OKAY! I will finish editing my last column before I hit the boring sack. I am not used to sleeping as late as this, when lateness had already verged on the early (see: it IS 05:30 in the morning). But, but. Last column drafts need all my attention. Like season finales of series with no promise of having another season premiere.
Today, the rains hesitate, while I, and the thousands of others who returned to school. First day of classes: again, new faces, old faces, new surroundings, all surroundings.
This is how we return to what we deem to be old things:
I turned over class cards today, in my second to the last semester in the university, as an undergraduate student, expected to learn some French, teach language and literature, delve into the seldom explored territory of folk literature and some more. This is how we accost knowledge, we enter classrooms and expected to thrive and be smarter, we leave classrooms and expected to be armed as we encounter the world.
I also shortly dropped by the office of the publication, nearly same same. The cruel repetition of scenarios. I wander around the university during my vast free time, summoning old times when these places are entirely different, less repulsive, more jaunty. I was waiting for the rain and some more, I was waiting for a stranger to ask me where is this room or that. I was always waiting for adventures, have always hesitated in jumping right in front of them.
As school year begins, I am promising to myself, in this blog, to the always savage wilderness that is Baguio and beyond, I will no longer just drift through the wind and ponder upon our futile flights; I promise to be fiercer than ever, teeth gnashed together and fists as obdurate as the expression of Bernardo Caprio when he was attempting to save humanity. I promise to be fancy and good, because this cycle is rarely a jelly ace and sweet watermelons. And hesitations are better when overcome.
Romanticism won’t seem to get old, and hence, no need for something like a neo-romanticism to spring.
Since Wordsworth, since “flowers are red and your puckered lips are dry territories I wish to explore,” people have been mad about themselves, mad about how they feel, and mad about how they can exploit nature. And then we have Murakami today creating characters that want to know their selves by being alone in a dry well and I can affirm: romanticism did not die like Hellenism and the Victorian tradition and Jose Rizal.
Do not be afraid to write. Jessica Zafra said that words are the only thing we have. Wittgenstein tried to be introspective and simplistic: the limit of my language is the limit of my world. Write anyway, no more dicta and commandments and implications. Write because there are always better days.