The not so bad things of the past

When I’m sick, I have the tendency to go through my old stuff. Today, I found my old doodles that I did during my otaku (anime additction) days. I remember being fond first to the sentai series (Bioman, Maskman, Shaider, etc). My Fridays nights are filled with the line up from ABS-CBN’s primetime shows (X Men, Power Rangers, Melrose Place, Beverly Hills 90210, Baywatch). Since Friday night is the only time I can watch TV as much as I want, I make sure I don’t miss this line up.

In anime, I remember being fond of Voltes V, Daimos, Princess Sarah (and all the ABS CBN morning line ups) and, yeah, there are the latter animes—Yuyu Hakusho (Ghostfighter), Rurouni Kenshin (Samurai X), Fushigi Yuugi and Vision of Escaflowne. And during this time was the peak of my fondness for doodling. I used to like designing clothes because I’m always fascinated with prom dresses featured in Seventeen magazine. But, as I grew older, I shifted to more structured type of drawing – anime.

So much has passed, I remember that time giving up this hobby because I always have this eye for perfection. I easily get frustrated when I can never get things right. I tried doodling my favorite characters, and when my end product doesn’t look like them, it frustrated me a lot. I had a lot of insecurities to the people around me, it discouraged me, and I thought, I’d draw a few pieces the last time and stop. That’s it. I also can’t afford to keep a hobby while trying to get decent grades in UP. I’m not as smart as everybody else. So I picked up my pens for the last time, popped my favorite CD (that my bestfriend gave me) and drew, and drew. And drew. These were my last pieces.

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Rurouni Kenshin’s Kaoru Kamiya. *Sigh* I like how I drew straight lines back then, because, frankly, I can’t draw straight lines well

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Rurouni Kenshin’s Kenshin Himura. I remember I can’t draw his eyes so I had to resort to this. I can’t remember the meaning of the Japanese characters I included. It looks so long ago, I regretted even folding the paper into two.

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Card Captor Sakura, one of my sister’s favorite anime. I also like how “clean” and cute the anime looks like. Kerobero’s head looks a little eggy, though.

It looks basic to someone who knows how to draw, but to me, looking at it now, 13 years later, these were precious pieces. Because I knew I put my heart and soul into it and this is the best pieces I’ve made (I wish I could do an Amorsolo or even a greater painting, but because I decided to stop pursuing this hobby, I could only be proud of this). But I feel proud of myself now because I realized that talent may not fade, but you need the skill to do it again. It’s like if you have a creative talent, even if you stop drawing, you will just express it in other forms. Like right now, I try to design science-based communication materials, and sometimes I would still be fascinated with something beautiful to my eyes.  I realized some things never fade. So I tried to draw again, and here’s how my skill was, 13 years later.

After 13 years, I picked up my pen and tried if could draw again. It could be a start.

After 13 years, I picked up my pen and tried if could draw again. It could be a start.

While I was drawing this, my fingers were shaking as I attempt to grip the pen right. I was shaking, and had not direction where my shading would go, but it was a nice try, I guess. After this, my left hand was aching maybe because I gripped the pen too much and I drew too heavily on the paper. Actually, there were some pen bleed on the next blank page.

I admire people who do not get emotional attachment to things, or music, or anything that would link them to their past. I know some friends who are like this and I admire them being amiable and not to hold grudges of the past. A friend told me that he is not attached to things given to him that’s why when I give him things, it doesn’t stay long with him. While I, the ever sentimental, I try to keep all the memorabilia of a certain memory. Because, for me, as the name itself, it brings back the feeling, if not the memory , associated with that thing.  As for me, I always come back to my memory box, reading all the letters and looking at doodles given to me by friends. It brings a lot of memories back, something that’s irreversible and  intangible; but these pieces reminds me of who I was, what was it in my past that I loved before that I decided to throw away (like doodling, art, and everything related to rendering my emotions). Years ago, I decided to throw these away hoping I’d be better, but, I always go back to this, and I miss the feelings that I associated with the pieces of memories I now hold in my hands. I miss some things that were part of my past.

There are some things I miss about my old self, and there are things I like about my new self. I still have to find that silver lining where the link between the best of the old and the new me would emerge and become the person I envision myself to be. A carefree, loving person who is not afraid to take risk and be fearless of the unknown, strong enough to wield courage to emerge victorious in moments of despair, a woman of grace who can be rational but unselfish, a child who finds pleasure in life’s simple joys, and always hungry for new wisdom.

Maybe, if I draw again, then I might discover something new and beautiful about me.

The U– love and friendship

I was skimming through my past journal. That Unscholarly Notes blog from way back when. It chronicled my journey from a budding program assistant/development practitioner. My posts were cynical, but a bit more independent. Less dramatic than my posts here. I wonder what happened. Tee hee.

Anyway, I just want to share this poem a friend gave me years ago. In my entry that contained this poem, I recalled it was given to me after I lent him the book “By the River Piedra I sat down and wept” by Paulo Coelho. Maybe , he saw that my eyes scream of “unrequited love” chuva.  I posted the poem on November 23, 2007, two days after his birthday.

It must have been the story that she hopelessly shared with the cold wind of midnight, the sole witness of her heartache;

It must have been the romantic, but quite painful story that gave her a bitter taste of love;

It must have been the tears that persistently came out from the eyes of a babe that seemed to hold the consuming fire of emotion for so long, and was no longer able to control the dam of tears from breaking out of the human walls;

It must have been the infatuation or juvenile affection that had floored her wit and composure in the world of make believe;

It must have been the innocence of youth that had fooled her fragile heart — leaving her groping like a blind, searching for her path going back to where her journey had begun.

I usually cringe at the sight of my old poems, but maybe, if I happen to write this one, I won’t. There’s no sugarcoating on it. Just plain truth. Just as our friendship is. No pretensions, just plain truth. Of the handful of friends I had, I really appreciate the fact that there is one out there that bravely crosses the line and never gives up on showing me the truth and still bearing with me no matter how bratty I get. I wish I could be like this to all of my friends. I wish I could be remembered like a friend who can say the truth but never affords to hurt the person for being plainly true. I wish I can manage to say the truth, yet stay behind despite the odds. It takes a lot wisdom and principle to be able to do this. And this type of person will always earn my respect no matter what…despite the odds.
But well, for unrequited love, I think, each one of us has a story to tell. At some point there is hurt, but most importantly, there is love…and learning. What is most important is that we know the value of it and we become a better and stronger person out of it.

Ouch.

Today was one of the days I felt deeply hurt. More than the mood swing; a simple banter could really hurt, especially when coming from someone who, by the rule, should be the last one who would cause you pain.

I’m trying to make sense of things as I know how lonely it can get for someone to be out there somewhere, struggling alone, away from home.  Maybe it gets too lonely that sometimes, it hurts already; it hurts seeing people happy. Seeing the people you love happy–moreso, it hurts to see their world go on as usual without you. It hurts when you know you are missing and yet the people you miss seem not to miss you at all.  It hurts a lot that the hurt becomes a host of insecurity…slowly spreading into the heart then the brain hemisphere and causes you to say something…something random, unintentional, yet hurtful.

I was one of the prey. A perfect prey for uninentionally hurtful tactless remarks. The ever tactful, sensitive me- who can tolerate a but clueless as to when patience will snap. A lethal cocktail of personality. And I was the ever, eternal victim…and I never learned, I never knew how to adjust.  And so when the damage was done (err…spoken), I resorted to nothing but questioning myself and faith all over again…just when I have put my self in place and started to find the balance again. Decades of conditioning myself to embracing what may lie ahead has become a million-dollar ugly question again: what could be wrong? Then a reinstatement: Something must be really wrong. Then a reiteration. Yes. There IS something wrong. Immediately, the walls start to break down mostly in the following order: Confidence, self- esteem, love for self (and I am not talking about selfishness); until my emotions are stripped raw in the palm of Goliath, ready to be crumbled into pieces… I’m a shattered shit, until I find time and ways to pick myself up again.

They say the best people to love are the difficult ones. And I knew that I shouldn’t be vulnerable to such people, my defenses should be greater. This has been a fact I’ve lived for all my life. But then, through the years I have lived on to this reality, I seem to have never, ever got myself into accepting these personalities wholly.  Sometimes I even ask: have they even thought of ways of loving me, so I can give them the best love that they wanted me to give them? and this is one ugly question I don’t want to dare ask, but when my walls are shattered, I find myself asking this.

Now I’m done asking, I tell myself next “Maybe I’ll just try to understand more…” but the incessant attempts and herculean effort makes me afraid as well–afraid that in my attempt to wholly understand and accept, I am starting to cut some strings as well…to remain rational. and the moment I become completely rational, emotions will be completely stripped off; all the ties cut off. I hope it won’t happen; I am still holding on to the tie that seriously binds. Happy times still outweighs irrational, insensitive remarks. I would still like to hold on to that–for now.