Junk Post

I Don’t Know How To Title This One

When you’re 35 years old and single, you realize from time to time that each day, each moment, is often a tightrope walk between blessed contentment and depression. Well, at least, that’s what it feels for me.

No, I’m not talking romance anymore. Trust me, you eventually get to a point where you just don’t care and stop pining and chasing after that person you really fell for; doesn’t mean you don’t love them anymore, you just learn that falling for someone shouldn’t also mean falling flat on your face. I’m talking survival— like, frantically coughing and hammering my own chest at past 2:00AM because for the second time in my life (I think), I think I just had a mini-cardiac arrest. While I was alone in my room. Without a mobile load. With a crappy wifi signal (but it’s free, so who am I to complain?). Without a health card or insurance. And all I can think of was God, not like this. I mean, seriously: if I died— it would take days before people notice I’m dead. The landlord would probably discover my corpse once the neighbors complain of my rotting smell. So I wrack my memory for some emergency self-administered first-aid, and pray to God it works.

That was some time ago. And lately, I realize I’m subconsciously scared to sleep; thank you, Google, for all those sudden death syndrome articles. Ironically, I know the lack of sleep isn’t helping, either.

When I was a youth, I was all like Hey St Paul, I dig that to live is Christ and to die is gain slogan. Now, I have to sheepishly admit that I still want to live. With a life expectancy nowadays of only 50-70 years among men (sorry if that info is wrong; too lazy to Google right now, might end up reading more articles to add to my paranoia), I somehow wish I can make the most out of my remaining years in this world. I don’t know if my manuscript will ever get published at all. As much as I have so many story ideas to write about, I’m struggling with defeatist thoughts— I mean, what’s the point of making the effort, going through that stressful process of writing thousands of words, for what? Am I just wasting my time?

Time. I just spent precious time thinking about someone I should be trying to forget. Nope, not my ex. We’re okay. I do wish I could talk to her— she used to be my bestfriend, someone who I can confide almost all my crazy thoughts without fear or concern of being judged. Nowadays, I find myself compartmentalizing aspects of my self to entrust to people… if anyone actually bothered to listen. Most get bored and changed the subject after a few sentences from me. Just editing this blog post makes me want to delete it altogether and change the subject, too.

But I need to write, not just because of my worries that maybe one of these days, I won’t wake up at all— or just wake up to God’s smiling face (hopefully), or to feel your pity, solicit some concern, get attention. No, I need to write because right now, it’s the most honest conversation I have.

It’s such a beautiful night, even if it’s already almost 5AM, yet I can’t help but hold myself back from crying because I don’t want the tindera at the local eatery to cast curious glances at my red eyes— or mistake me for a drug user. Does being occasionally-dependent on Biogesic and Colchicine categorize me as a drug addict?

Still, I look out the window and feel: both the blessedness and the wretchedness, the privileges and the unfairness, the luxuries and the struggles. I could have had a worse life, I thought as I watched the local basureros take the piles of garbage, as I remembered all those homeless poor probably cold from the rain— yet such very thought leaves an unpleasant taste, a faint bitterness of arrogant pride and haughtiness that comes from having.

And I can’t help but realize that something is missing: just like when your heart stops beating, that looming sense of doom— only this time, it’s a dread born from a loss of something precious: that passion I once enjoyed with abandon, that drove me to soar in my faith during my younger years despite all my early troubles.

That thing with cardiac arrest is that you can’t ignore it. I wonder when did my heart stopped beating for those people?

Then again, should I stop caring for that someone, even when I know she doesn’t care for me? Dammit, romance, stop trying to sneak in.

I don’t know if I’ll still wake up later, but I hope I will— I still need to go to work. I don’t know if my health would be alright (God, I don’t want to experience getting stroke!), because trying to get through the day with a migraine, vertigo or gout is not a fun experience. I don’t know if I’ll still have a job once my contract ends. I don’t know if I’ll ever marry someone. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach 70 years, much less 50. I don’t know if I’ll be a good writer, if my stories and words will even matter a year or so after I’m gone. God, I don’t even know if coughing and hammering my chest would help me next time I get arrythmia or cardiac arrest.

But one thing I am sure of, despite all my worries and fears, is that He will be there. Maybe frowning or going tsk-tsk at all my stubbornness, or simply looking sad because hey, I fail a lot. But He will be there, as He had always been through all my craziest moments, in all those times when I could have given up. He will be there, whether I finally have my last peaceful sleep or complain for another 8 hours at the office. He will be there, because if there’s anything that He has proven to me: it is that His love never fails.

But God, naman. Help me with that person please…


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