Lately, my days have all been about minute-rush rearranging of honest reactions.
Everyday has repeatedly been a circus of compromises.
I've been telling myself that it's all a matter of perspective.
All these tricks and planned strategies must be what they call maturity.
But I miss being happy.
not grown-up happy.
I'm sure I was happy once,
I giggled every time I saw Romnick Sarmienta and Gabby Concepcion on TV,
I got my father to rent me a pair of skates even if I didn't know how to ride the thing,
I said I wanted to become a pharmacist on preparatory school graduation day because my mother is,
I believed by 25 I'll be living in my own house, driving my red car, and planning the next leg of my Europe tour,
I gave the beggar who sat outside church every Sunday a recycled margarine cup with rice and soup in it because I knew she'd be more thankful if I gave her food,
I typed on wood because I imagined I was a cashier and because I really loved the sound of those machine keys,
I thought if I'll rip off some pages and rewrite some chapters of a book, I could change it's sad ending,
and I believed deep in my heart that April 29 will always be a beach day for the family because it's my birthday.