tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63079994802103538322024-03-13T05:23:09.685-07:00Sole SearchingIt starts hereAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06278493978344230033noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6307999480210353832.post-5928968111569256052012-12-19T19:39:00.004-08:002012-12-19T19:41:33.494-08:00My Super Woman<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06278493978344230033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6307999480210353832.post-63140839387441071632012-12-18T07:44:00.000-08:002012-12-18T07:46:06.188-08:00Shrug Hiatus<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> 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.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06278493978344230033noreply@blogger.com0