To put my feelings into words frightens me, because they’re in a heavy, painstaking jumble.
Perhaps it is really just the oxytocin raging within me, blinding me with this sweet, momentary madness; it may also be just dopamine doing its job and making me feel so damn good I could hardly pull myself together.
But whichever at fault does not entirely matter.
The aftermath of the beautiful storm is what troubles me.
Because I can see now that I am a shipwreck. I’ve always been.
I don’t know what I want to be anymore. During months of alternating between heaven and hell, I’ve grown reluctant about actually putting even a foot out the door of UP Manila. I’ve grown to love a place of momentous feats and disastrous sufferings, of loud, happy chatters and morbid silences…of freedom.
Somewhere deep down, I know why:
It’s because we would never get stranded, no matter how willing we are to be so; we would continue to weave ties, families, connections as we breathe; we could learn to love even those we think we hate; we are the love we are living.