I'm Sorry

I'm sorry if I can't stop looking at you. I just can't stop staring at your eyes. So many songs beginning with descriptions of pretty eyes that I've taken what they meant for granted. In all my years, I've never really grasped what they were trying to convey. Now I know how they feel. I feel what they feel when I look at yours. Sometimes I feel like I can drown in those eyes. That describe how I might, I cannot give justice to how pretty your eyes really are. This is silly, I know, but I feel that I can die a happy man if those eyes are the last things I see.

But it's not just your eyes I'm looking at though. Mostly, I keep looking at you because I still cannot believe that you are real and that you are there with me. That due to some unfathomable force in the universe, the two of us met, and despite all the truckloads of shit life had given me these past couple of years somehow, your presence makes my burden more bearable. And I've gotten used to so many things going bad in my life that try as I might, I still cannot fully accept that you're giving me your time and effort. You're spending those with me and I... I just have to look at you to believe that you are real. I have to look at you all the time because you might turn out to be just my hallucination.

I'm sorry if I couldn't stop moving closer to you. When we're walking, I know, I walk too closely. When we sit, I sit too closely. If I could, I would have climbed on you just to get closer. And at times I really had to restrain myself from hugging you or kissing you right then and there in the open, especially when we're facing each other and I... I don't really know what got into me. I've never been like this before and I'm at a loss on how to explain why. I'm just aware of how things are and I know they sound silly and this is why I am apologizing.

I am sorry, if at times, I turn out to be annoying when we talk or that I seem to be mocking you. The truth is, I seldom have my wits with me when I'm with you. My mind flies. And I scramble for things to say so I may come out a looby sometimes from your perspective. I'm sorry for that. And I get so excited that you're there and I know that we can't have all day so my tongue positively flaps and so sometimes I am not able to check what I'm saying. I'm rarely like that in my own classes. But when I'm with you, I'm turned upside down. And that's all there is to it. There's no helping it.

I'm sorry if, when we're sitting, my legs keep searching yours under the table. Or when we're watching a movie, I just have to feel your arm next to me. You don't let me hold your hand and that's a wise move, but I just feel I have to touch you in some way. I know it's quite rude, and other people might notice, but I just can't resist being close to you. I... I really don't command my body to do such things but that's what it wants and that's what I want also and I hope you don't mind and I'm sorry if I'm forward. I really couldn't help it.

And I'm sorry if at times, I get these racy thoughts about you. It's not just lust and we've talked about it. It's more of a... fire. A need to please you. A need to just be together in that way and I couldn't explain it any better than that.

And I'm sorry if, when we're apart, I couldn't stop asking if you're doing okay. I couldn't stop worrying. I couldn't stop caring. And I know it's stupid to overdo it and trust me when I say I do but it's not possible for me to not care about you. I can stop asking, if you wish it, but I won't stop worrying. I won't stop caring. And I suppose that's all there is to it.

And I'm sorry. If I can't be exactly what you need. I'm sorry if I fall too short in many things. I'm sorry if I'm too eager or too excited or too passionate about these things but this is just the way I am. This is how I... how I care, and to ask me to stop doing these things would be as impossible as asking a magnet to stop getting attracted.

And I know you deserve someone much better than me. And you know that too. And I'm sorry but I've changed my mind about that now. Because I think, at this point, it is safe to say that I like you. I like you very much, mood swings and all. High maintenance and all. Meanness and all. And in the end, I might be sorry for admitting this, I know. I might be putting myself in a long road with a dead end but I don't care. The harsher the road the better because I'll prove my worth along the way. But if that really happens and you realize that you can't, then that's fine. That's how it goes.

Just promise me one thing: Please don't say "I'm sorry" if it should end.

Say "Thank you" instead.

Because like the saying goes, we shouldn't cry because it's over. We should smile instead, because it happened.

Shady Place

Once I met a Little Boy and he was mean and he was tired and he was grumpy
He looked like a hipster with his bonnet on so I took him home to keep him warm and cuddly

I led his hand to Shady Place, a house built of blood, salt, and candy
With my dog Snow and with my left toe, we had games and had fun and were happy

Days passed and oh ever so slowly, he admitted that he was beginning to like me
And so I jumped to say "Calooh! Callay!" joyful days are coming aplenty

But there was a darkness to this Little Boy, a history he still hasn't told me
And as the days unfolded, my proteins misfolded, as he told me that he wasn't ready

Yet I smiled and I said, no worries my berries, I will not turn you into a zombie
Still the days seemed darker, the nights still grew colder, and my heart began to feel real scary

"Oh Little Boy" I told him, "I once was like you yet I chose to stay gay and be merry"
But he was a black hole, that was his starring role, and he stayed good friends with old Worry

So I went up to this room, to a very secret room, a place I was trying to get ready
On the head of the bed, was his name painted red, too bad my plan would not be carried

And so I talked to the Sun to the Stars to the Moon, I asked why I must fail I'm so weary
But they told me to stay, to watch and to play, and that the key is never to hurry

So I went to the Little Boy, playing with his little toy, and told him he can stay till February
Lovers we may not be so friends instead we'll be, and Shady Place will always be his sanctuary.

And he smiled and he hugged me and we were all so happy and with Snow we had a pajama party
But then in the morning, a morning for mourning, he left me a note saying "I'm sorry"

Tunes

I pulled my guitar from under my bed and dusted off its case. I eased it out carefully. I placed it on my lap and fingered the smudges on its blue surface. There is this dent which it got when it fell from my chair during the days in the dorm when Bart was teaching me how to pluck. There's this piece of masking tape I wrapped around one of the tuners because it was wobbly. Then there's this "Demons" album cover sticker I attached to its side from the time I just released the album. That made me remember why I bought the guitar in the first place though. And I frowned.

I tried to strum G D Am C and noticed how out of tune it was - no surprise since I hadn't used it for months. I had been too busy, I thought. I did not have the time to spare for such things. But mostly though, there was just no good reason for me to play my guitar because there was no one to play it for.

I traced the guitar strings while I immersed myself in recalling those days I played it back in IC's old junior faculty room. When I will play it with whoever was willing to sing. Sometimes it was Cressa who will sing. Sometimes Bart, Thommy, and Louvy. Sometimes Ate Babeh. And if there's no one around, I sing myself, not caring if I'm causing a racket because I know my colleagues love me all the same. And I had a grand time, just me and my guitar, there in my cubicle in the faculty room. Especially when I improvised a ballad out of the K-pop song "Nobody". It was silly, but I think it sounded nice.

And I remembered all the guys I've played the guitar for. How I played it earnestly everytime. How I really tried and did my best, even if I'm no expert when it comes to either singing or playing. I remember how I hauled it all the way to D**'s house only to learn that it went out of tune while I was traveling. I remember how I channeled my anger at J**** while he just listened and I played "Linger", strumming each chord with a violence I can barely contain. I remember how M***** taught me "California King Bed", and how we sang it even when we were in the shower together. And of course, how R* sang OPM songs and how he did it exceptionally well to the amazement of my friends though they know that he should be good since he was a real vocalist of a band.

But before all of them, I remember those lonely nights with me in the living room. When I quietly played "Just When I Needed You Most" because that was the only time I can sing it the way I really wanted to. Sure that no one will hear how my voice quivers. Sure that no one will hear how my voice breaks near the end.

Initially, I bought this guitar as a means to distract myself. As a way for me to cope after my longest relationship dissolved. And now it has become more than that. It had become a symbol for hope and love and friendship and other happy things. It has become another instrument for me to express what I feel to those I care about the most.

It had only been three years since I bought this second-hand guitar, and I'm surprised at how much it has already witnessed. How much we've gone through together. How much it had become a part of my life in a way that I did not anticipate. And pulling it out from under my bed after a long time felt like looking at old pictures again. Painful at first, maybe. But liberating in the end.

It has been months and more and now I'm finally dusting myself off from my past. I'm standing up again and I am ready for new beginnings. Like my guitar, I've been out of tune when it came to love but that doesn't mean I'm completely broken. All I needed was someone to tune me right again. All I needed was an inspiration, a reason to make me hear these melodies again. In my heart.

And my, it has been a really long time...

A Bedtime Story

...and it was already midnight, your usual bedtime, and so I asked whether you were already sleepy and you said kinda but your heart was palpitating because you drank some coffee and then I said maybe it's not because of the coffee and then you asked what it could be, then I had to say maybe it was because of cyclic AMP and all that biochem blather because it was too early to be straightforward and it simply wouldn't do.

And we had this long-winded talk about cells because the cyclic AMP brought it on but you insisted that it was probably the coffee and you said you were also hungry and that was usually the case, then I asked you to go grab a bite and you said you're too lazy to get out of bed, and I said if I were there I'd go get you some pizza and bring it over to your bed and you said that would be lovely.

Then I asked you if I were there in your room, will you allow me to lie down beside you and you said only if I promise not to do anything and I promised and that I will be stiff, stiff as a post, but then I thought you were cold, would you come a little closer to me and you said no thank you, you have a blanket, then I said now I'm the one who was cold and I asked if I can share your blanket and you said you'll get me another blanket, but I did not want you to rouse yourself so I offered to take the blanket but then I slipped and fell...?

And you said I fell on the bed then I said I bounced back and fell on...? And you said I fell on the floor this time and then I said I hit my head on the floor and now I've got temporary amnesia and I looked at you and I asked who you are.

And you told me I was a priest with a vow of chastity and then I said, I still don't know who you were, and then you said you were confessing your sins to me, and then I questioned why we'd be doing that in your bedroom but you brushed that aside and you said that your sin was that you lied to me that I was a priest.

And then I said that since I was the priest, the punishment I gave you was that you will care for the first man you will see, and surprise, that was me, but then you said that I couldn't do that since I do not know who I really was yet but then I said it didn't matter and then you said since it was your house, it's your rules but I said that when you said that you slipped and fell on...?

The bed you said, and then I said you bounced back and fell into my arms and as I looked at you, my memory came back, and then you said you fell asleep in my arms, and so I said I'd lay you down on your bed carefully and guard you while you sleep then you said "Goodnight Bry, til tomorrow" and I said "Good night C****, I'll keep my watch so you will be safe" and it turned out to be a great night all in all.

And now you're sleeping there in your room, back in the real world, but I'm still here within my imagination, watching you sleep and I tell you it's still too early you know, it's much too early, but I want to thank you for keeping this little boy inside of me alive again and I do not know what will happen to us, really, but I do not care because these precious moments that I've had after meeting you had been the happiest I've had all year.

"And so it came to pass that in the dying land of his heart, rain came finally pouring down from the heavens, bringing life to its mountains and valleys and plains - a reminder that what was thought dead can still be revived. Once sown, the seed of love persists. Dormant, it may be at times, but a love as deep as this cannot be uprooted. It lasts until the end of time."

Sex & Sadness

It was very late at night and I was on my way home when I passed by these prostitutes haggling with a guy on a motorcycle. He was surrounded by these girls in skimpy outfits, and all their eyes were glued to the guy as if they were the predator and he the prey. I am hardly an innocent when it comes to these things but I still felt a strong distaste for the scene and I had to literally shake my head because my reaction was that strong. I felt a mixture of weariness and aversion with a lingering aftertaste of sadness. A part of my mind was amused at my reaction and as an experiment, I tried to predict how I would react if the prostitutes were male instead.

If they were callboys, I would have looked at them with more interest maybe. Not that I would "purchase" one in that scenario since they make me afraid for my safety (and health) and I don't think I can spare the money, but more for the shallow curiosity of whether they look good or not. I thought that I would feel less sympathy for male prostitutes since I've always thought that men could handle these things better and that women lose more of their honor when they do these things. But I realize that this is an assumption, and a pass at the weakness of women besides. And my perspective about honor in this case is arguable. So I think that my reaction was not logically sound, and should therefore be corrected in the future.

I thought I would feel less aversion to the gay customer as well, since as a homosexual, I can relate more to the gay guy's need for sex. But lust is lust, whether straight or gay, and this is another illogically founded feeling.

And about the sadness, I suppose I also got this wrong since for me, gays looking for callboys does not inspire as much sadness as a woman selling her body. I am clearly biased here, since as I've said earlier, I have this tendency to protect women and consider them weaker than men. So after sorting them, we can suppose my initial reactions were mostly wrong.

But what remained with me though was the sadness of the whole setup from both perspectives. From the customer, that someone cannot find intimacy that one has to pay for it. From the prostitute, that someone has to act out intimacy just to make ends meet. I know that in countries where prostitution is legal, this is hardly a case for an emotional nitpicking and perhaps if I weren't feeling too sensitive, the scene would have passed me by without leaving a lasting impression. But in my current state, it painted in my head a picture of extreme sadness. I can see them having sex and both feeling empty afterward. I can see them smoking, both looking at the ceiling but seeing beyond it.

Or maybe it is just me and my sentimentality. For some, sex is a business. For others, sex is a commodity. Sex is just sex and that is that.

You get each other naked and that is that.

You pleasure each other and that is that.

You taste each other's fluids and that is that.

You insert the penis into the vagina. You insert it then you pull it out then you do it again. You focus on how good it feels and you do not think of anything else. You do not think of who the prostitute is and knowing her name is even optional. You do not think of her life beyond the motel room you are in. You think of her only as a female. An animal. You think of her like that. You think of her as a means to an end. You do not think she has feelings, other than how good you think you are making her feel. She does not feel used. She does not feel maltreated. All she feels is the orgasm you think you are making her feel and that is that. The world does not exist outside your joined bodies and that is that.

You fuck each other senseless and that is that. And then you pay her and then you may pretend to cuddle and you may get attached to her emotionally or whatever but that is part of the game. That is part of the deal and you can choke on how pretentious everything is. How devastatingly shallow it all was and no matter how you struggle against it, you cannot escape the trappings of a trade which is as old as civilization itself.

And I know these things because I've been the customer.

And I know these things because I've been the prostitute.

And fuck the world for destroying my innocence I wish I could have preserved.

Fuck the world for making me so sad that I believed sadness can dissolve sadness.

And no matter how adept you are at analyzing your feelings, a man is just a man, whether on a throne or on a pigsty.

And the cycle just goes on and on. On and on. A spreading web of sadness blooming under the cover of the night.

Shells

I've never been one for taking too many pictures during vacations. I'm not really sure why. It could be as simple as me not having a good enough camera. Or that I can't be bothered to take pictures when I'm relishing a particular view or moment. Or maybe because I choose to pander to my sentimentality, preferring to keep such things in my memory.

So I was thinking about that when we were walking back towards the boat. And then I thought, maybe, I'd change my mind this once and keep something to preserve this day. Not that I doubt that I will forget it, the way this weekend getaway had been going. I just wanted something more tangible. Something to remind me of this day without me having to bring it up in my head in the first place. So as we were walking, the waves lapping at our feet, I bent my head low and looked for stones along the pinkish shore.

I knew you were walking behind me. I had always been aware where you are with respect to me. And for a moment, while I was searching the sand, I hoped you'd notice what I was doing. Because I wasn't really looking for something for me, but for you to keep. For you to remember that there was this one day when I was with you. A day when I was a bigger part of your life than I usually was.

I picked up three stones before I reached the boat. And I lined them up beside me once I've reached my seat. I looked at them and I thought that they looked nice but I wasn't satisfied. They weren't special enough. Anyone could go back to these same islands and get these same pebbles. So when we reached the dock, I left them behind in the boat, still lined up beside my seat.

An hour later, we were poring through the souvenir shops and I continued my search there. I didn't want anything which can be used, like shirts or keychains. I wanted something which will have no other purpose other than for you to remember this day. But I couldn't find anything suitable. Visually, most were attractive, but none held enough meaning. I was about to give up and we were on our way out of the area when I saw this stack of small shells on a table. They were mostly ignored because they couldn't quite compare with the other, gaudier trinkets on sale. And I saw this one pretty shell which looked unique from the others and I knew that that was the one. I checked the pile just to be sure there were no other like it there and there was none. The woman who sold it to me also confirmed to me that there was no other like it in her collection. It was obvious that she was puzzled at my choice of souvenirs - the stack did lie there, half-forgotten and a bit dusty. She seemed pleased though, and she gave me an extra shell for good measure.

I kept it on my palm on our trike ride back to the town. I held it even if I was riding behind the driver, and it might have been dangerous for my safety with only one of my hands free to hold myself steady, but I was trying to infuse it as much as possible with my own warmth before I give it to you. I was trying to make my mark on it.

Even when we were having dinner, I kept fingering it in my pocket. I was thinking of how to give it to you. I did not run out of creative ideas - how to not make it awkward, how to not make it seem a big deal - but I lacked the courage. And we finished dinner with me still fingering it in my pocket.

You lagged behind while we were walking to the bus terminal, and I thought then that that was the perfect time since I was also, incidentally, lagging behind. And I kept waiting for you to walk beside me (I even slowed my pace) but you still kept holding back a bit . And then too soon, we reached the terminal, and then finally you talked to me while the rest of our friends were busy at the ticket booth and it was such a grand time for me, really, since we seldom had moments to ourselves like that, and I put my hand in my pocket again and I thought that this was the time but then the rest of our friends went traipsing back to us one by one and I knew I missed it again.

And then we were sitting on the benches for the one-hour wait for the bus and I made it a point to place my bag beside you because I was thinking of giving it to you while you were bored with waiting. But then I had to smoke first because I was nervous and I kept stealing glances at you and I hope you did not notice. And when my stick ran out, and I finally sat beside you I chickened out again and I postponed it again until later when we were on the bus, hopefully, still sitting beside you so I wouldn't have to make a commotion, walking along the aisle in the bus to hand it to you.

But there were a lot of people already on the bus when it arrived so we had no seating choices at all and we were all separated and although you were only a few seats away but for me, it seemed like miles. And then I thought that my last chance to give the shell would be when you pass me by when you're getting off the bus since you'll be getting off earlier than me. And I kept fingering it in my pocket until I fell asleep, making sure to wake up before you do get off so I wouldn't miss my last chance.

And then your stop came, and you stood with the rest of our friends as you prepared your things and I watched you pass me by but you didn't even glance my way. And I was left there on my seat, still clutching the shell. The shell which meant so much to me. The shell which was meant for you. And I looked at you while you were all standing on the waiting shed and I'm not sure you even noticed me wave goodbye.

And I have no right to be angry, much less to feel hurt because I can't expect anything. Not even your acknowledgement that here I am, with my head filled with thoughts of you and there you are, looking at me occasionally but even in the rare times that you do, I get the feeling that you look through me and I couldn't complain.

And I berate myself because I'm much too careful about you. That I'm too torpe and too indirect and I kept letting moments pass me by. But then, as I've said years ago, this is probably the best that I can do - to do practically nothing because we both know that you deserve someone better than me. And that me staying away is my way of saying that I care about you too much I do not want you to be bothered by someone like me.

And I'm grabbing at this because, you know, I just want to feel again. I just want to feel what I used to feel when I was still whole and undamaged. It is true that my mind had never been as full as this before, but my heart had never been this hollow as well. Like a shell.

And as the bus zoomed along the night-lit EDSA, I put my hands on my pocket to finger the shell I should've given you - this special shell I infused with my warmth, this pretty shell I didn't expect to find at the last moment, this shell which was supposed to remind you of me - and I realized that it was I who needed it more than you do.

Ang Tunay Na Wagi

Madalas, mag-isa lang ako sa Adamson. Mag-isang naglalakad papasok o pauwi. Mag-isang kumakain o nagyoyosi. Tuloy, wala akong libangan kundi ang mag-isip tuwing nag-iisa ako. Kasi di ba, minsan, hindi na naman nating kailangang ibuhos ang 100 porsyento ng ating utak sa mga bagay gaya ng pagkain o paglalakad. Yung tipong naka-autopilot ka na lang habang hinahayaan mo ang isip mong kutkutin ang kung ano mang konsepto ang tiyempong napadpad sa iyong isipan.

Pauwi na ako minsan at naglalakad ako sa Walkway. At dahil medyo mahaba-haba ring lakad iyon, mas malayo ang nararating ng isip ko kapag nandun ako. Nakatingin lang ako sa dinadaanan ko habang nag-iisip ako tungkol sa buhay ko.

Kapag nag-iisip ka tungkol sa buhay mo, hindi mo maiiwasan minsang i-kumpara ito sa iba. Kasi parang hindi talaga kumpleto ang iyong analysis kung puro internal lang. Paano mo siya tuluyang ma-aassess kung wala kang batayan di ba? Kaya iyon, nung hapon na iyon at naglalakad ako sa Walkway, naisip ko kung mas magaling nga ba talaga ako kumpara sa ibang tao.

Naisip ko ito kasi na-realize kong parang madalas naman ako na masabihang magaling. Hindi ko alam kung paano ba talaga para sa ibang tao, kasi hindi ko naman sila nababantayan 24/7, so nag-assume lang ako base sa mga observations ko tuwing may mga gatherings.

Sa ngayon, mas madalas akong masabihang magaling dahil sa pagtuturo. Dati naman, noong nag-aaral pa ako, sa acads. Parang hindi lalampas ang isang buwan na walang nagsasabi sa akin na "Ang galing mo." Pero kasi, hindi lang naman ako sa mga bagay na ito magaling. Minsan, kung gagawa ako ng compilation album, o kaya visual art - mapa-official man na poster o video o for fun lang. Minsan, sa choreo ng sayaw. Minsan sa mga ideyas lang in general. Minsan sa pagsusulat ko. Minsan fashion sense. Hindi ko alam talaga kung nagiging mabait lang ba talaga ang mga tao sa akin kung bakit parang madalas nila akong masabihang magaling sa maraming bagay.

Kung hindi mo ako kilala, iisipin mo sigurong isang malaking kayabangan lang ang pag-eenumerate ko sa mga bagay na ito. Well, hindi yun ang point nito (at ang aking laking loser ko naman kung gagawin ko yun di ba?). Ang point ko ay kahit pala na masabihan kang magaling, hindi pa rin iyon sapat na maniwala ka na magaling ka nga. Otherwise, ang buong blog entry ito ay naglaman na lang sana ng dalawang salita: Magaling ako. Period.

Hindi rin ito case ng "false humility". Naniniwala akong wala namang masama kung tanggapin mong magaling ka, kung may valid basis ka naman talaga na magaling ka. Pero sa kaso ko, parang hindi ko talaga deserved na masabihan na magaling ako sa maraming bagay. Dahil sa tingin ko, wala naman talaga akong ginawang malaking effort para maging ganito.

Sabi nga ng roommate ko dati na matalino, nasa genes lang naman niya talaga ang lahat. May mga taong pinapanganak talaga na matalino, kaya kung maging Top 1 ka man, well dapat lang kasi you were made for that. Parang hinangaan mo yung taong nakakaabot ng bunga ng puno e samantalang matangkad lang naman kasi siya. Anong ineffort niya dun di ba? Wala. Para din itong kaso nung mga magaganda at pogi at mga naturally sexy. Anong ineffort nila dun para makapagyabang? Wala din.

Well, kung ganito ang kaso, ano na ang magiging basehan natin kung sino ba talaga ang magaling at sino ang hindi? Siguro, ang susi dito ay nasa effort na malampasan mo ang mga limits mo. Yung tipong mga success stories ng mga underprivileged. Yun. Yung mga "rags to riches." Yung mga studious lang talaga pero nag-top pa din sa klase. Yung mga maparaan kahit na naturally kapos o hindi pinagpala. Yun para sa akin ang mga taong magagaling.

Sa kaso ko kasi, wala naman talaga akong effort. Isa akong malaking tamad. Kaya nga wala akong matatawag na progress sa aking career kasi wala naman talaga akong ginagawa talaga. Naghihintay lang ako. Tapos kapag meron, yun. Ganun akong klaseng tao kaya tingin ko I really do not deserve all this praise.

Ang totoo nga, if anything, ay dissatisfied ako sa mga konting achievements ko. At this age, dapat I should be making bigger waves of change. Lagi kong sinasabi sa klase na ang ultimate kong pangarap ay world domination. Akala nila nagbibiro ako. And at present di ba. Like wow, sino na nga ba ako? I've made a name na din naman siguro, in a notorious way, pero still, I'm barely somebody. Nakaka-panic na nga actually, kaya medyo tinatakbuhan ko na lang ang sarili kong mala-Everest na expectations kesa ma-frustrate ako all my living hours.

Hindi ko alam kung masasabing healthy ba ang ganitong perspective, na talagang wala na talaga akong nagawang ayos talaga kung tutuusin. Ayoko naman ding magka-inferiority complex. Pero kasi, may pagka-unfair talaga na yung ibang tao, capable of grand things kaya it is really easier for them to stand out and make a difference. I may have a potential of sorts siguro, pero the way I'm using that now? Ay! I'm more olats than winner. Kulang na kulang pa ateng.

Pero ang mas profound pala na na-realize ko dito ay, siguro, mas ma-aapreciate ng isang tao kung may magsasabi sa kanyang magaling sa mga bagay na alam nating pinaghirapan niya. Siguro ito ang dahilan kung bakit parang nababawasan nang kaunti ang aking pagtanggap sa mga papuri. Kasi nga, well, dapat lang na ganun ako dahil capable ako ng mga bagay na ganito. Na parang yes, I appreciate your recognition, but truth is, I'm not at par with my own standards.

Yung naisip ko na kunyari gwapo ako, tapos laging may magsasabi sa akin na ang gwapo ko. I think mananawa na din ako dun. Mawawalan na din siya ng weight, unless isa akong uber-vain person na doon ko lang inangkla ang totality ng aking happiness.

So ang nangyari pala, ay everytime may magsasabi sa aking magaling, instead na matuwa ako ay maaalala ko lang na in truth, I'm lagging behind my own expectations. Bwiset. So huwag na lang pala. Huwag niyo akong sabihang magaling. Para mag-effort pa ako. Kasi this life had been too easy on me.

Bow.