Isa sa mga dilemma ng karamihan ay kung may taong magmamahal sa kanya. Kung mayroon man, mapapantayan ba nito ang pagmamahal niya?
Ang tanong: Nasusukat ba ang pag-ibig?
Kung nasusukat ito, ano ang sukatan? Kapag may mga pagkakataon bang pumalya s'ya ay masasabi mo na itong sapat na pruwebang hindi ka niya ganoon kamahal? Kung minsanan lang ang pagsambit ng ginintuang mga katagang "Mahal kita," tutukuyin mo na itong pagbabawas sa sukat?
Kung nasusukat ito, ano ang mas gugustuhin mo ang mas malaki ang pagmamahal sa iyo ng nagmamahal o mas malaki ang pagmamahal mo sa mamahalin? Sa mabuting aral, hindi ba paulit ulit sinasabing okay lang na hindi ibalik ang iyong binibigay? Basta ang importante raw ay magbigay ka ng magbigay. Ngunit sa totoong buhay, hindi ba't wala nga namang gustong magpalamang at magulangan? Maisasakatuparan mo ba ang pag-ibig kung hindi ka na iniibig? May silbi pa ba ito kung may nakaaangat sa pagbibigay?
At kung nasusukat nga talaga ito, may pantay ba talaga na pag-ibig? 'Yong tipong kung gaano mo sya kadalas maisip at kalalim unawain, ganoon din sya sa iyo? O kabalastugan lang ang ganitong klaseng pagkakapantay pantay? Lahat ba ay madamot sa larangan ng romansa?
Sa tingin ko, walang timbangan sa larangan ng pag-ibig. Kung mayroon man, wala na sigurong mga happy endings. Lagi at laging may lalamang kung susukatin. At kung may lalamang, edi ugat ito sa mga hidwaan. Kung may sukatan, baka lahat ay sugatan. Sabi nga sa sermon ng isang pari, "Kapag ang pag-ibig kinuwenta, nawawalan ng kwenta." Siguro maaaring umusbong, lumalim, malanta o hindi tumuloy --pero hindi ito nasusukat. At mas lalong hindi dapat sukatin.
Kaya kung ako sa'yo wag kang hihingi ng 1 Terabyte na pagmamahal.
I have inspected all screens.
I have taped the edges of windows.
I have secured all the doors.
I have assembled fly traps and killers.
Hoping to catch you.
But here you are, still.
Still here from the very beginning.
You sneaky mosquito.
You little fellow.
Haaa! I weighed like the champion in your absence.
Or so I thought that you were all gone.
Maybe all that triumph was just a false pretense.
Have I known that you were still there,
hiding during daytime,
or escaping my scrutiny,
I should have built my walls an inch thicker,
sprayed repellents all over my place--
or even a thousand times with such obsessive compulsiveness
until I see you breathing your last huff and puff.
But Alas, here you are.
Circling my ears as I lay still
Over and over.
Buzzing the same sounds.
cutting my sleep.
You sneaky mosquito.
Sa umpisa pa lang, bigo ka na.
May dingding sa inyong pagitan.
Hanggang dito ka lang, alam mo.
Pero pipilitin mong buhagin ang dingding,
maski 'sing tibay ng bakal na klase ito,
maski sabihing kahibangan ang pag-asa.
Mamalabisin mo pa rin ang dasal,
Pitong nobena kada linggo,
Walong baryang ihinahagis sa balon,
Siyam na sumakabilang buhay na panaginip na kayo at kayo,
Isang milyon kada segundong pagsambit ng kanyang pangalan.
Sana. Sana. Sana. Sana.
Kakatha ka ng sarili niyong kwento.
Susubakan mong pumuslit ka sa isang imahinaryong palasyo
Magtatakda ka ng panahon ng inyong pagtatagpo
Magmamalabis ka alangalang sa pagbubuwag
ng isa pang dangkal kada dangkal.
Gusto mong takpan ang kahibangang ito
Pipilitin mo s'yang kalimutan
Magpapakadalubhasa sa lahat ng bagay
Kikilalanin ang iba, gagawa ng robot na kaparis niya
Ngunit uulit ng uulit ang mga dasal
kahibangan dasal kahibangan
dasal kahibangan dasal
kahibangan kahibangan kahibangan.
Sa paglaon ng sikulo,
mauunawaan mo na hindi maiuuwi ng panahon ang lahat,
Dahil sa pagdanas mo ng pait,
maaalala mo na sa umpisa pa lang, bigo ka na nga pala.
One of the first few principles teachers instill their kindergarten students is to avoid erasures.
Misspelled words, forgotten line of a nursery rhyme that needs insertion, wrong copy of words written on the blackboard, an extra centimeter of stroke of a letter, or jumbled letters of a homework-- Avoid all these if you can!
Of course, you can always turn the Mongol pencil upside down. One careless mistake and the ever reliable eraser will do all the correcting. One rub, two rubs, three rubs and swish-- erroneous fellows are all gone! But still, there are cases when traces of crossed-out writings would still be apparent from the forceful hands of the culpable writer. The black marks are all gone; but the chiseled writings that were once engraved, sometimes sit on the paper all too well, that one cannot deny.
It gets harder when you move up to Grade 3, when you say goodbye to good old pencils (save for the drawings during art class) for the welcoming of ballpens. The ink becomes a tougher enemy for the careless. There's the liquid paper, of course! But everybody hates the large amount of time it takes to apply. You cover it with a single brush to the right.. you count one to ten and once dry, you write it again! Or a single roll to the left... remedy the old strokes...And Magic! Or in cases when you answered the essay in a bad light, you apply it to the whole page like a murderer covering the evidence of his crime. Oh, but one cannot forget the frown of the teacher when she sees the white tapes of massacre!
Perfecting mess, for the non-OCs, is simple! Cross the error with one line, as if nothing happened. Or for those who cannot hide their fury of mistake, they'll do the crossing more than once, like a guilty writer encircling the mistake with inks of clouds. Ahhh you mess, I'll muddle you with more mess! But for the perfectionist, who wants his hands all too clean, a simple slip of a long stroke deserves to be omitted. A page crumpled.. tossed to the trash bin! Another length of rewriting from the start!
But as students graduate from school, how do they carry the valuable lesson of the good teacher to their lives? How do they apply the habit of straightening crooked lines and avoiding erasures? Except for filling up employment records or signing cheques that need a careful drafting of inks, one easily forgets the lecture of the kindergarten teacher-- Avoid erasures.
It doesn't always come in writing. At work, when faced with a folly, you try to remember it. From root cause analysis to a mental note to brain-- Avoid the folly! In business dealings, when an unforeseen risk crops up, you suddenly become attentive. In relationships, when dealt with personal differences, you compromise.
But just like how forceful hands of an erring student carve a transparent permanent trace on a paper, or a crossed out line of an indelible ink intertwined with past musings, some mistakes cannot be erased. An accidental pulling of the gun's trigger can result to a bloody murder of an innocent boy's life. A wrong judgment call can wound the fate of lovers. A mad combination of lust, desire and rainy evening can produce an unwanted baby nine months after. A traumatic heartbreak can wrinkle the face with pain. A wrong bet that popped out of a young man's head at the casino can scoop out all his fortune. A bunch of stills of sadness from a childhood past can pollute the memory forever. A split-second decision to hit the gas before the red light can catapult into a waste of life. A batch of released hurtful lines can pierce the emotions like daggers replaying the lacerating of words on and on.
Sometimes the damage has been done. Sometimes games are over. Sometimes all that is left in this world are scars. Sometimes there is just no way to escape mistakes. Sometimes all paths lead you astray. Sometimes the only way out is to admit defeat and go on with life-- like how we crumple a page of a paper whenever too much errors of handwriting become all too visible. Sometimes there is no room for neat-freaks, just simple cures of chaos. Sometimes you just have to admit to the teacher that in this world, misspelled words cannot be avoided just as how sometimes erasers cannot be found inside the pencil case.
I grieve for the silence,
The lost words we left dangling on a seabed of emotions.
I grieve for the passive surrender,
The long wait for time to unweave the stillness.
I grieve for the bare touch of the dragon,
The hope after hope that soft caresses would restore everything.
I grieve for the barren thoughts that could have amputated all doubts,
The need for words that could have changed it all.
How your day was, what you were thinking,
How my tuxedo didn’t fit me, your take on the news,
Your foot was itching, you were sorry.
I grieve for the quietness that taught us how to sulk,
The assumptions that concretized between the unspoken.
I grieve for the long dinner table,
How we remembered how sumptuous it was despite the lack of exchange of words.
I grieve for the snaky roads that grew us a chair apart,
How thoughts became unheard, how we lost the meaning of the signs.
I grieve for the passivity of time,
I grieve for the running miles of distance,
I grieve for the loneliness enveloping our skies,
But mostly, I grieve for my pride’s