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.