(I wrote this for an English Assignment, But I want to know about ur life too)
If there is one thing my parents taught me, out of all my years alive, it was empathy. Through empathy, I can see through another person’s eyes; see what they see, feel what they feel. It’s the secret to my writing. It is the ability to transform one’s self into another. And it is with empathy one can truly explore a book, or even a person’s mind. So, dear reader, I ask you to empathize, not just with this piece, but to society in general. I guarantee an enriching experience. I see this diversity around me as a gift. Though I do like people who understand me, I’d prefer to be exposed to new experiences and ideas. As a person, I would like to grow and understand those unfamiliar to me. I want a person to show me how their mind works. I know I would gladly do likewise.
I hope you enjoy this short slice of my life
I’d surely enjoy yours
***
Who am I? Well, I am who I am, how can I define myself to you? Usually that’s how I’d respond when questioned about my identity. I’d do my best in defining myself though. In actuality, I change like the rising tide.
Come Monday, I’m deep, hazy, and floating in a dream. Like fresh pressed coffee, drawing you to it by caressing the unseen sensation of smell, the murky depths of my mind are unreadable; words and thoughts come from my heart, drawn out by some unseen force.
Come Tuesday, I’d still be hating Monday. Coping with my tasks with brute and shocking efficiency, I’d spear through any work left to me. Lost in sheer focus and determination, I’d work into the night
Come Wednesday, I’d be fighting for the right to relax, finishing what I can and I must. The full weight of the week falling upon my shoulders, I’d fall (emotionally and maybe physically) into complete meltdown.
Come Thursday, I’d be finishing whatever’s left of Wednesday’s work. I finish what I finish in full stride and perfect pace.
Come Friday, I’m completely stoned over. (On coffee, of course)
That’s more or less the summery of me during weekdays (identity wise). So I’ll skip to the more relevant topics; Saturday and Sunday.
I am a Roman Catholic, as my forefathers before me. On Saturdays I attend the anticipated Sunday mass at six-thirty at the Annunciation Church in Tsuen Wan, serving as one of the Alter-Servers more often than not. I enjoy the mass and appreciate the prayers and rituals. Attending a Christian school, my Christian friends and peers usually find this strange and reproachable, to a degree. I recall one of my friends, Filipe, a Brazilian boy of good intent, once asked me about my faith. He asked me, what’s up about Mary and the Saints. I replied, it is grounded in tradition. He stated something along the line of, if it’s not biblical, then it’s not good or of God. Without Catholicism, your beliefs would be uprooted; before your faiths, Catholicism was Christianity, I snapped. I bit down my tongue to add, without Catholicism, you would not exist; we set up the universities and preserved the learning of the ancients. Our Priests were once the only educated men for miles around. The basics of our faith in Christ were debated by countless Theologian-Priests and monks, all of which devoted their lives to such work, coming to consensus under the Popes. Without Catholicism, the great powers of Europe would have never existed and advanced, so show some respect for another’s beliefs and shut up! Instead, I meekly compromised to avoid an uproar. I know he meant well, and I give him merit for his fervor, but a head-on assault on a person’s faith is completely uncalled for, and quite rude in all perspectives.
I am a proud Catholic, and a proud Filipino. I do admire and identify with the qualities of inbreed respect, and faith so strong that it borders fanaticism (some Filipinos crucify themselves for a time during holy week). I also admire and identify the affection and honor my people are known for, as well as the lax yet hard working traits that are incorporated into empathetic understanding. One thing I am embarrassed of is the political situation of my country, corruption, although it has worked into my family’s favor more than once, has paralyzed our government. Another is the meekness that has been woven in part to our strength. The Japanese left more than broken families and shattered homes after the war, they left a rekindled fire of racial pride; a fighting spirit rebounded after centuries of occupation and oppression. I was raised with pride to exhibit these qualities, and I try to do. Sometimes, I can get a little touchy when it comes to insults and criticism. Yet living in Hong Kong has left more than a mark on me. I’ve learned to work harder and diligently, avoiding the more sketchy philosophy of my compatriot’s at home. Living in the city has also helped me appreciate the value of rest and respite. I enjoy the camaraderie brought about by a stressful workload. Sometimes, I see myself as a healthy balance of the two. Other times, I see myself as the awkward product of a visionary and a traditionalist; Weird and new on the outside, old fashioned on the inside. I can testify to a few queer results.
One of these awkward times regards my appearance. In the eighth grade, I was always pressured by my classmates to cut my hair. I liked it the way I liked it, natural and long. There was one time I kept my hair straight and short, just like everyone else’. Then I realized that it just wasn’t me; My mother has curly hair, my sister has curly hair, my aunt, uncle and all the rest of my family, for the most part had curly hair. I recalled when I was young, I wanted straight hair like all my friends, and I got it. Then, I guess I just out grew the idea and grew my hair out. That and the fact that I almost had my head shaved bald by the barber. I stubbornly refused. I was alright for a while, then Mr. Chan told me to cut my hair, and that means that the administration was going to get on my case, so I read the handbook. Regarding length, it stated that my hair was not allowed to touch the collar. Smiling to myself, I asked Grace Mark before Mandarin class, “Grace, can you help me cut a bit of the back; you’ve cut your hair before”. Though it caused a minor spectacle, it was done. That day, right before Mandarin class, my hair was trimmed back into regulation standards, taking only three seconds to do so. It didn’t look half bad either, making little to no visual difference, other than the crucial collar rule. To this day, I adhere to a bi- or tri-annual haircut, keeping my hair nice and wavy. Late the next school year, Lady Gaga’s album, Born this way, came out, and I bought it the Monday after. I am an avid fan, I admit, ever since I got her first album. I played the CD as soon as I got home, and was listening to it while doing my homework, more or less to drown out the sound of five other people trying to get work done in various stages of frustration. All of a sudden, I found myself actually listening to one of the songs. The lyrics conveyed the freedom and fighting spirit I adored, as well as a bit of tongue in cheek rebellion. The music wasn’t bad either; I loved the beat and melody, especially the soulful saxophone solos. It seemed like the right clash of jazz and hardcore pop, tied together with the chorus, “I’ve had enough, this is my prayer; that I die living just as free as my hair”. Eventually, I checked the track name. As you can guess, it was appropriately titled “Hair”. Once I saw that, the first thing that came into my mind was, “instant personal anthem”. And I’ve loved the song ever since.
Lady Gaga in general, though, has been an inspiration to me to be who I am, and to wear what I wear. I’m a sentimental person, and cherish things that I find meaning in; through her inspiration, I convey and remind myself of traditional values, thinking and wearing modern (and somewhat eccentric) styles. A lot of people ask me why I wear rings. In truth, I find meaning in each and every one of them. I wear what I live by on my fingers; passion, fervor, memory, and duty. In occasion, I wear a black ring to signify mourning and sadness. These are symbols that remind me when I despair. My crosses, a Catholic medal-cross over a simpler Franciscan cross, signify my allegiances. My second necklace, a cross side by side with a heart, signifies what I believe. Granted, this appearance has reaped various reactions in response to my personality, mainly disbelief. I remember there was a language exchange program I participated in. I was in my usual even day garb: red sports glasses, unfortunately flashy and recently revived monitor headphones; full complement of symbolic jewelry. I anticipated the disbelief when I said that I like to read, and write poetry. I recall one girl, Anny or Annie, ask “Anyone else got the feeling that he’s lying”. Luckily, I was in a good mood. It wasn’t the first time I had encountered prejudice, yet it sucks just as hard. I’ve always hated prejudice; it might have been the stares, or the inkling of doubt that I was wrong, though I never really knew why until I encountered it myself.
I can recount a couple of experiences when I’ve encountered prejudice. One of the most notable experiences was being stopped by the police in front of Shek Mun station, whist in school uniform, on the way home. I’d probably guess it was the 3 bags I carried (two out of necessity) that set them off, as well as my foreign appearance. They just came up to me with the usual, “Hi, do you have ID”? Yes, I reply. Then comes the whole interrogation thing; Where are you going: Home, Where do you live: near Gold Coast, Can I see inside your bag; sure…see just books. Justin Wong comes along and I say hey, got stopped by the cops bro, then he asks the officer something, the officer replies, then he leaves. Is this going to take long, I asked, no. When they finished checking my ID, I could have sworn I’d detected a bit more than a hint of disappointment in their voices as I walked on. But what I believe to be the most powerful experience happened during exam week in the winter of 2011. I had just finished my exams for the day and left for home. As I entered the small, but relatively lavish lobby to my building, I noticed a woman standing next to me, regarding me with worry. During exam week, one could imagine that one would not be able to find much sleep. I had only slept for a few hours the previous day and was running on willpower and extreme caffeine. I could imagine I had the characteristic deep eye bags, and caffeine widened eyes. Coupled with my hair, I could imagine myself to be an unusual sight. My attire did nothing to help; I was wearing all navy blue, with my beloved hoodie and full complement of jewelry. I was using a studded, black leather messenger bag that I had received from my godmother for Christmas (I loved the thing). So it was no surprise when she started to break out in barely controlled hysterics in the lift lobby, beckoning for the security guard in hushed Cantonese. I could only imagine the conversation they had, not knowing Cantonese, so I just kept a somewhat intelligent, amused, quizzical sort of expression on my face. But the strangest part was her attitude afterward. The woman calmed down and acted like she and I were closest of neighbors, all in the space of twenty seconds. The things some people would do to preserve face, in the proximity of my own home as well! I could tell from the sheer speed of her reaction and attitude change that she had gone through this previously. I can only hope that she learned something from the experience; I’ve gotten my share.
Life, however, has its redeeming, quirky moments. One such quirk was the night of the concert, meeting Selah Lawrensen. It was a clear night, though my mind was hazy. I had just finished my dinner, walking out of the City One McDonalds into to the cold night breeze, and there she was, standing alone with nothing to do. I walk up to her, and I begin the usual conversation. Hey, what’s up; what are you waitin’ for? She said she needed someone to eat with. Spying Michael Lin in the immediate vicinity, I dare asked, what about him? He doesn’t count, she said nonchalantly. After a bit more chit chat and a generous amount of teasing from both me and a few others who passed by (I can only recall Jayme), I ended up as hostage to the both of them, as the lightning rod of awkwardness. Sitting down at the nearby Korean restaurant, we started to talk. It turns out she could empathize with what my family had been through. One of her ancestors was wrongly imprisoned for missing inventory at his job. After a while, I found out, if my memory serves me that she wasn’t too big a fan of prejudice either. So just to mess with people, we put our arms on each other’s shoulders, and waltzed down the sidewalk, pretending to be lovers at the height of our relationship. Now, she was five-ten, five-eleven if I recall right, and I’m about five-four at the most. So I guessed we must have been quite a sight, walking down that street. Selah told me that there was an old, Chinese lady taking in the sight like we were in Deep South back in ’sixty, eighteen sixty, that is. And who do we see but Michael, who, if I remembered right, felt something for Selah. I can’t recall if it was love, infatuation, or something else. What do you call it when a man sleeps in a woman’s bed without the woman? Anyways, I reckon that he wasn’t feeling too great at the sight of us, since he paid for dinner. The rest of the walk back was memorable, and I enjoyed the talking. At one point, I recall having to jump to pick her a flower, from one of the pea trees. Seeing her appreciation, I think Michael lost his cool for a moment, and hit a branch with his skate board. Frankly, I was amused at his outburst, and remained so until the tension of the concert hit me like the winds of a typhoon; I guess the moment had ended.
I live for these small moments in life; I treasure them like nuggets of gold. I see life like a misty path; we all travel upon it, discovering what lies few meters ahead. Yet there’s a looming sorrow hanging over my head, making its presence felt with each passing year. What do I do when I leave the idyllic life of high school? I’m not one for big dreams; I just want to be happy while keeping those around me happy. Everyone has those days when your mind just isn’t working right, except I have a whole era of this when I think about my future. It’s like a cloud of mist descending upon you, working itself into your mind. Like blinders, it narrows your focus to the immediate issues. Its touch soothes your skin, comforting you. Like filtering lens, one would truly see the beauty in life, yet, it slowly strangles your mind. Tranquility comes at a price, growing higher and higher. Ambition is slowly distilled from your being, leaving grim determination and unparalleled focus, only arousable by a driving passion for something or someone.
One of these passions is coffee, the simple supplement most of us take in the early hours of dawn to jumpstart our lives into action. I’ve always liked its taste, unlike most other kids, and I’ve developed various recipes with various effects.
As a young child watching movies, or reading novels, I was always attracted to the little people and minor characters of the film or story. I recall once the teachers asked the class what they wanted to be. While some said Spider-Man, or Superman; I’d say Moe the bartender. I wouldn’t exactly run a bar, but a coffee shop would be nice. I’d stay in a small town, somewhere in Canada, Singapore, or Japan. I’d run the local coffee shop, get to know my regulars. I’d write poetry in my spare time, maybe fall in love. This is my simple, semi-bohemian dream. I recall the time I told my mother of my simple dream. I could see, just by the look in her eyes, that she agreed. She told me; if that’s what you want in life, go for it. Though my father is more for tradition, he agreed to some extent. I was relieved by their answer; I didn’t know what I would have done, had they said no. My dream, in comparison to my environment, is of stark contrast. Ambition is heavy in the air; Local Ideology: Good grades equate to a good job equate to a good child, who produces a happy family. I don’t necessarily think so. I have seen this ideology manifest itself in various persons, Koreans especially. ). I recall talking to Justin Wong about Korean students. So, I start, what did you do during the summer? I went to summer school in Korea. Why? My mom made me to, a lot of people do it. In the Philippines, according to my cousin’s tale, Koreans go to school for two months, then head back to the Korea (Summer in the Philippines is March-April into early May, if you know what I imply). I can firmly believe that I have found a race who can dedicate themselves to their studies with the same passion we Filipinos dedicate ourselves to our religion.
***
Having lived only 16 years, I’ve felt a pain, a slow growing pain in my chest. I don’t know what it is, or where it comes from; it just is. Sometimes, I think it’s from regret, regret of not living my live to its fullest extent. Other times, I think its fear, fear of the future, fear of what I need to do, what I would do instead. Still other times, I think it’s from worry, worry of what the present has to offer, and what I am doing. Yet, after contemplation, I realize it is of exhaustion, the exhaustion of hanging on to a dying vision of the world, a world now populated by slowly anesthetized youth, slowly growing numb to empathy. As suicide rates grow, on par with adolescent crime, just a little bit more perishes within me. I fear that in the near future, my dream would be a hopeless impossibility; a fantasy left behind in the previous age, an age that let people relax a bit and enjoy life. I fear in such a day and age, men, consumed by the necessities of life and the rush of the capitalist world, would no longer have use for literature and art. I fear that my little café would become a generic beverage dispensary, instead of the communal house of inspiration I intend it to be. In my isolated residence, the night brings me comfort. The soft light emanating from the streetlamps remains a rich orange, as the navy colored sky would always remain in place, respite, a time for contemplation. As my mind slowly drifts on, making sense of the day’s events, like the ending credits of a popular anime, I wonder, would tomorrow be truly a better day?
I hope you enjoy this short slice of my life
I’d surely enjoy yours
***
Who am I? Well, I am who I am, how can I define myself to you? Usually that’s how I’d respond when questioned about my identity. I’d do my best in defining myself though. In actuality, I change like the rising tide.
Come Monday, I’m deep, hazy, and floating in a dream. Like fresh pressed coffee, drawing you to it by caressing the unseen sensation of smell, the murky depths of my mind are unreadable; words and thoughts come from my heart, drawn out by some unseen force.
Come Tuesday, I’d still be hating Monday. Coping with my tasks with brute and shocking efficiency, I’d spear through any work left to me. Lost in sheer focus and determination, I’d work into the night
Come Wednesday, I’d be fighting for the right to relax, finishing what I can and I must. The full weight of the week falling upon my shoulders, I’d fall (emotionally and maybe physically) into complete meltdown.
Come Thursday, I’d be finishing whatever’s left of Wednesday’s work. I finish what I finish in full stride and perfect pace.
Come Friday, I’m completely stoned over. (On coffee, of course)
That’s more or less the summery of me during weekdays (identity wise). So I’ll skip to the more relevant topics; Saturday and Sunday.
I am a Roman Catholic, as my forefathers before me. On Saturdays I attend the anticipated Sunday mass at six-thirty at the Annunciation Church in Tsuen Wan, serving as one of the Alter-Servers more often than not. I enjoy the mass and appreciate the prayers and rituals. Attending a Christian school, my Christian friends and peers usually find this strange and reproachable, to a degree. I recall one of my friends, Filipe, a Brazilian boy of good intent, once asked me about my faith. He asked me, what’s up about Mary and the Saints. I replied, it is grounded in tradition. He stated something along the line of, if it’s not biblical, then it’s not good or of God. Without Catholicism, your beliefs would be uprooted; before your faiths, Catholicism was Christianity, I snapped. I bit down my tongue to add, without Catholicism, you would not exist; we set up the universities and preserved the learning of the ancients. Our Priests were once the only educated men for miles around. The basics of our faith in Christ were debated by countless Theologian-Priests and monks, all of which devoted their lives to such work, coming to consensus under the Popes. Without Catholicism, the great powers of Europe would have never existed and advanced, so show some respect for another’s beliefs and shut up! Instead, I meekly compromised to avoid an uproar. I know he meant well, and I give him merit for his fervor, but a head-on assault on a person’s faith is completely uncalled for, and quite rude in all perspectives.
I am a proud Catholic, and a proud Filipino. I do admire and identify with the qualities of inbreed respect, and faith so strong that it borders fanaticism (some Filipinos crucify themselves for a time during holy week). I also admire and identify the affection and honor my people are known for, as well as the lax yet hard working traits that are incorporated into empathetic understanding. One thing I am embarrassed of is the political situation of my country, corruption, although it has worked into my family’s favor more than once, has paralyzed our government. Another is the meekness that has been woven in part to our strength. The Japanese left more than broken families and shattered homes after the war, they left a rekindled fire of racial pride; a fighting spirit rebounded after centuries of occupation and oppression. I was raised with pride to exhibit these qualities, and I try to do. Sometimes, I can get a little touchy when it comes to insults and criticism. Yet living in Hong Kong has left more than a mark on me. I’ve learned to work harder and diligently, avoiding the more sketchy philosophy of my compatriot’s at home. Living in the city has also helped me appreciate the value of rest and respite. I enjoy the camaraderie brought about by a stressful workload. Sometimes, I see myself as a healthy balance of the two. Other times, I see myself as the awkward product of a visionary and a traditionalist; Weird and new on the outside, old fashioned on the inside. I can testify to a few queer results.
One of these awkward times regards my appearance. In the eighth grade, I was always pressured by my classmates to cut my hair. I liked it the way I liked it, natural and long. There was one time I kept my hair straight and short, just like everyone else’. Then I realized that it just wasn’t me; My mother has curly hair, my sister has curly hair, my aunt, uncle and all the rest of my family, for the most part had curly hair. I recalled when I was young, I wanted straight hair like all my friends, and I got it. Then, I guess I just out grew the idea and grew my hair out. That and the fact that I almost had my head shaved bald by the barber. I stubbornly refused. I was alright for a while, then Mr. Chan told me to cut my hair, and that means that the administration was going to get on my case, so I read the handbook. Regarding length, it stated that my hair was not allowed to touch the collar. Smiling to myself, I asked Grace Mark before Mandarin class, “Grace, can you help me cut a bit of the back; you’ve cut your hair before”. Though it caused a minor spectacle, it was done. That day, right before Mandarin class, my hair was trimmed back into regulation standards, taking only three seconds to do so. It didn’t look half bad either, making little to no visual difference, other than the crucial collar rule. To this day, I adhere to a bi- or tri-annual haircut, keeping my hair nice and wavy. Late the next school year, Lady Gaga’s album, Born this way, came out, and I bought it the Monday after. I am an avid fan, I admit, ever since I got her first album. I played the CD as soon as I got home, and was listening to it while doing my homework, more or less to drown out the sound of five other people trying to get work done in various stages of frustration. All of a sudden, I found myself actually listening to one of the songs. The lyrics conveyed the freedom and fighting spirit I adored, as well as a bit of tongue in cheek rebellion. The music wasn’t bad either; I loved the beat and melody, especially the soulful saxophone solos. It seemed like the right clash of jazz and hardcore pop, tied together with the chorus, “I’ve had enough, this is my prayer; that I die living just as free as my hair”. Eventually, I checked the track name. As you can guess, it was appropriately titled “Hair”. Once I saw that, the first thing that came into my mind was, “instant personal anthem”. And I’ve loved the song ever since.
Lady Gaga in general, though, has been an inspiration to me to be who I am, and to wear what I wear. I’m a sentimental person, and cherish things that I find meaning in; through her inspiration, I convey and remind myself of traditional values, thinking and wearing modern (and somewhat eccentric) styles. A lot of people ask me why I wear rings. In truth, I find meaning in each and every one of them. I wear what I live by on my fingers; passion, fervor, memory, and duty. In occasion, I wear a black ring to signify mourning and sadness. These are symbols that remind me when I despair. My crosses, a Catholic medal-cross over a simpler Franciscan cross, signify my allegiances. My second necklace, a cross side by side with a heart, signifies what I believe. Granted, this appearance has reaped various reactions in response to my personality, mainly disbelief. I remember there was a language exchange program I participated in. I was in my usual even day garb: red sports glasses, unfortunately flashy and recently revived monitor headphones; full complement of symbolic jewelry. I anticipated the disbelief when I said that I like to read, and write poetry. I recall one girl, Anny or Annie, ask “Anyone else got the feeling that he’s lying”. Luckily, I was in a good mood. It wasn’t the first time I had encountered prejudice, yet it sucks just as hard. I’ve always hated prejudice; it might have been the stares, or the inkling of doubt that I was wrong, though I never really knew why until I encountered it myself.
I can recount a couple of experiences when I’ve encountered prejudice. One of the most notable experiences was being stopped by the police in front of Shek Mun station, whist in school uniform, on the way home. I’d probably guess it was the 3 bags I carried (two out of necessity) that set them off, as well as my foreign appearance. They just came up to me with the usual, “Hi, do you have ID”? Yes, I reply. Then comes the whole interrogation thing; Where are you going: Home, Where do you live: near Gold Coast, Can I see inside your bag; sure…see just books. Justin Wong comes along and I say hey, got stopped by the cops bro, then he asks the officer something, the officer replies, then he leaves. Is this going to take long, I asked, no. When they finished checking my ID, I could have sworn I’d detected a bit more than a hint of disappointment in their voices as I walked on. But what I believe to be the most powerful experience happened during exam week in the winter of 2011. I had just finished my exams for the day and left for home. As I entered the small, but relatively lavish lobby to my building, I noticed a woman standing next to me, regarding me with worry. During exam week, one could imagine that one would not be able to find much sleep. I had only slept for a few hours the previous day and was running on willpower and extreme caffeine. I could imagine I had the characteristic deep eye bags, and caffeine widened eyes. Coupled with my hair, I could imagine myself to be an unusual sight. My attire did nothing to help; I was wearing all navy blue, with my beloved hoodie and full complement of jewelry. I was using a studded, black leather messenger bag that I had received from my godmother for Christmas (I loved the thing). So it was no surprise when she started to break out in barely controlled hysterics in the lift lobby, beckoning for the security guard in hushed Cantonese. I could only imagine the conversation they had, not knowing Cantonese, so I just kept a somewhat intelligent, amused, quizzical sort of expression on my face. But the strangest part was her attitude afterward. The woman calmed down and acted like she and I were closest of neighbors, all in the space of twenty seconds. The things some people would do to preserve face, in the proximity of my own home as well! I could tell from the sheer speed of her reaction and attitude change that she had gone through this previously. I can only hope that she learned something from the experience; I’ve gotten my share.
Life, however, has its redeeming, quirky moments. One such quirk was the night of the concert, meeting Selah Lawrensen. It was a clear night, though my mind was hazy. I had just finished my dinner, walking out of the City One McDonalds into to the cold night breeze, and there she was, standing alone with nothing to do. I walk up to her, and I begin the usual conversation. Hey, what’s up; what are you waitin’ for? She said she needed someone to eat with. Spying Michael Lin in the immediate vicinity, I dare asked, what about him? He doesn’t count, she said nonchalantly. After a bit more chit chat and a generous amount of teasing from both me and a few others who passed by (I can only recall Jayme), I ended up as hostage to the both of them, as the lightning rod of awkwardness. Sitting down at the nearby Korean restaurant, we started to talk. It turns out she could empathize with what my family had been through. One of her ancestors was wrongly imprisoned for missing inventory at his job. After a while, I found out, if my memory serves me that she wasn’t too big a fan of prejudice either. So just to mess with people, we put our arms on each other’s shoulders, and waltzed down the sidewalk, pretending to be lovers at the height of our relationship. Now, she was five-ten, five-eleven if I recall right, and I’m about five-four at the most. So I guessed we must have been quite a sight, walking down that street. Selah told me that there was an old, Chinese lady taking in the sight like we were in Deep South back in ’sixty, eighteen sixty, that is. And who do we see but Michael, who, if I remembered right, felt something for Selah. I can’t recall if it was love, infatuation, or something else. What do you call it when a man sleeps in a woman’s bed without the woman? Anyways, I reckon that he wasn’t feeling too great at the sight of us, since he paid for dinner. The rest of the walk back was memorable, and I enjoyed the talking. At one point, I recall having to jump to pick her a flower, from one of the pea trees. Seeing her appreciation, I think Michael lost his cool for a moment, and hit a branch with his skate board. Frankly, I was amused at his outburst, and remained so until the tension of the concert hit me like the winds of a typhoon; I guess the moment had ended.
I live for these small moments in life; I treasure them like nuggets of gold. I see life like a misty path; we all travel upon it, discovering what lies few meters ahead. Yet there’s a looming sorrow hanging over my head, making its presence felt with each passing year. What do I do when I leave the idyllic life of high school? I’m not one for big dreams; I just want to be happy while keeping those around me happy. Everyone has those days when your mind just isn’t working right, except I have a whole era of this when I think about my future. It’s like a cloud of mist descending upon you, working itself into your mind. Like blinders, it narrows your focus to the immediate issues. Its touch soothes your skin, comforting you. Like filtering lens, one would truly see the beauty in life, yet, it slowly strangles your mind. Tranquility comes at a price, growing higher and higher. Ambition is slowly distilled from your being, leaving grim determination and unparalleled focus, only arousable by a driving passion for something or someone.
One of these passions is coffee, the simple supplement most of us take in the early hours of dawn to jumpstart our lives into action. I’ve always liked its taste, unlike most other kids, and I’ve developed various recipes with various effects.
As a young child watching movies, or reading novels, I was always attracted to the little people and minor characters of the film or story. I recall once the teachers asked the class what they wanted to be. While some said Spider-Man, or Superman; I’d say Moe the bartender. I wouldn’t exactly run a bar, but a coffee shop would be nice. I’d stay in a small town, somewhere in Canada, Singapore, or Japan. I’d run the local coffee shop, get to know my regulars. I’d write poetry in my spare time, maybe fall in love. This is my simple, semi-bohemian dream. I recall the time I told my mother of my simple dream. I could see, just by the look in her eyes, that she agreed. She told me; if that’s what you want in life, go for it. Though my father is more for tradition, he agreed to some extent. I was relieved by their answer; I didn’t know what I would have done, had they said no. My dream, in comparison to my environment, is of stark contrast. Ambition is heavy in the air; Local Ideology: Good grades equate to a good job equate to a good child, who produces a happy family. I don’t necessarily think so. I have seen this ideology manifest itself in various persons, Koreans especially. ). I recall talking to Justin Wong about Korean students. So, I start, what did you do during the summer? I went to summer school in Korea. Why? My mom made me to, a lot of people do it. In the Philippines, according to my cousin’s tale, Koreans go to school for two months, then head back to the Korea (Summer in the Philippines is March-April into early May, if you know what I imply). I can firmly believe that I have found a race who can dedicate themselves to their studies with the same passion we Filipinos dedicate ourselves to our religion.
***
Having lived only 16 years, I’ve felt a pain, a slow growing pain in my chest. I don’t know what it is, or where it comes from; it just is. Sometimes, I think it’s from regret, regret of not living my live to its fullest extent. Other times, I think its fear, fear of the future, fear of what I need to do, what I would do instead. Still other times, I think it’s from worry, worry of what the present has to offer, and what I am doing. Yet, after contemplation, I realize it is of exhaustion, the exhaustion of hanging on to a dying vision of the world, a world now populated by slowly anesthetized youth, slowly growing numb to empathy. As suicide rates grow, on par with adolescent crime, just a little bit more perishes within me. I fear that in the near future, my dream would be a hopeless impossibility; a fantasy left behind in the previous age, an age that let people relax a bit and enjoy life. I fear in such a day and age, men, consumed by the necessities of life and the rush of the capitalist world, would no longer have use for literature and art. I fear that my little café would become a generic beverage dispensary, instead of the communal house of inspiration I intend it to be. In my isolated residence, the night brings me comfort. The soft light emanating from the streetlamps remains a rich orange, as the navy colored sky would always remain in place, respite, a time for contemplation. As my mind slowly drifts on, making sense of the day’s events, like the ending credits of a popular anime, I wonder, would tomorrow be truly a better day?
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