quit

“If the forces of nature continue
to swoon me with heresies and insults,
then I must retreat to my hole
and close the lid forever.”

-12 / 06 / 07 (12:05pm)

Quit. It is such a strong word. It is so strong that it demands the ultimate decision of merely fulfilling it. But no matter how strong it is, ironically it connotes the idea of weakness.

I always know that in order to develop an aptitude on something, you have to rub elbows with people who are wiser than you. But what if you are in a position that you’re supposed to be the wise man and the people around must learn something from you but, instead, end up as a carton cut-out representing an ideal picture? That will be a catastrophe. That’s my case; I am like a living hoax, a conman, a walking bouncing check. It is so sad to learn (or accept) that I always end up in situations wherein I eventually regret having stepped on a new territory.

Yes, I have become a bitter gourd once, then made me pathetically excusing for the clutter I have made, which then leads me trying very hard trimming some forsaken responsibility I have gotten into. And what better way to solve such absurd problems? Yield and leave immediately! I don’t blame the world by spinning so fast that I can hardly catch up, what I want to blame is that why in the first place I have been so ambitious.

Forgive me for being histrionic but seeing the reflection of myself on Boy’s magic mirror, I see my face wearing that practiced smile again. It is the most deceiving art I have learned and I thought I have mastered it. I am wrong, pala.

I have been working in a field that further stretches my efficiency of delegating tasks of which I am actually not worth it. Blech! I foresee that I would vomit upon rereading that line in the days to come but really, that’s what constantly nags me after that one unexpected night of exchanging vinegar-dipped words—a night wherein a slice of silence finally dragged two clashing people finalizing their almost-eternal hidden feud.

Speaking of vinegar let us metaphorically illustrate that I am currently in a bowl of salad; the place being the bowl and its people as the composition that makes up the salad. Fast forward, let’s again oversimplify things by saying that the bowl of salad last year was the best salad in the world—the combination of textured vegetables, bits of meat, flavorful spices, and the creamy sauce make up for the perfect dish. But in this year’s serving, there’s just too much pepper. And when there’s too much of that thing, the salad will obviously taste bad. It contradicts other elements of the salad leading to a chaotic, unpalatable mix of supposedly edible greens.

I am lost. In fact, we are all lost. It just coincides that there is a unifying element in each and every one of us that made us intact (or form) as a group.

Maybe I am just overreacting. Maybe this is another ordeal. But maybe this is not quitting after all. Probably what I need is just a different kind of dish.