“In this hour of acceptance...
I am not seeing what I wanted to see.”
29 March 2008 (SMS sent at 03:14am)
It is just one of those days in each year when one reflects occurring changes around: How does it feel? How do they taste now? What is that scent? Seeing things? Hearing voices?
Pardon for crushing your assumptions on mental struggles, but this is not a case of dementia. I may have numerous outbursts on matters both interesting and not, but I am too young for that. Young. Ah, the word…
How does it feel now?
“Young” seems to be a hobby these days rather than a natural stage in life. If one wants to feel a rush of thrill, go zip-lining. Or if one wants to feel nostalgic, check hundreds of albums in Facebook and satiate those longings. Youthfulness is available right then and there, pronto.
How do they taste now?
If the differentiation is based between the infant days and the now, of course, the distinction is epic. The tongue is an iconoclast now—sweet, sour, salty, and bitter are passé—there are umami, tangy, spicy, and the considerable sixth taste receptor for fat now. And if there’s one thing about taste right at this moment that is deeply relevant, it is the taste of success. Like wine, it enhances as it matures.
What scent is that?
It must be the stink from the cloud of pollution that aims to annihilate the lungs. The practicalities of making a living, after the episodic years of being sheltered in schools, from elementary to college, enforces the privileged man to find his own privileges, five days a week, nine hours a day, in a forest of smoke and scum.
Hearing voices?
Conversations inside the head just keep getting louder and louder. If the ruckus is not enough, another voice joins in from out of nowhere, and the overlapping discussions on pros and cons persist. Day by day, the fight between the logical, the irrational, and the safely unconditional grows bigger. And at this time, it is already Round 28,999.
Seeing things?
Pardon for crushing your assumptions on mental struggles, but this is not a case of dementia. I may have numerous outbursts on matters both interesting and not, but I am too young for that. Young. Ah, the word…
How does it feel now?
“Young” seems to be a hobby these days rather than a natural stage in life. If one wants to feel a rush of thrill, go zip-lining. Or if one wants to feel nostalgic, check hundreds of albums in Facebook and satiate those longings. Youthfulness is available right then and there, pronto.
How do they taste now?
If the differentiation is based between the infant days and the now, of course, the distinction is epic. The tongue is an iconoclast now—sweet, sour, salty, and bitter are passé—there are umami, tangy, spicy, and the considerable sixth taste receptor for fat now. And if there’s one thing about taste right at this moment that is deeply relevant, it is the taste of success. Like wine, it enhances as it matures.
What scent is that?
It must be the stink from the cloud of pollution that aims to annihilate the lungs. The practicalities of making a living, after the episodic years of being sheltered in schools, from elementary to college, enforces the privileged man to find his own privileges, five days a week, nine hours a day, in a forest of smoke and scum.
Hearing voices?
Conversations inside the head just keep getting louder and louder. If the ruckus is not enough, another voice joins in from out of nowhere, and the overlapping discussions on pros and cons persist. Day by day, the fight between the logical, the irrational, and the safely unconditional grows bigger. And at this time, it is already Round 28,999.
Seeing things?
Youth is but a chunk of biceps here, a continent of a chest there, and a wad of cash somewhere. Wrinkles? Pond’s age defying cream or Nivea anti-aging skin care can take care of that. With consumable income at hand, one can see the bounties of youth in a blink of an eye (or if it’s through Pond’s or Nivea, in seven weeks). Never has the sin of vanity so highly esteemed and germane, I find the idea cute but strange.
* * *
Year after year, the senses become susceptible even to the littlest details. I do not want to assume that this is brought about from being a year wiser now—I still find that pompous. A year doubtful, perhaps, because I think it is better to be questioning at first than being ostentatiously sharp then outwitted next. Nothing beats the inquisitive mind.
And by the way, birthdays are birthdays. Digging up a glorified meaning in my annual numbers game will always be debatable and subjective. Whatever the turnout is, I am on the affirmative axioms of the optimist side.
Cheers.
(this entry is posted three days earlier since this account will be deactivated on the Day of Taking Another Step on the Flight of Stairs)
* * *
Year after year, the senses become susceptible even to the littlest details. I do not want to assume that this is brought about from being a year wiser now—I still find that pompous. A year doubtful, perhaps, because I think it is better to be questioning at first than being ostentatiously sharp then outwitted next. Nothing beats the inquisitive mind.
And by the way, birthdays are birthdays. Digging up a glorified meaning in my annual numbers game will always be debatable and subjective. Whatever the turnout is, I am on the affirmative axioms of the optimist side.
Cheers.
(this entry is posted three days earlier since this account will be deactivated on the Day of Taking Another Step on the Flight of Stairs)
3 comments:
napaisip ako sa 6th sense that detects fat. is it because as we age eh nagiging sensor tayo ng such things or its complete opposite?
Anong ibig mong sabihin sa "nagiging sensor"? You mean, sensitive? Baka nga; we become more cognizant even to the most smallest things as we grow older.
I guess I have to take that as an advantage, para pambawi sa katandaan natin. Hahaha.
breathless. galing! happy birthday!
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