Last Monday I found myself trembling all over. Sick and tired. Tired and sick. Whatever. My eyes were watery.
I rode a taxi. Not a very healthy option for my budget, but it's the nearest to a vacuum I can go to. Somewhere I can self-debate on whether I am sick or just losing grip on myself.
These days I go to work in very sloppy clothes and violate the dress code. Just last week I wore white slippers. On Fridays, we are given leeway to dress casually, but that doesn't include slippers on the list. I got reprimanded by my manager.
Last Saturday and Sunday, I had hopes of gathering Dumaguete stories to report. 'turns out I was there to produce materials for a senior reporter/host. That sucks. A lot.
I finally got my wish of going back to Boljoon. I went inside the blockhouse beside the famed Patrocinio de Maria Church. This time around, I found etched shapes in the walls I haven't noticed last year. I met the kampanero while he was sitting beside the blockhouse's bell. He didn't look at me in the eyes. He kept looking somewhere far. He was 15 when he started as the bell-ringer. Now he's 76. I wonder what stories he'd tell me should he finally decide to look at me.
I slept at 3am yesterday (or today), watched this foreign TV series while finishing a whole can of tuna, a whole pitcher of water, and some mixed fruits. I'm sick and I refuse to sleep. I'm sick and I hate it.
I'm not complaining. I'm just saying I count my days by their defects, the things that tell me I'm so clueless and mediocre, I might just as well stay in bed for a whole month. Maybe then I can fix whatever relationship I have with my family.
It's a wish. A song. A chant that I'd like to master.
To play dead and rant all day.
But the real picture is,
I am in the comfort room and sitting down, trying to suppress heavy sobs, repeating to myself, or to God,