A Fish Out Of Water (Part II)

             Perhaps.

“To live”—this is mainly the answer to most of my quarter life and existential problems. A very wise quote from Natalie Babbitt’s book Tuck Everlasting goes like this: “Don't be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don't have to live forever, you just have to live.”

            The perpetually baffled cynical skeptic that lives inside me asks: “But how?”

            I know, I know; it is a scary question only I can answer. It’s scarier because whereas there’s probably only an average of four possible answers in a multiple choice question, the answer in living can sometimes be none of the above. One YouTuber by the name of danisnotonfire once mentioned in his video that there’s this fear in freedom. Because unlike a board game where the finite options are literally set in front of you, there’s an endless list of roads for you to take in life. And the fact that there are many is frightening.

            Most philosophical views say that the world doesn’t give a penny about us, that time won’t stop and death won’t wait patiently for us mortals—that they don’t care. The only problem with this is that we care. And I personally care too much.

            There’s an understandable pressure to living your life to the fullest, to pursue happiness and self-actualization, and basically not lead an “unlived life.” Yes, the world doesn’t care about us; and yes, we just have to just keep swimming. But even though the answer is within me, as a life guru would say, I still throw in questions like “But what if I care about the world?” or “But what if I can’t swim?”

            The truth of the matter is I could live an unlived life; we all could. I perchance might pick the wrong letter or trek the wrong road, get desperately lost, and be stuck in my own labyrinth forever. They say “forever” exists in love but I think “forever” exists in my existential crisis.

            As long as I live, until I find contentment (a sound if I find contentment), I might always—chronic overthinker that I am—look up at the ceiling late at night and ponder on my life choices, driven by the dream I long to grasp and nibbled by my inhibitions. I shall keep swimming, but where I go—

            I seriously, for the life of me, do not know.

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A Fish Out Of Water (Part I)

They say when you have a crush; every song seems like it’s about the object of your affection. I feel the same, except mine is about the fragility and brevity of life. Sitting on a bench for hours without the usual comfort of music from tiny pods, I sought companion from my thoughts. There I was, “adulting” as some of you might call it, and I was questioning why, what, or who I was doing it for.    

            Films and books show that the vivacity of life was brightest in your teens, but I was no longer a part of that age spectrum. It’s strange that I equate the feeling of a fresh graduate as that of a ghost who newly passed—like I was stuck in a world that was no longer mine to trek, lingering and lost, unable to see the light. Now, everything I watch holds meaning, everything I see and read feels truer to me than ever before.

            Although I thought I was more like Little Women’s Beth and Amy, each day I’m becoming more and more like Jo, awkward in her skin and wanting to change but not knowing how to. I have never felt more spiritually closer to a character than I have with Valancy from The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery, a single AF woman stuck in a dreary hole who feels like she hasn’t fully lived her twenty-nine years of existence. Nowadays, I couldn’t even properly listen to Nina Nesbitt’s song Way In The World without wanting to bawl.

Then I saw on TV this talented woman probably in her 60s who had been trying to pursue her dreams since she was young, and I thought to myself: what if I only get to reach my dreams forty years later? And what if I never do? Will I be like Jo if she never went to New York or Valancy if she hadn’t broken out of her shell?

I’m almost broke and the future I planned for myself, as a child—travelling the world, buying a car, etc.—has never appeared bleaker. The formulaic ladder of life (study, work, marry, and die) hits me right between the eyes, and I wonder if that’s all there is to it. I ponder on where happiness comes in or if happiness is the goal of our existence. The top on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is self-actualization, and he says that not everyone achieves this. Will the life we lead be meaningless if we don’t reach this level? Will its value decrease if we waver or lose our way in the pursuit of happiness?

            I’ve recently watched characters (*ahem* Margo Spiegelman from Paper Towns and Age of Youth’s Kang Yi-Na) who easily hop around their comfort zones, make whatever they want with their lives, and advise others to do the same. While the idea of living wildly sounds tempting, the deed of actually taking the plunge is shrouded with fear.

            I’ve always known that after wearing the cap and holding your diploma, freed from the syllabi and lesson plans of school, is a world where it’s now your turn to decide. They say to live your life to the fullest and to hell with that metaphorical circle of comfort. But it’s not easy deciding to sway from that layered brick of normality or the school-job-marriage-death equation. Because it’s unclear what happens when you do.

            Sometimes I find myself wanting to quit at life and becoming a useless burrito, wrapped in my blankets and sheets of angst and self-doubt, because the pursuit of happiness and living a meaningful life seems pointless. Then I squeeze my existential crisis and realize there’s hidden gold coins to putting our existence under heavy scrutiny. Because it means we care, that we acknowledge mortality and the impermanence of life.

Perhaps the answer isn’t increasing your comfort zone to the size of the galaxy, going wild and haywire as a means of living your life to its maximum potential, or forfeiting the whole race because we’re all going to cease to exist anyhow.

Perhaps the answer is just living.

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MIBF Haul (aka I'm a broke bookworm, nice to meet you)

(My cellphone camera and photography skills both suck so I compensate by an even worse photo editing attempt.)

This may come to no surprise to anyone, but—here it goes:

I went to this year’s Manila International Book Fair.

I read literally the first book I grabbed in National Book Store, and boy did it not fail me. There are random categories in my head where I shelf my books and the two of my favorites are the Books-I-Thought-I’ll-Hate-But-Didn’t, which Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor and Park belongs to (because damn, that book is so good, I consider Park one of my top fictional boyfriends) and Books-I-Knew-I’ll-Love-And-Did, which the first book I read from this year’s haul is placed in.

So without further ado, here’re the new entries in my bookshelf (or at the corner of my bed because I’m hella lazy and would probably forget to shelve them properly for a good solid week or two):

1.     Trouble Is A Friend Of Mine by Stephanie Tromly

I think I’ve mentioned before I have a humiliating and particularly peculiar attraction to the likes of Archie Costello and Elliot Allagash. They’re calculating and brilliant to the bones, which is, dare I say it, really ho—cute *coughs* I mean. Philip Digby is like a toned-down nice guy version of Archie Costello, which is honestly a good thing.

(Source)

Of course, this one is not without faults. One of the characters (a few, actually) comes off a bit sexist; and there’s some girl hate going on. I only hope the sequel actually strays a bit from that path—and I hear it just might, so here’s hoping. Also, if you want a strictly realistic young adult novel, then this one probably isn’t for you. I saw someone commenting the same in Brian Katcher’s The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak about how it got a bit too movie-like and crazy at the end, which I was verily alright with.

Nevertheless, the book promises Veronica Mars meeting The Breakfast Club; and the mention of John Hughes movie alone made me snatch the books faster than I would a soft-baked cookie. I’m glad I did because I shipped the two characters in my books so much; it hurts. 

(Source)

Guys like Costello, Allagash, and even Artemis don’t always have a solid love interest. Hence, the pair I ship is like a slightly warped glimpse of what that would be like. I would probably do a review on this soon, because it was so, so good. I pretty much declared that sentiment every few minutes or so and laugh out loud enough for my sister to tell my mom I’ve gone nuts.

 

This image is as blurry as my future.

2.     Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

BookTuber Sasha Alsberg aka abookutopia greatly recommends Diana Gabaldon’s books. While I might not be entirely sold on the premise, I thought to give it a go. Besides, the last time I saw the first book in the series was when I was in a large bookstore in Singapore completely and utterly *gasps* broke. 

3.     The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe and The Suffragettes

For someone who likes reading horror, it’s definitely weird it took me this long to read Edgar Allan Poe’s works. But then, I saw this little gem with an incredibly seductive price that I finally bought it.

As for The Suffragettes, it’s the Suffragette film trailer that made me figuratively give my privileged self a bitch slap and realize that voting really matters. And that it should never, ever be taken for granted. I think it only follows to read about the details and take a look at these brave people’s trials.

4.     Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery

I read The Blue Castle and loved—still do—it to pieces. It was about a single AF woman Valancy who feels like my soul sister. She’s twenty-nine and her life pretty much sucks; somehow, I have an eerie feeling this is a peek of my future. Then, things go the Last Holiday for her and she finally lets go of her inhibitions and start living—all while thinking she might be near death.

Now I thought the author is super cool and I better be reading more of her books. That was when I stupidly realize the author is Lucy Maud Montgomery, who just happens to write one of the most beloved characters of all time: the infamous Anne Shirley.  So yeah, I scoured far and wide for a gorgeous softbound of this lovely book, by which I mean I squirreled my way amidst a mad crowd of hardboiled bookworms.

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Seriously, though, book fairs are like feeding fest for vampires, except bloods are books and we, bookworms, are headstrong booklovers who will claw their way to find the perfect book. In layman’s terms, I’m calling this book fair and my book haul a success.

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I Saw You Once

Source: unsplash.com. Image has been modified.

I Saw You Once

By Cerisse Madlangbayan

The crowd was loud,

But where there mouth was moving

Their eyes remained blind

And their ears unhearing

You sat there hunched on your piano

Eyes closed to shut the sweat and wasted tears

Extracting your nethermost voice

For no one in particular to hear

I closed my eyes and sat still

Pretending the doleful song was mine

Bodies moved around me in haste

But I liked to think your words stopped time

Heartbreak streamed down

From your fingertips to the keys

While no one turned around to listen,

The tremor in my chest wouldn’t cease

You aimed for blithe in your refrains,

Which you ensnared when your song began

But you’ve captured more than a few coins

Thrown here and there in a tin can

They say you can’t afford

Affection with one sight

But woe to me, I reckon,

For I was beguiled that night

Alas, when it ended,

You glided through the tide

While I was shoved back

To my dimly lit corner with a fight

You will never know or love me

And I shan’t ever meet you again

Strange, I’ve loved and lost in mere minutes

When oblivious are you till the end

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