A Month After.

Sitting in the center of an empty seat, I had passed upon my delinquent past. There it went blank. And it had to start over again somewhere else. The story must go on. It must begin exactly where I left it.

One month had passed, and I almost had a fair share of redemption. I had rested well enough to begin a new day, except that every other day should have been an opportunity to do just that. But I failed to grasp it. And now, I am sufferring the consequences of looking back and of casting all the moments I had let go. My outputs are very little; my pace, intermittently slow.

Perhaps, it was because I am working on a vitually structureless surface. No definite rules to abide. Few commands to take. I make my own rules. I have my own time.

Now I see freedom as a spectrum of opposites. Have a lesser degree of it, and I feel restricted. Perhaps, strangulated by a very thin piece of wire holding my breathe so strong for asphyxiation. And more of freedom, I feel inwardly sick. Sick of myself because the pressure had to build up eventually. And I had to live with it.

Two things are for me right now: get rid of voluminous sleeping and emancipate from the un-glory of procrastinating.

Sleeping can be a mode for defense mechanism. A serious manifestation of escape-escape from reality. It gives comfort, security even. And who would want to lose grip of that transitional but indeed intoxicating moment.

Procrastinating is a sickness. My very own lamentable excuse that I can. Testifying perhaps a degree of arrogance-a mischievous churning that I have things under controlled.

A week from now, I'd be teaching part-time in a school here in Palawan. The 3-hour teaching load will complement my full-time volunteer status as consultant for the youth ministry. I know I badly need that structure as a staunch disciplining measure. More so I had to abide not only my own rules, but more so to those that would launch professionalism to my structureless, spontaneous world.

Outburst

It's not about some petty, insignificant tantrum. Nor some irrelevant, pestering quirk. It's about having to contend with a feeling that I should have neither met nor encountered. Because I really don't know how to contain it.

Retrieval operations.

Along came typhoon milenyo, and a series of unfortunate events wreaked the already pitiable seven thousand plus island. Extreme religious groups would inhesitatingly see the panorama as a manifestation of the second coming. A vision ample enough to stir the impoverished conscience into a solitude of clemency. Militants would seek to this as an opportunity to add more insult to the already seriously thumped malacanang. Perhaps, even a sign from above that it really refused to give blessing to the incumbent two years ago. Ultimately, the damages done, which are natural in cause induced further by human inconsistencies, are friendly reminder that we never learn from history and that we always want to learn things the hard way. Now, we return back to retrieve ourselves only to fall on the same pit again. Nietszche could have been right to suppose this as an eternal recurrence. But isn't it more apt to call it an eternally recurring stupidity?