It’s the first day of October, and my WordPress needs an overhaul, and I am caving in because of too much pressure.
I have been thinking—so much, just so you know—that I should update here regularly. I have a whole bunch of thoughts in my head that I’d love to share or simply write about. However, there are two usual BUTs that hold me back: (1) But, my writing is in a slump (i.e. I am hardly inspiring lately); and, (2) But, I have better things to do.
I hate myself for reasoning badly. BUT #1 should be motivating me to write even more, and BUT #2 bitchslapping my face. The thing is, it is so hard to have your thoughts just bottled up. I am already a bell jar of words unsaid and stories untold. I’m not implying from now on, I’m going to be an open book—I’m saying that, from now on, I’m going to let it out. It’s the purpose of Troughs and Crests anyway: to be a home for my ups and downs.
It’s not that I’m not writing, though. I’m actually writing drabbles (although I don’t think they’ll find a spot here, at least, not yet), mainly because I want to send an entry, or possibly, entries to UP Writers Club’s call for love.
Aside from that, I’m also writing on a tiny journal, randomly and definitely not diary-ish. I’m not used to the spontaneity of it yet, though. On fiction, I still have no progress (I guess Creative Writing really isn’t for me, with matching pursed lips) although I found this sort-of-descriptive, makes-my-chest-swell-with-a-little-pride, unfinished thing:
A jolt begins to travel across her senses, sending electrical impulses jogging up and down her nerves. Somewhere in her mind, she realizes that she has only been dreaming. Frustration wells up in her chest like an exploding geyser. Her eyelids withdraw to reveal huge, brown irises. At the rims, tears are huddled, afraid of venturing into free-fall. Her hands find them before they even challenge gravity.
A lengthy sigh escapes from her thoracic cavity, yet it does nothing to unload her of the weight burying her deeper and deeper onto herself. She scans her room: the peeling wallpaper, the skyscrapers born out of books, the fairy lights strewn haphazardly across her mirror, the ancient and withering electric fan that makes her survival during summer possible, the lone, comfortable couch that sits at the foot of her bed, the colorful, handcrafted balls hanging from the ceiling… This has been her room ever since, but today, it feels different. Foreign, even.
Nonplussed at this unusual feeling towards her room, she rises from her bed with one lithe movement. She is small in built, thin and fragile-looking, yet she exudes an aura of toughness—a semi-permeable membrane which renders her unreachable to the world.
She grabs a Burger King T-shirt and a denim skirt from her closet, her undergarments from a drawer and then allows gravity to get the best of them by dropping them on the lone couch. The knob turns, squeaking its greetings to her. She pays no mind to such inanimate communication, grabs her towel from the shelf and leaps into the bathroom without further ado.
(This is actually a continuation of an entry here: Real or Not Real.)
The reason BUT #2 mentions “better things” is my academics. This semester is actually my first ever hell semester, according to my criteria:
- Toxicity, in terms of requirements (and professors, perhaps)
- Participation in class
- Amount of sleep
- Difficulty level of examinations
- Unnecessary whining
- Frequency of asking the question: “When will this semester end?“
- Phil Games finals
- An impromptu speech
- A performance
- A novella to finish
- Othello to finish
- A little research on History
- A videotaped group discussion
- A videotaped interview
- A project on my growth & development
Not to mention that finals week, unfortunately yet hopefully (because UPM is planning to extend the regular days for classes, but I hope it doesn’t push through), is rearing its ugly head and is menacingly following the trails of next-freaking-hell week.
So much for those, anyway.
September tired and depressed me a lot. A lot. I had a string of failures strewn in my path, each of which I picked, like wild flowers down the road less traveled. I held them in my hands as I progressed, reminders of the mistakes I’ll try my best not to commit again.
As my Filipino 50 professor says,
Once is a mistake. Twice is a tragedy.
I think that, more than anything, I am learning so much this semester. In and out of the classroom.
“‘Cause baby, when the ground starts shakin’, you gotta know when you got a good thing.“Lady Antebellum, When You Got a Good Thing