11.24.2013

Quieted


I began the series of questioning again.

God took in all the queries I threw at Him, me being His frantic interviewer. Most of them weren’t new; I ask a lot of things over and over again, common ones being “Why?” and “When will this ever end?”; provoked by my utmost impatience, I always demanded Him for an answer. I do most of the talking until I run out of things to say.

And yet no thunder or ray of light would appear from the sky, just like how the miracle stories were written in the Scriptures by our forefathers; not even a voice would speak to me to let me know I was conversing with someone. God would remain silent, calm and stillness being His nature. And only the mute walls and the lingering silence of the room and my emotions coming to a demise seemed to keep me company.

There was no one else around, but I knew I wasn’t alone. I never was.



Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Quieted-181309

11.20.2013

Nothingness


I lay in bed but could not sleep, my mind like one huge bag of air.

Thoughts, albeit overflowing, are in a whirl, wandering like a hermit lost in the desert. For a moment, I would gain the strength to silence them; but after a while they resurface, meaningless as ever, like a stranger insisting that I get to know her better. I must have been that out of sync with myself. I often am.

I hear multiple muffled sounds coming from outside: random people conversing on the street, women nearby laughing with abandon, the neighbor’s dog’s frenzied yapping, a small vehicle swiftly passing by; the noise making me realize that I was still in touch with reality. But there was something more than just the four walls enclosing this room like a box that kept that distance between me and the rest of the world; the barriers that only an aloof mind can build.

The crickets began to sing in the dark; suddenly all that made sense was the restless beating of my heart.


Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Nothingness-179091

11.17.2013

Sleeping Through November


The house remains bare of anything Christmas.

The walls white with specks of dust and empty promises; cobwebs hanging in random corners with their own story to tell; the breeze mysteriously creeping indoors through half-opened jalousie windows. The air a little colder; the cold as defined by the Philippine weather; the cold not cold enough to make me want to wrap even a thin blanket around myself. And yet it is November. Or at least my calendar tells me so.

In my country, the Christmas season begins in September. The sunny tropics is unmindful of the magical transition from summer to fall in the western world; I can only take a peek of it through Facebook pictures and the blogs of those who get to bathe in those autumn leaves. Not even Halloween and Thanksgiving are part of the Filipino culture, although some are free to join the fun should they wish to do so; and All Saints’ Day isn’t even a time for celebration. All that we look forward to during these months is Christmas. But here we are in mid-November and my senses have not awakened from their August slumber.

“You should hang these,” my mom told me as she showed me two of the medium-sized lanterns she bought recently. I smiled at her gesture of finally letting the Christmas Spirit enter our home. But the smile did not last; it was slowly washed away by the bittersweet realization that things are never the same.



Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Sleeping-Through-November-173761

11.14.2013

Trails Of A Nightmare


Silence screamed like a million voices wanting to be heard.

The audible hustle and bustle of life seemed to fade in the background. People move on; life goes on. And yet you could tell that a drastic change took place. They may not say a word about it but you could read it in their faces.

We were not physically affected by the killer typhoon Haiyan; but our hearts were, its aftermath piercing us like a thousand knives. My uncle and his wife used to live in Tacloban, the city hit the hardest by this monster storm; he thought of the people he knew there and wondered if they survived. My mom was grateful that they moved back here years ago; she could not begin to fathom their fate should they have stayed there and experienced the wrath of Haiyan. The news on tv and the photos in the internet linger in my mind like a restless soul; I am terrified by the thought that Mother Nature can mercilessly sweep an entire city off the face of the earth.

“Why is it so quiet?” I asked my aunt. “We grieve…” she said, her voice an echoed melancholy in the commanding stillness of the night.


Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Trails-Of-A-Nightmare-A-173090

11.11.2013

Roar


Nighttime fell and there was a commotion on the street.

Horns were honked furiously and passersby turned their heads out of sheer curiosity. I, my sister, and my mom inevitably approached the scene as we were headed towards the opposite side of the road. There stood a black van which crushed the front wheel of a motorcycle. Another collision, I thought. How many of them have I seen this year? It was rather common. But that was the first time I had to walk right past through it.

Cops were investigating the accident causing traffic on one lane. The three of us stayed in the middle of the road in the meantime as vehicles busily advanced on the opposite lane; it almost felt like being in the middle of everything. The roaring engines drowned my thoughts; drivers and passengers bickering out of frustration nearly made me lose my patience; I couldn’t wait to get away from there at last.

A motorcycle swerved right behind me and I overheard the driver complain of how people crossing the street were blocking his way. His rudeness fueled my rage; but thank goodness vehicles gave way for people to finally pass through and the intense emotion died down.

Madness does not last. Anger is passing. Everything is.



Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Roar-A-171284

11.08.2013

Little Girl

7 Little Girl 1 700 copy

What her story is all about I can barely recall.

I usually come up with these stories in my head and then put them on paper through drawing. But right now, all I can remember is that I got discouraged along the way for a reason I choose not to divulge. And this along with other unfinished pieces were kept untouched inside a shiny brown envelope for months.

For one moment, I decided to play around and be a child once again. That little girl inside me has gone missing for a while. Real life must have terrified her; it always does; her heart is much too frail. Threatened to grow up far beyond her years by the challenges of this world, she crawled underneath the covers where she always felt safe.

I saw her slowly walking towards me. Her questioning eyes met mine, a trace of apprehension on her once innocent face. I did not say a word but she knew I wasn’t capable of giving her comfort.

7 Little Girl 2 700 copy7 Little Girl 3 700 copy

Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Little-Girl-A-168749

11.06.2013

Feelings Are Not Dead



Maybe I should totally skip the coffee at night.

My bed isn’t a friendly place for thoughts. Closing my eyes brought out events that I’d rather not write about. But then I guess laying in the dark does that. I eventually retreated to the dimly lit living room, made myself comfortable on the wooden rocking chair, and cuddled with my dogs; their licks on my face like a child’s sweet kisses and the touch of their fur on my skin as good as a much-needed embrace.

The emptiness is slowly fading away but the feelings are not quite there. Smiling felt forced; although I have a lot of reasons to laugh and be happy about, my heart is devoid of glee and remains a space filled with nothing but air. Melancholy is far more enticing I suppose. I noticed my irritation towards the slightest shortcomings of the people around me; I’m not really as sweet as I may seem to be.

For now, I’ll watch how the fleeting nature of my emotions unfolds.



Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Feelings-Are-Not-Dead-A-167254

11.03.2013

Who Am I?



The emptiness I feel is robbing me of the right words to say.

It’s strange that I’ve been feeling this way. I was always certain of my emotions; they would always be of the extremes and are not impossible to determine; I would either be on a low or on a high, but scarcely in between. The middle one is almost trivial to me; it is something I rarely encounter and I honestly don’t know how I am going to handle it.

Maybe it’s the sudden change in my sleeping patterns or gulping way too much coffee that overwhelmed my senses, fatiguing and nearly shutting them down. But whatever the reason may be, the sobriety is making me uncomfortable. I am always an emotional one, a borderline dramatic human being. And not knowing what to feel feels like a stranger is trapped inside my body.

I am guilty, nonetheless, of wanting to be in this state for so long; feeling too much can be exhausting at times and it appears to me that people who have zero feelings thrive better in this cruel world. But I’d rather have the tears overflow, the loneliness cut through my throat, the laughter shake my bones, and the joy warm my soul than live like a robot, acting in programmed automaticity and in the absence of emotions.

I hope this is just temporary; I want my old self back…



Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/Who-Am-I-A-165553

11.01.2013

From This World To The Next



The wind gusted like souls in the afterlife rushing back to their former world.

The typhoon is here, I thought. Perhaps the souls of those who have gone before us are here, too. I lay in bed facing the window right next to me, the light coming from the outside shielded by forest green curtains, my body still and nearly paralyzed by constantly pondering on things.

My sister opened the door to our bedroom and, seeing me awake, started to make fun of me, the way only sisters would. I giggled and got back at her until we were both laughing. “It’s time for lunch,” she then told me.

I wondered if things would be the same after we die and if spirits talk, cry, and feel like humans do, or if the transformation from the physical to the spiritual form changes everything, including the way we think and perceive things.

Maybe it will be a totally different world… and it intrigues me…

  i



Originally posted at http://www.teckler.com/en/Irenewrites/From-This-World-To-The-Next-A-163962