Inkblots

The Complexity of Simplification.

The Friday sun rests against my cheek. I welcome the warmth for a minute or two while comfortably lazed under three layers of blankets, then acknowledge the fact that the morning sun is no different from any other nurturing entity in this life: inevitably destructive. It starts to burn my cheek, forcing me to get up from bed. Of course I am still open to the option to stay in my now makeshift oven, but shrug it off.

Yawn. Stretch. Today seems like a good day for a quarter life crisis.

After washing my face I look into the mirror. Good morning, eyebags. Thank you once again for reminding me not to take pictures with the flash on, and for reminding me to get more sleep.

I drag my feet to the kitchen and toast yesterday’s pandesal before dunking it into a warm serving of mushroom soup. I take breakfast to my room and finish it while I talk to papa over the net. Before I know it breakfast’s over. Mmm, soup. I like how it’s always served hot and thick..and how it coats my spoon and saturates the bread with its flavor.

One more serving later I sit outside and sunbathe a little, while taking pictures of whatnot. I like the first whatnot shot so much that I take another, and another. Maybe I’ll name it The Concrete Series. Again, with the sun being the huge lovable pain in the butt it is, I retreat to the safety of the indoors. Only losers get sunburned before 10am.

I itch to hear the tappity tap of the keyboard. It has been a while since I sat and wrote anything. So I borrow my brother’s notebook and start typing away. I do not know how to start it and what it will be about but I type anyway, only aiming to hear the crisp melody of my fingers drumming away on those black keys. It is only now that I wonder who designed the keyboard and why he or she designed it that way..because I sure wouldn’t have thought of purposely putting W in between Q and E, or assigning the semicolon a space symmetric to that of the first letter of the alphabet.

I hear my grandmother looking for my late grandfather. It is only a matter of time before she starts wailing. Both my sister and mother try to calm her down, and it works..for now. The house becomes silent for a couple of minutes, save the boob tube tuned in to a local station and, of course, the beat of this portable device. I think. And wait. It’s about to hit me – ah, there: quarter life crisis. Right on cue.

The first step, as far as Hollywood and self-help books go, is admitting the problem. So here is my admission:

Hi, I am Miya, and I am an undecided dreamer.

I dream of writing, as there is beauty in language, and art in communication;

I dream of capturing visual artistry, as there is a certain grace and force in touching someone’s life with a single image;

I dream of studying, as there is no atmosphere like one drenched in intelligence and creativity and individuality;

I dream of staying, as there is dignity in nurturing what I have; yet it is for this same reason that I dream of leaving; and

I dream of dreaming, as there is much more I want to do without having to accept the unbearable limit of time in this waking life.

At this point I am full. I have satiated my culinary, aural, and visual cravings, and to force myself to resolve my issues at this moment is more than I can handle. I sit up, and before I know it two hours have passed. I reach for the hand mirror and again see those two deposits sitting under my eyes. Just like that, the answer stares me in my face.

Rest. Sleep. Undecided dreamers have to continue dreaming.


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The Concrete Series - Molting
1 of 4

The Concrete Series - Nonconformist
2 of 4

The Concrete Series - Spat Out
3 of 4

The Concrete Series - The Beach

4 of 4