// Quarter Life Monologues

This is an old one.

“I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love.” ~ Mother Teresa

I wish I thought of saying those words first.

I mean, blpht, I had my own “love sucks” and “love hurts” theories, which, I have to admit now, came out of bitterness and unavoidable hormonal imbalance. (Sorry naman!) And ugh, reading them now makes me think — that’s it? That’s the best you can say about love?

I’m envious of people like Mother Teresa who can say such beautiful words about love, and actually “live it”. Why is it so hard? Why, why, why?

I know she wasn’t just pertaining to romantic love. (Hey, it’s easier, I think, to love someone romantically.) She must have been talking about the kind of love that transcends logic and reason. Like loving the unlovable, or reaching out to your enemy, or forgiving someone who’ve hurt you deeply, or swallowing your pride to understand someone whom you thought is being unreasonable.

Ephesians 5:1 reads,

“Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.”

Gulp.

It’s not an easy thing to do, this love. But love is a way of life we all have to learn to live. Even if it hurts.

No. Especially when it hurts.

(Hi, this is me, talking to myself again. Ktnxbye.)

Them.

Mom, Kuya Nate, Kuya Niks, and Lola

..and Kuya Nate’s pretty wifey Ate Imy :)
(Oh wow I finally have an older sister!)

I guess stuff like this happens when you’re an XX-chromosomed 25 year old (yes, just females), and you come home to a messy apartment, plates and pans from the past two nights’ dinner piled up on the sink waiting to be washed, and a hamper filled to the brim with dirty laundry waiting by your bathroom door. Sounds stressful, I know right. But hey, at this age, I still have the right to blame this on the hormones, right?

I have a bunch of chores to do, not to mention reports to finish, and all I can think of right now is how much I miss going home to a place where there are actual human beings to talk to or to have dinner with. I miss bossing my brothers around (no, wait, I think it’s the other way), my Mum’s lutong-bahay, Lola’s stories which I’ve heard about a hundred times already, and maybe some bonding time with my new (ehem) sister-in-law.

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I miss a lot of things. I miss blogging what’s on my mind without worrying if someone will think that my posts are too icky or too unprofessional. (Fine, I miss blogging, period.) I miss pasting receipts, candy wrappers, and movie tickets on my journal, and trying to record moments in writing so I could easily look back.

I miss wandering aimlessly in a foreign place, getting lost, and figuring out my way back by counting hotdog stands. I miss listening to the sounds of a busy subway, and watching people walk their dogs in Central Park. I miss enjoying the sight a *real* cruise ship, and watching the sun set over Darling Harbor while munching on fish and chips with people you love. I miss taking pictures of everything and nothing in particular, and spending hours post-processing my shots.

And then sometimes, I miss myself. Which I used to think was bad. But now, in the course of missing myself, this whole picture of who I *really* am, and who I want to be becomes even more clear in my head.

Icky, all of this, sure. But hey, I’m not scared to be myself anymore. I’m 25 and life’s too short to worry about what other people think. From now on, that’s who I’m going to be — myself. And let me start by being reacquainted with the things I miss.

Oh hai, 2009. I think you and I are going to be good friends. I’m excited to get to know you. :)

Did you know that the Greeks didn’t write obituaries or eulogies?  They only asked one question after a man died: “Did he have passion?”

Hep. Before you start googling those lines to see if I plagiarized a Hollywood film because you’re thinking, hey, that sounds familiar, let me help you by saying that yes, those aren’t my own words. They’re actually from the movie Serendipity.

And let me help you remember that movie by posting this:

Serendipity Cafe at East 60th Street

Sorry, I just had to post that one. I was there!! :P

You see, that’s one of the things I waste precious hours over lately. I’d watch old movies taken in New York, and if I see a place I happened to have been to when I was there, I’d open up my folder of photos again and look for that place and sigh and wish I could somehow go back.

Anyway, the point is, the New York fever is still not cured. And I’m currently stuck in that phase where replaying NY movies is more important to me than taking my regular dose of stress tabs. Or adjusting my sleeping habits so I can go to work early the next day.

The other day I dreamt I was lost in the subway, not knowing which train to take. And then the most annoying blonde approached me with her perfect teeth and perfectly combed hair and perfect New York accent, and she was the one who actually helped me find my way. Why, Lord, why those dreams? :(

And. I’m. Losing. My. Train. Of. Thought. Again.

What I’m really trying to share is, and I do have a point.. in the course of trying to nurse this seemingly incurable disease that New York left me with, I actually had an epiphany. And what do you know, a line in a movie actually made me realize what could be missing in this life of mine.

Passion.

I need to find passion. To be so obsessed about something again enough to make me wake up early in the morning and face the day with excitement. New Yorkers strike me that way — they’re a people full of passion and drive to move and live; after all, they probably won’t be able to survive a place like that not armed with loads of those.

And that’s probably what I need, too. I need a purpose greater than finding the perfect pair of boots. (Which I haven’t found yet, by the way, unless I finally decide to succumb to that Aldo pair which has been the closest thing to perfect, so far. Italktoomuchblahblah.) Or, perhaps, I need to re-evaluate myself and find that one thing that I used to be passionate about, and be re-acquainted with it.

And who knows, someday, that one question that the Greeks used to ask will be answered with a resounding YES in this life of mine.

I’m getting there, I know it. When I find it, I’ll let you know.

I have a confession to make. Not more than a week after I bought my Moleskine Journal, I lost it. And I couldn’t even blog about it because that would be plain stupid right? To gush about finally getting a Moleskine Journal, and to announce that you lost it a couple of days after? Sheesh.

I knew, however, that I’d find it somehow, and I kindof had an idea where to go. It should be right where I last saw it, I thought with confidence. After all, I didn’t think anyone would really take interest on a piece of notebook enough to steal it. Plus, it has my messy writing all over it already. Na-ah.

Ergo, six days after I noticed it missing, I traced my steps, went to Starbucks at Shangrila, and took my chance.

“Uhm, hi, I was wondering.. By any chance.. *stammering* Did u happen to see a moleskine journal… uhm.. it’s has a black leather..” Even before i finished my sentence, one of their crew was already on his way out back. I held my breath, and noticed some baristas smiling at me from the counter, and some grinning and nodding at each other as if they all have feasted on my journal already! Gah! Oh well. I didn’t care. I just wanted my Moleskine back.

Behold, I heaved a sigh of relief. There it was, the familiar leather bound mini-notebook, handed to me by a certain barista named Ducks — don’t ask me, I wondered what’s with the name too — and I went away with a huge smile on my face. Thank God.

Now just in case you happened to pass by Starbucks Shangrila, the one in 5th floor, do me a favor by thanking Ducks again for me will ya. Heh.

Maybe it’s true what they say. Moleskines really do travel a lot! As for my Moleskine Journal, here goes her first adventure. ;)