There’s a Techy Romantics song on loop while I was lying in bed this afternoon. The thought of wallowing in a depressive morass was tempting, but who does that on a Sunday?
I do, chos.
Last night in a part-nostalgic, part-masochist whim, I decided to click the teaser for Tonette Jadaone’s Alone/Together. It’s just a trailer, no big deal, but it opened a truck of worms for me, man. Filthy worms. Worms that have followed me all the way from halfway across the world.
Four bottles of beer, and I woke up with a hangover.
I could picture my 20-year old self shaking her head in disappointment. Naikot natin ang mga inuman sa KNL, mars, tapos sumuko ka sa apat? Well. People grow old, Young Me, and newsflash: you are now officially in your late twenties.
I longed for this. The growing old, the entire jig about being an adult. The sage advice has always been to live in the present — carpe diem — but I was never one to listen. I wanted to grow old and now here we are. I am past the phase of trying new things for the heck of it, of making mistakes just because I can. Decisions, I learned, weigh heavier when you’re old.
Malungkot ako kanina at — hindi ko na maalala kung paano — pero napadako ako sa Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Mga inimbentong salita lang yata ito para sa mga specific na damdam at danas ng mga emotero. At dahil nga malungkot ako kanina, pumatol naman ako.
Nabasa ko ang salitang exulansis: “the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.”
Naisip ko ‘yung minsang nagkuwento ako kay Ip tungkol sa trabaho ko. Sabi ko nahihirapan ako (at iba pang detalye na ayaw kong ibahagi rito). Pero sabi naman niya, baka sadya lang daw akong mapagdamdam. Ang mahalaga raw ay nagagawa ko ang mga task na nakaatas sa akin. Huwag ko na raw alalahanin kung paano bubuhatin ang ibang tao; unnecessary na pasanin lang daw iyon.
May punto si Ip. Mas mahalaga ngang maging objective at ituon na lang ang pansin sa mga kongkretong suliranin. Ang feelings naman ay lumilipas din.
I was reading G’s novel the other day and there was a ‘very minor’ (Sasot, 2017) detail that left me oddly unsettled: at one point in the story, the call center agent bida had not engaged in “any real conversation in a month.”
The line triggered a barrage of questions in my head, and they all stemmed from this: what exactly makes a conversation real?