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There is an odd day or two before or during the change of season when I find myself plunged into a well of useless anxieties. It must be the sudden shift from the cooler months to the scorching betrayal of the sun that leads me to worry more than I should. Changing weather can certainly change moods. But it’s also a time of great frustration. I wake up, and it hurts, but I’m unable to pinpoint exactly the source of the pain; nor am I willing to exercise my reason (if only I could) in order to describe the sentiment. It is, as I’ve said, rather odd – a moment in time, a split-second against my years, where I feel cold even under the noontime sun, or indifferent towards a sun’s descent no matter the beauties resulting from her celestial ways; where the noise outside is drowned out by a wordless voice in my head; when the gap between Point A and B seems so much wider before I indulged in the hope the distances were thinning (and were being thinned by my own efforts).

Trees seem meaningless as they decode the winds. People come off as smudges. Trains and cars halt. It is not saudade. It is not even depression. It is weightlessness. Everything is no longer permeable or fresh or definable or describable; like my own fidelities in life were waning, sucked the moment the temperature rose, and that it meant the people I liked were no longer to be seen, were no longer to be found. And that well into my twenties, my age hardly indicates the same change in season as I might as well be used to. And yet I am not restless. My heart is beating fast but I am not in a period of uncertainty. I am sure but the world isn’t and it doesn’t help Manila’s own climates – her dirtied air and clogged streets – lend a gloom requiring inspection, and introspection.

The easiest solution is to respond to the flames of desire. Maybe the passion would create a blaze so fiery it could melt the icy distances between the plainness of where I am, and the profundity of where I want to be; melt and make new lands to bring some definiteness to the moment. But desire, even in small doses, is dangerous, and this existential limbo comes at a time when I yearn to strengthen my self-control. Not the easy route again, I say to myself. Entertaining something ephemeral could hamper my efforts to discover the eternal. And what would it do to my claims I’ve become unabashedly practical? If my age can’t indicate change, then it must at the very least, speak about improvement – more patient, more prudent, less willing to subject himself to the caprices of his volatile emotions (obviously, not a success [yet] considering what this entry is about).

A good friend suggested to feel the nuances of the pain. Invoke the pain, another advised me. Let the aches – no matter how formless – shape you. While it is a very alluring proposition, my pragmatism has yet to be infused with indulgent sorrow. Pain, to me, is a symptom of life. I don’t think I’m that kind of person who purposely complicates life for the sake of writing fodder. I’ve felt pain, and only recently, had myself buried near suffocation under the weight of a relationship’s dissolution. I dutifully fit into every sleeve of grief. But I don’t think the unfathomable sensations of the present have anything to do with my heart’s failure to sustain even the cheapest of affairs. It is just another odd day or two when nothing seems to matter, and no one seems to mind. To live a life of letters, no matter how small, should be ample enough to encourage convalescence. That I can write and remind myself of today’s confusion, the wars for eloquence, the frustrations over present day technology. That I can write, and maybe scratch the surface of the deep blues – it is the only thing not so off-kilter as to add even more melodrama to my schemes.

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