Introspections & Retrospections

Sundays, Self-Reflections, Stargazing & Suburi

My legs were shaking. My knees were shaking. I barely finished 10 hops of ‘frog suburi,’ but I was already panting hard, and part of me wanted to just give up and call it a day. But a couple of strangers behind me snickered, and I could barely hear a girl’s mocking voice say: “See, he can’t do it anymore.”

I was tempted to whirl around, snarl at them to try doing my exercise routine. But I did not. Instead, I took a deep breath, stood up, and proceeded with the next routines. Faster. Sharper. Stronger.

By the time I was done with my second round, it was quiet again. I didn’t even notice them leave. Part of me wanted to feel smug. Part of me wondered, hoped, if in some way, they learned something from me that night.

The grass was moist, but the ground was dry and cool. For the first time in a very long while, I hugged the earth without a care or thought. I smelled the sweet aroma of the soil mixed with organic decay. I listened at the sounds: of footsteps from various joggers and strollers, of distant honks and beeps from cars whizzing outside the park, of children squealing as they try to chase after the resident cats and parents yelling after them. And slowly, I gazed around me: at the artificial lights diffused by the rustling leaves of trees, at the ever-unreachable dark sky pimpled by stars where the luminescent clouds couldn’t hide them. And for a moment, I was filled again with the same longing, heartbreaking joyfulness that I’ve always felt at nights like this during my youth.

Oh God, I’m already 36 years old. I’m too old for this.

Why am I even doing this? Continue reading

Advertisements
Standard
Introspections & Retrospections

There’s a Lonely Place Between Worlds and Words

There are two kinds of loneliness; three, if you include the discipline of writing.

An empty house. A solitary stroll. Working on a project by one’s self. There’s a sense of loneliness in them, but not all the time. More often a longing for companionship, a teasing reminder that it sucks to be alone.  Continue reading

Standard
Short Story | Fiction

A Parable For The Lost

It was almost 10:00pm. Elsewhere, people spent the night with friends and families, or resting in their homes. Others were already on their way, albeit stuck in overcrowded buses or jammed roads; still, they’re on the move — unlike us, still waiting for our own ride. Unlike me, simply watching each bus pass me by.

A taxi glided towards me, rolled down its window, and waited for an offer. I tried to ignore the expectant face behind the wheel; I’ve learned to distrust their service, even when I understood their plight. I couldn’t tell what the driver thought as he drove past me; eager passengers had already raced towards his vehicle. A few frustrated people cussed at the taxi driver, but it didn’t matter; there was one less competition in the waiting shed, one less rival to a decent ride home.

And I just wanted to go home. But not right now; not right away. I was tired, but it was not as tiring as spending the nights in abject solitude. Amidst the standing crowd of stranded commuters, I didn’t felt alone. And soon enough, I felt satisfied, reminded fully well why I often chose to be alone. Continue reading

Standard
Introspections & Retrospections

On Depression & Contentment

We all (or at least, most of us) have our moments when a darkness settles in and sits beside us: quietly, like an awkward lover trying to make themselves felt, to let their presence matter.

And we try, desperately try, to push this unwanted attention away— even when at times, it is what we secretly crave for… if only it was from someone else, from something else. For it always start with a longing: whether it be triggered by some faint nostalgia; a distant, almost forgotten reminder to one’s self; or even half-remembered fantasies from dreams that the night stole away from us.

Hello, Depression, some of us who have known it well through the years would greet. Sometimes, it would not say anything. Most of the time, we simply don’t like listening to it, or try to understand. Because most of the time, it simply wants to tell us something we don’t like to hear. Continue reading

Standard
Short Story | Fiction

It’s Time

Hello, Time. Can we talk?

Make it quick. Don’t waste me.

You’re awfully blunt.

Well, you’re awful. Why don’t you just get straight to the point?

Fine. They say you heal all wounds.

I don’t.

Wait, I haven’t asked any questions yet.

That’s because you’re making a question based on a wrong idea.

Which wrong idea?

That I heal wounds. I can’t. That’s not what I am. Continue reading

Standard