Emotional Report

I feel the need to write down a lot of things that happened to me the past several weeks. To me, things are getting more complicated. I myself am shocked with the fleeting pace of events, as if I am no longer in control of myself anymore, as if decisions are not done based on reason but by impulse. And I don't know if this will do me any good, since I avoid questioning meanings. I hate profundities; they make me feel dumb and useless and slow. I want the tangible stuff, the things that don't dupe the senses. I abhor deception and false hopes. My emotions are too weak for those, my mind too fragile to commit itself to something elusive and probable. What I want are moments of truth, of instant reactions, of express feelings. As if life is all about categories, about either-ors, yes or nos. Sometimes I ask if I am just being too selfish to myself, but asking such makes me more confuse in the end. It's like committing a grave disservice to my own welfare. Sometimes I question my actions, and how they are often misunderstood by people, how they are often taken negatively. But then, it dawns on me that it will feel more painful if I fail to express what's in me, what's drifting in my mind. The more I keep the emotions, the more I hurt, the more I fall and break down. It seems for me that keeping secrets are for cowards. Why can't we just toss it out and see how things will go, how people will react, how time itself will deal with it? I've done a number of mistakes in the past, mistakes that could have been avoided if only I became a little careful of my words and actions. However, mistakes are mistakes, and who am I to doubt the power of sin to renew, to recharge, to rediscover myself? Sin is something that we need to do, to experience, if only to learn the real-time lessons that we need to imbibe. Now, I am committing another mistake. Expected, another wound is about to open inside me. But I don't mind; I'll still push things to the limit, to where all of these should be. Sheer luck, sheer luck. If it works, it works, but if it doesn't, then forget it. And if I once again fall down, and fail miserably on my way to real love, I will again stop and listen to myself, like what the little boy in me use to do in times of rejection. And I will digress. The art of losing is not hard to master, says Elizabeth Bishop, herself a poet filled with refute from the people she loved. Pain passes easy to those who easily forget. And memory, my one and only friend at this point, serves me right. In time's own approval, I will go on, sailing back to my own goodness, flushing all the things and memories that hurt, as my own self heals its own deepest wounds. Surely, hopefully, I will...