Poor song, it seems to me now that I was projecting my little sadness to it when I asked The Miming why said song is sad. Alliteration is unintended.
It is an early Saturday morning, and I initially told her that I am sad today. I didn’t know why, or I was, probably, too tired to find out why. No, I know why, and I’ll get some whipping from my good friends if I tell them so or if they get to read this entry. They had been having a hard time exorcising the demons in my head.
I used to have demons in my room at night—desire, despair, desire but that is a different song, I’m turning a whiter shade of pale again.
And I said it is depressing though I don’t have a vivid picture in mind of what it depicts. It must be the melody. It makes me want to dance—arms thrown onto some shoulders, that I bet are looking anorexic, as if to resign from my daily fight with indulgence, pulling a neck closer to a lipping. Anorexia, I figured, must be the reason why those shoulders have always been hidden behind those jackets. There must be some romance left in those bones if it penetrates through the flesh.
As I write this paragraph, I am eating pancit canton. It’s past 6 pm—still a Saturday. I just woke up from a ten-hour sleep. Crying is very benevolent, sometimes, even more benevolent than my good sisters when I ask them to give me a massage in order for me to sleep. I sneaked into my bedroom, and slept, with Crying this morning. I’m alone in the house today, and I will be the entire summer so I expect it to be one wet season.
I have to take a bath now. I need to go to the office.
So I went, and I’m back at home.
It is already Sunday, 4 am, and I lie awake in this bed, poking this little keyboard, on this screen, of this handheld. There’s no music in the background. I have just stumbled over what Spinoza says in Ethics—affectus, qui passio est, desinit esse passio simulatque eius claram et distinctam formamus ideam. ”Emotion, which is suffering, ceases to be suffering as soon as we form a clear and precise picture of it.”
I feel better now.
My two whipher friends, The Miming and The Barla, are in an all-out war against the demons, and they are launching a massive campaign to pull me out of the quagmire that I am surreptitiously wallowing into.
It is like I have drunk a philter. The wisdom of the world must be the antidote. But the world is replete of different versions of what wisdom is or of which is the wiser thing to do. Let’s talk wisdom the next time. I will sleep now.
So I slept, and I woke up, and I went out with The Whiphers, and I had some fun which I should blog about in my next entry- if Work won’t envy me-and-Fun-getting-happy.
It is now Monday. It is 2 am, and I’m trying to sleep again. Annie Lennox is in the background. No, Crying isn’t around. I’ll see if somebody else knocks on my door to sleep over.
A week has passed, and it’s Saturday again.
It’s now past 1 am on a Sunday, and I’m in the office pantry, poking on the same handheld, listening to the same song.
I think now that one of the greatest glories of a man’s life is being able to transcend its ordeals- to love intensely, to hurt constructively, to suffer graciously and to live willingly.
I am seduced to dance to life—come, let’s undress our souls.
Happy Sunday!
Romancing the lion 