Starting a blog is harder than I thought.
At first, I had to contend with the technology involved of uploading, lay-outing, choosing the appropriate picture. Sometimes, I spend hours getting the fonts just right. Does it really matter whether I choose arial black over century gothic? But often, and I am irked to admit this, I miss the self-imposed deadline because of a lack of discipline. I either fail to wake up early enough to start a topic. Or, in the rare instances that I wake up to my schedule, I find myself unable to sort my jumbled, unwieldy thoughts. At the end of the blogging hour, my computer screen stares back at me looking like the literary equivalent of Dr. Frankenstein’s experiment—one-eyed phrases, crooked limbs of sentences, still-born thoughts. On the other hand, in the rare instances that lightning struck my writing, I realized that my day was clearer, my plans had a gilt-edged focus, I craved for exercise, I was able to accomplish more tasks and yes., I had better sex.
Mystics have known all along that sitting alone in a room with no one but one’s thoughts gave far better results. The act of blogging, I suppose, is my substantial compliance to communion with the Om. When done properly, it grounds the confused, multi-tasking, third world schizophrenic which is me. The white laptop screen is my mind. I am alone, the sun is just starting to warm up in the horizon. There is no one tugging at my sleeve for this task or that favor. I am confronted by the reality beneath my consciousness. And this is what emerges: “I have to bring the car to the shop why didn’t I not do it last Wednesday now I have to do an extra trip and won’t be able to save gas I should have done the to-do list no wonder I forgot to pick up my blood test results with my stress test or stress test? – shit, that was yesterday. That stupid client is such an asshole why don’t I just terminate the retainer? are you stupid? You can’t live without the monthly check to pay for food on the table and your trip to Boaracay and your sister’s cry for help for her daughter’s tuition. My mom is always looking over my shoulder always asking me when I will marry she lives with me but I feel I live with her but its ok because I love her and she’s just getting old and I hope I won’t grow old like that I am too tired no I am not I feel sad no you don’t I am happy because I will see my love later and excited we will meet later for dinner and his smile makes me warm inside and he holds my hands and I’m re-charged and everything is fine in the world.”
Wading through all that trash and finding wisdom to share with other people who may or may not come across this blog is the excuse for this confessional. Notice that I begin this piece with an address: “Kaibigan” meaning friend. I presume that the reader will, like an ally across the table, listen with empathy and find meaning with me as I gut myself in public.