10

i have forgotten how to write, i think. that first sentence was just so i could actually get started. in the past me keeping a journal was like me throwing a bomb high into the air so it wouldn't explode in my face. was like anna nalick singing, "if i get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me threatening the life it belongs to."

oh, i used to thrive on that. the melancholia of it all - sitting with my laptop either on my desk or on my bed, in the dark. crying, most of the time. dissecting each part of the sadness. examining each detail of it (imagine how shocked i was to read that jonathan safran foer had done the same thing in "everything is illuminated". the one that spoke to me most was the branch 'sadnesses of the intellect'). i used to wait for it. provoke it. make it surface. because it was the only way i felt real, the only way i felt like i could feel. through pain. because the opposite of it seemed too inconsistent to be more than a dream, a memory tucked away, a fleeting reality.

but now i find myself finding truth on the other side of the spectrum. and this time the only thing that makes it seem like a dream, a memory tucked away, a fleeting reality.. is my dwelling in the void of what has passed. what is gone. is the defense mechanism of only hoping like crazy on the inside - so deep inside that it is easily denied. no, this can't happen to me. no, this is too good to be true. no... why do i and what did i do to deserve that.

dear adrienne,
hope like crazy on the outside.

on the outside. i have yet to discover how to articulate the moments on the lighter side of the spectrum that have my name on it. expressing it makes it more real. affirms that i experienced it instead of just witnessed it. maybe write like i used to. like a child. with glitter pens and drawings and emphasized words.

last week i was ripped of two things: a part of home, and my physical home. i spent a week up north at my cousins' house, much against my will at first. the turn of events before that tuesday i left for cubao left me too spent, too empty. but the trip to cubao was happening. i dumped a handful of clothes into a bag. packing my art things and laptop to bring there oddly made me feel a little better. i introduced my cousins to the YE 6 mix we made and that made things lighter. an angel told me, "SEEK GOD ADI. He alone can save you. Man will always be imperfect. God is pulling you aside because He wants you for Himself."

so i laid everything down.

the week up north was spent on Heroes, card games, conversations over big bowls of cereal at 3am in the morning, waking up in time for lunch, mothers' day with 4 different kinds of cake, and then

this deserves its own paragraph - a part of home given back. an answered prayer. a realization of trust in the unseen, in the about-to-become. a realization that i have to believe in what i give. in what i feel i am, with no buts, no maybes. in the fact that when i deny myself, i deny Someone much bigger than me.

another that deserves its own paragraph - finally putting paint out of its tubes and cans, and not even using my head to do it. not at any point did i stop to think what to do next, it was like my hands knew what to do. bronze on black. out go red, orange and yellow paint tubes. bible reference. everything was just a giant wave and i felt like i was sitting back, a mere witness to it all.

and after that, like those last two paragraphs were the purpose and end of being uprooted.. one last conversation over cereal at 3am, 7 hours of sleep, painted nails, and then home down south.

dear adrienne,
believe in what you are.

--

hillsong concert experience in 12 days. singapore nostalgia turned into reality in 31. legal and should be at least allowed to drink wine with my grandfather (* !!) SLASH LSS weekend as a servant in 44. i am STOKED.

i pray that ireland does not push through early. i would love to spend at least one more Christmas here. see a little bit more of the country, discover something hidden. unearth something bright. do something to prepare me for the arts in college. i would love to breathe in all of this just a little bit more. see just a little bit more.

(*) i would love paint. really. one tube of good paint will make me ecstatic. and any kind of medium to lay it down on - a block of wood, illustration board, a sketch pad. a wall, anyone? that beautiful greenleather-bound blank-paged diary in Fully Booked which very sadly costs a bomb. black pens (Standard AE-7 Tecno). i need a bible, also. a donation to the Get Adi Her Own Holga (Or Colorsplash) fund. what i would love most is a letter. a good conversation. time with you. some sort of getaway. something sincere. something that will make the sentimental sapfest in me surface.

p.s. i forgot to mention spray paint. and thin cardboard so i can make stencils. heh heh.