the words that I have buried 6-feet under, resuscitate them with desperate exhalations.  I try to breathe life back into the system of my mummified creativity.  I know it’s alive.  And I know it’s waiting.

            I have my goal seared into my mind: resume writing and do not let your talents go to waste.  I have sketched the blueprint of its resurrection.  All I have to do now is to implement the plans.  I have fed my own demons with surrender and hopelessness.  It’s due time I starve it to death by feeding my self-belief.  I am a writer.  All I have to do is write.