Fac ut Vivas

They say, the words of
men lacking healthy amounts of sleep rarely contain any substance.

A few hours before
sunrise, I had some time to reflect on the endless travails of a
mundane existence wasted (for most part) on an inanimate 123-key
keyboard.

Once again, sleep has
escaped me even though my successful abstinence from caffeine is
months old. It is as if the sandman responsible for scattering the
dusts of deep dreamless slumber chose to pass me over for the nth
time today. Across the gulf of an empty room beyond the
laser-equipped metallic slab monoliths where colleagues usually ply
their trade during the day, not a bone stirs in the thin air, silence went on for long periods, save for the occasional
scuffling noise made by oversized über-ratten; a constant
reminder that, even in territories already claimed by men, nature
finds a niche. The microscopic cogs in the great machine: the vicious
cycle of evolution, adaptation and extinction. Damn, that Darwin
fellow was a genius.

Out of many
inconsequential things, my mind chose to dwell on a thing long denied
to me by the collective action of many factors (ineptitude, arrogance
in the face of wildly diverging versions of the “truth”, years of
slow experience, occasional and irritating denseness, coldness,
general lack of cooperation with fortune and opportunity, and the
indefatigable spirit that drives ego first and foremost before
anything else): the four letter word, upon which the half the world
(if not the whole) would readily intoxicate itself: LOVE.

In writing this, I
hesitated many times, for it summons many things, long banished into
the deep recesses of my complex neuron network (already in desperate
need of lobotomy). And if memories weren’t made up of people, writing
this would have been easier, but alas, they are in a very large part
made up of John D’s and Jane D’s overlapping that tiny piece of
eternity given to us by the Force. Whether I liked it or not, they
mattered or, to adopt another perspective, their influence couldn’t
be ignored. Also, in (publicly(?)) addressing this long-standing
issue, I hope to be fair to these unnamed people and to myself. My
loyalties to the Machiavellian  tenets notwithstanding, I believe in
the idea that man is by nature inclined towards “good”. People
don’t usually contemplate ways to harm each other by default.

It’s
a nasty business trying to sort through your own memory. Between
bouts of debating against yourself, recalling strange and
extraordinary circumstances through an obscure moral lens, there’s
the nagging feeling that all these might be worthless exercises.

The timing of this
writing couldn’t be more precise. The way I’m proceeding thus far, It’s
almost as if I was writing more in the mood appropriate for the small gap
between October and November. A grim and funeral thought, by the way.

But back to LOVE.

LOVE.

How complicated can it
be? GOD Loves you but you smile and say, well, He does love everyone,
doesn’t he?

Somebody loves you. Suddenly you’re riding the waves at an all-time high, only to crash
upon finding out that it wasn’t by the one you were hoping for. (Though, if they were a members of the opposite sex, you’d still think it was good
while it lasted).

I’m almost tempted to
admit that LOVE is one of those ominous intellectual pursuits.

Early during my
undergraduate years, I once found something like this, written in a
page:

If there were a
picture of True Love, it would be beside the picture of Nonexistent.

Romantics
have always believed that it inspires us to be more than our limited
selves. 

Speaking
of inspirations, in my case, I never lacked muses.

Beautiful
women aren’t rare in this part of the world. A humble and
conservative estimate for UP would place it at 0.08333* (? what’s
this, see note at the end).

For
as long as I can remember, I could point to at least one woman
indirectly responsible (of course, they normally wouldn’t admit it)
for many of my small-scale, non-earth-shattering achievements. For
instance, when I won the 5-round marathon race when I was (maybe) 8
years old. In retrospect, my detractors would probably attribute it
to the alleged lack of underwear. An air-cooled/air-propelled
victory.

Yeah,
right. My cheap, worn-out World Balance Sneakers beat your Air-Jordan (1,
2, or 3, or 4?) to the finish line.

At
kindergarten they paired you, made you hold hands during recess, tease
you even before such things made any sense. Or perhaps during the sex
wars when we got a wee-bit older, every conceivable
advantage/disadvantage was traced to ‘biological’ roots. And we
as boys thought we were superior. Yet we found it hard not to be
attracted towards … them.

They
can be cute and huggable. They can sing long after your voice turns
coarse, make parents happy with their dances while we find it hard to
engage similar attention by our numerous demonstrations of GI
Joe-targeted violence.

Old
people laud them for their “maturity” and imagination while
trying hard to play the “adult” with their tea-sets and
bahay-bahayan gendanken experiments. While all our awesome activities get
no press at all. Most would collectively describe our efforts in one word:
“makulit”. Even on the point of suffering envy, we shy away from
that stupid emotion: they’re just … so tolerable and we hope they stay that
way.

But was that LOVE?

Maybe
it takes a more tangible meaning when you get older still. During
high school, that warm fuzzy feeling you get whenever she’s around took the center stage in your head while your history teacher discusses
the political ramifications of the Commonwealth Act. There were a lot
of pretty girls but you thought she was the ONE. They were bombing
Corregidor islands yet you wore a sheepish smile. Nobody thought you
were daydreaming. They think you’re full of that textbook stuff
written by a mister Z.

Lacking
the obvious physical advantages of others, you beat the competition
in ways only the mind can understand. Yet she wasn’t impressed
because maybe she thinks the wind blows you away during
basketball. You were useless to the class team. Fodder for someone
else’s ego. You weren’t cool because you had to go home early and on
Friday nights you’d rather curl up with a good book than be with the
beautiful ones.

She
reproaches you and you’d think it was out of general “concern”
for your well-being. But in fact you were too caught up in fantasy to
notice you were overly obnoxious. You enter into heated arguments
with her and your classmates sing along the tunes of “the more you
hate the more you love” by that new wave rock band. Secretly you
hope those singing fools were right.

You
can’t wait for prom nights.

You
don your best suit for the event then you see her dancing with
someone else so you waste the entire night playing chess, challenging
all sorts of comers welcoming varying degrees opposition until you’re
drunk with empty checkmate victories while your “pals” are
snoring, ears full of beer and dreams of beautiful women. God knows
if that was the extent of their dreams.

At
graduation you hope for better things in the future and pray that
somehow she lives her dreams even if you’re not in it.

You
say goodbye. She doesn’t look back. You’d think you’d see her in a
couple of days afterwards but then you board a boat to back Manila to
restart everything because the university with the parrot managed to
accommodate you.

On
the deck of the Superferry, countless what if questions abound while looking
at the stars. You think of her and manage to sleep.

But was that LOVE?

College
years tested you.

Still,
some things stayed the same.

They
were beautiful and you see them everywhere. They were everything all at once:
friends, crushes, cute upper-class women. She teases you all the
time. Some might call it flirting with you (like she does with any other guy). No
problem. A woman that beautiful had a license to do it all. The next
day, you found out that she has a boyfriend and that they’re doing
pretty well. 3 years in fact.

Maybe
you and a couple of buddies were developing that 3 o’clock, 9 o’clock
or 12 o’clock direction/bearing-thing similar to those in the navy
profession because the rains often marooned you in that part of the
university where eye candy was aplenty.

One
summer, you meet her in aikido class and she thinks you’re “cool”.
Funny, no one interesting ever told you  that before. That was the
best class you’ve taken in the summer of ‘98.

But
she walks away. By now she can barely remember if you wore glasses or tinted polarizers.

Luckily
you bumped into another. She teaches you how to dance because that
was her thing. You can’t argue with her. She was holding your hands
the entire time. She asks why you’re quivering, “Is this your first
time?”, you trump up the lamest lines, like, “I’m afraid of
accidentally stepping on your toes. Yeah it’s my first time”.

Petty
delinquencies seemed easier to contemplate. You know that GE class
you’re supposed to attend in that god-awful part of PH?, who needs
that huh? Reports? BAH, Read the newspaper. Exams? Field trips are
made specifically as a make up for exams. Anything for her. ANYTHING.

But was that LOVE?

Then
it hits you square in the head. All these just for the fun of it all.
You were never serious.

Maybe
it was time you looked for something meaningful. Hey, you’re growing
up and maturing in the process.

There
was still time for it.

And
so time passes. During those times I was always searching. Many
times I thought to have found her, only to lose her. The ONE….

Fast
forward to the present time. A lot has happened — highs and lows.

Up
until recently, I’ve always felt that I wasn’t treated fairly by the
women I’ve encountered. They say they wanted to lead simple lives.
But in my mind, that was an understatement designed to mislead you
and put you off. Even though I’ve learned to accept the past,
sometimes, even vague recollections of it bothers me. I’ve always
asked questions, mostly beginning with why. Why this, why
that? Oftentimes, it turns into What-type of questions, like
What does she really want?. What is so repulsive about me?
What if I did this/that? I always end up in circling through
the same questions, arguments, and other whatnots.

There
must be something rational about the things that happened or they
will never serve their purpose as “learning experiences”, or so,
I believed. I find every conceivable explanation unsatisfactory or
useless dead ringers. As it went on (the rationalizing), they
became things I hoped they won’t be: pointless exercises. That is why
I devoted my energies to forgetting everything that had happened
because they felt like poison. When you’re reminded of them, you
always felt like the biggest loser no matter how hard your friends
convince you that you’re not.

I
never wanted to see them again. They reminded you of pain. They
indirectly contributed to your soul’s suffering. I hated the idea of
having to encounter them again. My soul’s sole comfort was in the
idea, that in due time, the people in your memories would forget you
too.

Up
until recently, that is.

It
happened some nights ago.

I was
remarking to a girl friend about how she manages to cope up. At a young
age, you’d normally see guys after her or conversely, observe her
preoccupation with those guys. She was different. Maybe it was a
question of priorities. She was doing a difficult balancing act:
Academics, Research, Being a good if not a wholly God-fearing person.
I told her that it was amazing how she isn’t overly pressured with
the girlfriend-boyfriend type of thing already happening to the
people we know (kids her age).

I
believed her when she said willing to wait and if it didn’t come at
all, it wouldn’t stop her from achieving a state of happiness that is
unique to people like her.

By
then, I was recounting to her my experiences especially the more
painful ones. Funny thing. The fact that she was younger didn’t stop
me from being brutally honest especially considering how much the
years and my experiences have already shaped a lot of my perceptions.

At
the root of my disappointments was a devastating form of selfishness
and greed.

You
see, I wanted something so badly yet I was (amazingly) not willing to
pay the full price for it. I wanted her (the ONEs I loved) to matter and I to matter in
return, yet, I refused to do anything positive for it. It was like
throwing a lot of coins in a wishing well, yet stopping when
more action was required. Arrogance may have also played a large
part. I refused to put in time trying to understand them and …
if they were tabulating (or making a record of your) efforts, I was way below the charts.

So If
I did end up with the women or if they fell(!?!@) for me, it would be
undeserved. If I felt maltreated, it was a form of poetic justice
meted out to me for also being unfair.

…
and that’s just about it. (Sadly, anti-climactic, yes, dear
readers…).

At
this point, there’s only one thing left to do…

Strange.
Somehow it’s a blessed thing that they didn’t know (well, perhaps,
until now) how long I’ve harboured these negative feelings, because
if they did, it would be harder to write the last lines of this
protracted monologue.

To
all the girls I’ve loved before: one day, in the future perhaps, I
hope to be forgiven, until then, may you live well, above and beyond
your dreams. May the Ineffable Force cause all the Angels in Heaven
to watch over your future destinies.

(*Note:
Maybe next time, we’ll get a chance to explain how this figure was
derived)