Posts Tagged ‘self-awareness’

I hate how I always feel so goddamn homesick every year at this time of year. Why? What home am I sick for anyway? It’s been four years since I last spent the holidays back in the motherland, and the last time I did in ’06 is hardly what you’d call a good memorable experience. Memorable, yeah. But definitely NOT GOOD. So why? What the fuck am I still yearning for from back home at this time of year, specifically?

The beach? The island life? Sure. But I miss that ALL THE TIME. Not just for the -ber months. So, disqualified.

My friends? Who I haven’t kept in touch with and vis-a-vis for years now save for some minor nonsensical cutesy li’l innuendos via facebook. Ugh facebook. That site is so full of shit now, it sickens me to admit that our world would seriously cease to revolve without it. It’s disgusting how we all get so dependent on it when it’s not even serving it’s main purpose in the first place. Social networking, ey? We have managed to reduce ourselves into facebook profiles we manage to garnish with occasional updates that are, more often than not, more enticing than the actual deal. Like freakin cars in a show room. And personal interactions? Write on my wall, comment on my status, heck! Tag me a photo! It’s worth a thousand words, right? And that’s excluding all subliminal messages meant to somehow elicit a reaction from a potential lover and/or ex-lover. Seriously. What have we reduced ourselves into? Facebook friends. Nothing more, nothing less. So, why would I be homesick for them?

Family? My immediate family is here. Extended families strewn all over the country – coast to coast. There’s barely enough distance to stir up sentimentality… So, no. Definitely not family.

All my dogs have passed away.

The so-called “love of my life” has gotten married and is now an expectant father – fuck that.

What else is there then?

Stripped of all these external reasons, I realize I stand alone. That’s it. I miss me. I miss myself, and the way I was back home. I miss how I used to care about something as mundane as a sidewalk Christmas bazaar – one of gazillions that litter the metro at this time of year. Or how I used to marvel at Christmas lanterns. I miss how I used to dream of a white Christmas whereas now, I just dread it. I miss my natural capacity to evoke such random joy in the faces of street children when I share a Jollibee meal with them in Starbucks, or just plain hanging out with them, asking them about school and their families… I miss how I was able to literally smell Christmas in the air back home. Try as I may, I could never smell it here. I have become desensitized somehow. And it sucks.

So, maybe it’s not the place. Neither is it the people. Nor my dogs, nor my heart.

I am homesick for me.

And I don’t know what to do about it but rant. Whoopee-doo.





Thinking too much is bad for the heart. Worse than super size me or being force-fed with pure fat & oil since birth.

I’m a thinker, more than I am a talker (imagine that!). That’s what I do. Even if I consciously will my brain to just shut off – it won’t. I don’t have power over it. I don’t have power over how I feel. And being this way, the pseudo-“writer” I supposedly am, I feel everything twice or thrice more than any normal person. Didn’t choose to be this way, but heck I am. And I’ve accepted that.

I’m alive when I think, reflect, contemplate, etc. But in rare moments of thoughtlessness, I am genuinely happy.

Weird. goes easy on me. most of the time. Indeed. Still, I wonder if life could ever be just a tad easier. Or less harder than it usually is. Even in the most mundane forms like smoother traffic, less pollution, clearer skies… A big comfy bear hug from the person you miss the most would be nice. Solved na’ko dun.

I pray for everyone else who obviously has more weight on their shoulders than I could ever muster to carry.

Heartache is more than just a state of mind. Because it literally hurts, promise. Poor beat-up thing.


Damn forks in the road. Always out of sync with time, with the willingness to choose. How to separate a need from a want. A dream is a dream. And I’ve always been a realistic dreamer. What to do when a dream comes a knockin’ yet again. Shall I kiss my current reality/security goodbye to pursue such an evasive fancy and make it stay or make myself be kept by it, a part of it.. forever? Or til I’m no longer in need of it. No longer at the mercy of its long-term desirability. I’m enslaved by my passions, and I can only move so much. Can’t i just wake up in some alternate universe where I’m no longer such a puppet on strings…

I’m scared to wake up one day, living the dream, and realizing that the glass has been empty all along.

But what scares me more than this is letting the cup pass me by without drinking from it.


Time moves in such a way that when it’s steady, it drags on.

And when it flies, it sweeps you off your feet.

Soar or fall. What’s the diff?

I’m in a daze of constant change and rapidly passing moments.
A tiny insignificant wave caught up in the ethereal sea of fortuity.
Forever in the eye of Fate’s folly.

A free spirit always a free spirit.

Yeah right.

Commitment gives me the heebie jeebies. Scared to fail?

Or to succeed? That is the question.

Shine (4:46:18 PM): man you’ve got some good stuff goin here!
reyneil_hilaga (4:46:25 PM): you always say that
Shine (4:46:31 PM): no im serious!!
Shine (4:46:39 PM): shit wish i could write like this…
Shine (4:46:51 PM): im just so… poetic
Shine (4:46:54 PM): ??
Shine (4:47:01 PM): dramatic!
Shine (4:47:06 PM): yes thats the word hehe
reyneil_hilaga (4:48:00 PM): thanks for the ass-kissing hehe joke
reyneil_hilaga (4:48:00 PM): actually you’re right, you’re a more poetic writer
reyneil_hilaga (4:48:00 PM): dramatic is just a classy way of saying emo, which you my dear, are not

Not sure how I got my ‘poetic’ writing style. I’m really not much of an emo person (I have my moments). All I know is I loved gobbling up piles and piles of lit – from Archie to the Francine Pascal Valley series and on to the ravings of Bukowski, Palahniuk’s madness, and the genius of Tolstoy.

I remember way back grade school when 50pesos was enough reward for my “school achievements..” 50pesos for a pocketbook, why don’t I. I’ve always been that type of kid who’d shun the latest barbie for the latest Sweet Valley Twin saga. So, I’ve always been a geek – BFD. But a poet? Hmm.

If being a poet means having the ingenuity and the craft in manipulating words from being mere typo or ink scribbles to something that’s collectively alive then, by george, I am one.

If photographers work with cameras and film and lighting, and painters with paint and canvas, I work with words. Rather the words work me.

There is an infinite realm of possibilities with wordplay. Each single day is a whole new realm, a whole new discovery, a whole new game where everyone – myself included – always wins. If just in essence.

Sometimes though, I wish I’m not as figurative.


I strive to be professional in my writing. I want to address an issue like nose picking or the mystery of female intuition as a professional. Of course, everyone’s entitled to their opinion and I like to stay close to objectivity.

I remember reading this book by Andy Rooney and I was struck by how he took any subject matter and flipped it into Rooney style. He wrote about bathtubs, cars, beaches, trash cans, children, toothpaste, desks and so on. He wrote about everyday stuff that everybody could relate to. I was inspired by his writing. Words are a tool and put them together you can be very powerful in your writing.

Professionals write about anything and turn it into their specialty. Your desire to write has to be greater than the desire to not write. It’s a lonely job when you’re staring at a piece of paper and your pen isn’t moving. Writing is lonely. Your thoughts are pondering on all kinds of things. Existentialism, water cooler dialogue, fantasies, cartoons, penguins, music, reality TV, celebrity gossip, Santa Claus, gold, and whatever’s left-over in the universe.

I still strive to be a professional in my writing. As H. Thompson once said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro”. And I am weird. But who isn’t? Whenever I write, the words I choose are used for a purpose. I respect all writers and whatever they write because I realize it ain’t easy to be a writer. A lot of people hate writing and that’s their choice. I write because this is what I love to do and it’s better than being a stripper (even though I’m damn good at it.. ha!)

I’ll say that I’m blessed to have this opportunity to write . My life hasn’t been easy but the obvious is: I’M ALIVE.
There’s a lot I can do as opposed to going down for the dirt nap. “Amateurs hope, professionals work.” Hear, hear!

You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it. –Neil Gaiman

..for a while.

Used to “look down” on people who needed to be high just to have a good time. I’m not washing my hands off the crime but I know I can do without. It was never a need. Escapism is the real culprit behind it. Life can be so grilling that by the end of the week or each day, you just want to break free.

Sometimes I think I’d be better off with a kid or something. Or a pet. God, I miss my dogs. someone that’d consume all this energy I have in me. I really have too much energy for one skinny girl, and that’s what gets me in trouble.

No, I’m not making excuses for my behavior. I’m responsible for my choices and I’m not one to point fingers. It’s all on me.

Bottomline: I had a fun night. In spite of everything. But it wasn’t me. The stupidity took over and I was a shooting star.

I’m more than glad to have burnt out in the morning. the crash, as always, is painful. and my heart breaks for the unnecessary casualties. I did what I did and that’s that.

And though I’ve no face to show for it, I’ve no regrets. Cause I understand more now. I do.

I was stupid but I’ll be fine.


I love it cause it makes me not care. I tend to care too much normally. Even if I don’t want to. It’s like my heart gets a life of its own and triggers a massive empathy rush. And anyone who’s in their supposed right minds would say that that’s no good. I relentlessly abuse the right side of my brain, so I really wouldn’t know.


So yeah. I think I’m close to unveiling what my purpose here is. It’s not gonna be something grand in earthly terms neither would they have any statues built for me long after I’m gone. No, there will be no statues in my name. That’s a total waste of art. I’m starting to accept the possibility that I would not have an easy and ordinary life. I would probably be “alone” or “single, never married, no children” in social status. I probably would never get to have all that. And it’s perfectly alright. because I will be happy where I’d be. And it would feel so right and I would be complete.

My life will be is extraordinary. It was written. I believe.


It was tough being a single legal alien in a city where almost all your girl friends have kids and all your guy friends have issues. Correction: It was tougher. Kids, issues, alcohol and drugs DO NOT MIX. And I just had to break away.

And in a not-so distant island, I found them. Rather, they found me.

I am yours now. So, now I won’t ever have to leave. I’ve been found out. So, now I’ll never explore.

…I just crush a lot.

No. It’s not one of those “that’s what he said/she said” kinda thing. I say I’m not a player because I’m really not. I’m more of that Nelly Furtado song.. “I’m like a bird. I only fly away…” Yeah. Cheesy but true. Err.. closest to truth, rather.

But first… WHO THE HELL AM I?

I’m just another 12-year old kid trapped in the image of a 20-something year old girl/woman/lady/what-have-you. I was born and raised overseas but is currently a citizen of the East Coast. I reside in dirty Jerz but I’m practically a citizen of Manhattan. Oh yes, yes. The one and only concrete jungle. Patron to Sex and the City, The Godfather, Lady Liberty, RENT, the fat overpaid bastards of the Mets and the Yankees, Lady Gaga and all that good stuff. Though I am very tempted to say that I actually write for a living, I won’t. There’s no point in that kind of deception. I won’t go into specifics but I am somewhere in the chain of the unglamorous ones of the health care industry. Call me a sellout but hey, whatever pays the bills.

Throughout the course of this 4-year journey, I’ve encountered quite a number of shocks – culturally, spiritually, emotionally, and yes, physically. ALL of which left a bitter aftertaste that just became somewhat sweeter in time. Bottomline: It wasn’t easy. I did not build my defenses, to say the least. They just naturally developed and before I knew it, I had this infallible fortress. And even without being conscious of it, my defenses have become so strong against the mostly malicious advances of this world that I became exactly like the enemy. Overprotection corrupts, even if the original intent is of a noble nature. In keeping the best parts of me well-hidden, I project this kind of monstrous image which directly contrasts with who I really am. No one here knows me. They all claim to, of course, but how couldn’t they? What everyone else sees is but a projection of ourselves. And bad as it seems to be known as a she-jerk, a douchebaguette, and every other name in the book, I just have to reconcile with the fact that it’s my own will that made me be the way that I am perceived. It’s nobody’s fault but mine.

So, I start this “documentation” precisely because I want to be more aware and in turn, be more wary of what I’d choose to project to whom. Is this place really full of assholes or is it just me? Or both? Or neither.

Before I do that, allow me to purge some of my earlier thoughts from another source that I’ve been wanting to trash soon as the aforementioned purpose has been served. I want me, more than anyone, to ride my train of thought from the start right to this very point. And for all who happen to hop on, be comforted with the truth that even monsters have hearts.


They call her the “mad scientist.”

“There’s a disturbance in the Force,” she says. “I can’t figure it out but lately I’ve been going through that cycle again.”

She thought she was good already. She has work, she’s healthy, she has awesome friends, she has a roof over her head and a car… But see, there’s always always something that’s poking at her. Like an itch that needs to be scratched, a thirst that needs to be quenched, a dance that needs to be executed… A voice that needs to be SHOUTED.

So, she convinces herself that she’s excused to feel this cause, truth be told, she is a creative. She creates. And everyone in the creative realm knows that there’s always a very thin line between creating and holding on to your sanity, and self-destruction is sometimes a means to a redeeming end. But she read somewhere that artists have work ethics too. Picasso was the perfect model. “Okay, then call me undisciplined,” she said. “Whatever happened to that endless buzz we all used to get high on? Those daisy days when we’d just bury ourselves in endless musings or freewriting, without the rules and the careful inclusion expletives. Who’s the buzz kill?”

She is. He is. They are. We are. You are.

I am.

Yes, that’s it. I long for my coffee-stained journals and my camera. I have been too caught up with “living” and “the daily grind” I’ve forgotten my other self. The part of me that wants to capture joys and sorrows, the spirited frenzies and celebrations, the mundane but deep observations of everyday life – I want them immortalized in the ethereal stillness of a snapshot, and later on translated in words or vice-versa.

They call her the mad scientist and she is (me).

I miss my lab.