Showing posts with label night thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label night thoughts. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Because I do not know which scary place my thoughts will take me to.
This is how I know I'm not all right; this is how--and when--I know you're not with me: no matter how late the hour and no matter how drowsy I am, I feel almost afraid to go to bed without popping a pill.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Blink/Blank
Mostly, I just stare, then blink, and realize there's nothing to write about. Scenes from my day, or my week, flash briefly across some blankness and then go away, just as quickly. I blink again and realize, once more, that there's nothing to write about. There's this germ of a writing project that's planted itself into my mind's soil that's been haunting me from time to time, though when I sit down to begin, I find that there's nothing there.
Even that last sentence was an afterthought (whose verity should not be discredited, however).
I should go away, one of these days.
Then I'll probably bring something back with me, something to tend that seed with.
Excuses, excuses.
Even that last sentence was an afterthought (whose verity should not be discredited, however).
I should go away, one of these days.
Then I'll probably bring something back with me, something to tend that seed with.
Excuses, excuses.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Night House
by Billy Collins
Every day the body works in the fields of the world
Mending a stone wall
Or swinging a sickle through the tall grass—
The grass of civics, the grass of money—
And every night the body curls around itself
And listens for the soft bells of sleep.
But the heart is restless and rises
From the body in the middle of the night,
Leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
With its thick, pictureless walls
To sit by herself at the kitchen table
And heat some milk in a pan.
And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
And goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
And opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
And roams from room to room in the dark,
Darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.
And the soul is up on the roof
In her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
Singing a song about the wildness of the sea
Until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
The way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,
Resuming their daily colloquy,
Talking to each other or themselves
Even through the heat of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body—the house of voices—
Sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
To stare into the distance,
To listen to all its names being called
Before bending again to its labor.
found here.
Every day the body works in the fields of the world
Mending a stone wall
Or swinging a sickle through the tall grass—
The grass of civics, the grass of money—
And every night the body curls around itself
And listens for the soft bells of sleep.
But the heart is restless and rises
From the body in the middle of the night,
Leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
With its thick, pictureless walls
To sit by herself at the kitchen table
And heat some milk in a pan.
And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
And goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
And opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
And roams from room to room in the dark,
Darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.
And the soul is up on the roof
In her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
Singing a song about the wildness of the sea
Until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
The way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,
Resuming their daily colloquy,
Talking to each other or themselves
Even through the heat of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body—the house of voices—
Sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
To stare into the distance,
To listen to all its names being called
Before bending again to its labor.
found here.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
You know how there are topics that we avoid, words, even, or names that we try so hard not to utter in conversations, both with someone else and with ourselves, or else the pain will seep through us, just like that, and totally water down our soldered brace on reason, and make hash of whatever semblance of cheerfulness we may have been feigning, for the longest time?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Browsing...
How cheerless are these lines?
The rain is falling and it is awfully dark outside. It’s two forty in the afternoon and yet it seems like twilight. There is a congruence to the words twilight and gloom.
Loneliness is a terrible thing. It makes the soul shrink unto itself, like there’s nowhere else to go except inwards, and one does not know what one will find there. Lonely. There is a sense of finality in the letters, as if there is nothing in between them, not even shadows. Just nothing. (July, '05)
or these:
But loneliness. It is twilight, and then the darkness that comes after twilight. It goes away, but is certain to come back. Daylight obscures it, but only for so long.
It is part of, if not the, landscape.
Loneliness, I have to confess, has become one of my favorite words.(July, '05)
Even the description of Maria Callas' singing does not escape the dismals:
...and yet, ultimately, its greatest achievement is that it is able to touch the core of one’s humanity, to stir dormant feelings of sadness, whose cause one can’t seem to trace, exactly. It is, I believe, the primeval sense of loneliness that lives in each of us, and it is this that “La Mamma Morta” gropes around for, and then raises for us to see, if not to acknowledge. (July, '07)
And then add this to the dreariness:
I have long ago taught myself, little by little, to close myself into a bud whenever I feel the threat of pain. (July, '07)
But wait, there's more:
We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult that tears start to well up in the eyes. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream. And, with it, the pain. (January, '08)
Sheesh. I'm glad to have outgrown those.
Or, I hope I have.
The rain is falling and it is awfully dark outside. It’s two forty in the afternoon and yet it seems like twilight. There is a congruence to the words twilight and gloom.
Loneliness is a terrible thing. It makes the soul shrink unto itself, like there’s nowhere else to go except inwards, and one does not know what one will find there. Lonely. There is a sense of finality in the letters, as if there is nothing in between them, not even shadows. Just nothing. (July, '05)
or these:
But loneliness. It is twilight, and then the darkness that comes after twilight. It goes away, but is certain to come back. Daylight obscures it, but only for so long.
It is part of, if not the, landscape.
Loneliness, I have to confess, has become one of my favorite words.(July, '05)
Even the description of Maria Callas' singing does not escape the dismals:
...and yet, ultimately, its greatest achievement is that it is able to touch the core of one’s humanity, to stir dormant feelings of sadness, whose cause one can’t seem to trace, exactly. It is, I believe, the primeval sense of loneliness that lives in each of us, and it is this that “La Mamma Morta” gropes around for, and then raises for us to see, if not to acknowledge. (July, '07)
And then add this to the dreariness:
I have long ago taught myself, little by little, to close myself into a bud whenever I feel the threat of pain. (July, '07)
But wait, there's more:
We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult that tears start to well up in the eyes. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream. And, with it, the pain. (January, '08)
Sheesh. I'm glad to have outgrown those.
Or, I hope I have.
Monday, January 4, 2010
And, sitting there in the middle of that crowded cafe,
you are brought out of your invisible bubble and the jarring din of the people around you rushes into your quiet like a sudden stream.
Just like that.
Looking at the face of the watch resting on your left wrist, you realize it's been almost an hour since you sat down and started reading the book of poems you had impulsively bought from the nearby bookstore and you think, you wonder, what power of self-containment was it that enabled you to shut everything--the drone of voices, the sundry, small human movements, the afternoon heat, the forgotten cup of coffee, the discomfort of staying in one position for a certain length of time--out and get lost in the words, the lines, the stanzas on the pages of the book on your lap? What sort of self-centeredness? What selfishness? What apathy? What trick learned from childhood? What sorcery?
Just like that.
Looking at the face of the watch resting on your left wrist, you realize it's been almost an hour since you sat down and started reading the book of poems you had impulsively bought from the nearby bookstore and you think, you wonder, what power of self-containment was it that enabled you to shut everything--the drone of voices, the sundry, small human movements, the afternoon heat, the forgotten cup of coffee, the discomfort of staying in one position for a certain length of time--out and get lost in the words, the lines, the stanzas on the pages of the book on your lap? What sort of self-centeredness? What selfishness? What apathy? What trick learned from childhood? What sorcery?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
You know how it is
...when the hours and the days drift by like never-ending seas of curtains and you barely have a moment to blink and realize that they are actually unfolding before your eyes because the only thing you know is that you're there, watching, and not noticing that the curtains are not only moving but are really changing color, too?
The past several days have been like that. As usual, there's comfort in cliches, so, yes, the days have flown so swiftly by with the breeze, and the chore of having to step back and retrace one's whereabouts from the starting point of choice, up to the mark one has drawn between the step before the finish line and the actual finish line, seems a needless one, one might say, because something always seems to get lost in the retelling.
Or is something gained, instead?
I am going home soon--in less than two days, as a matter of fact. Probably explains all the breeziness.
The past several days have been like that. As usual, there's comfort in cliches, so, yes, the days have flown so swiftly by with the breeze, and the chore of having to step back and retrace one's whereabouts from the starting point of choice, up to the mark one has drawn between the step before the finish line and the actual finish line, seems a needless one, one might say, because something always seems to get lost in the retelling.
Or is something gained, instead?
I am going home soon--in less than two days, as a matter of fact. Probably explains all the breeziness.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
More on the Weather:
Dear, dear me, been getting headaches because of this confused, temperamental weather. Been lazy and cranky and blah and it doesn't help that work has not been a slide down the rainbow lately.
One bright spot to my week is that my dad and brother were in the city for a few days and the kids and I got to spend time with them, roaming Glorietta (which has become a dismal disappointment) and Greenbelt (which is gorgeous, thank you).
Other than that, I've been trying to assuage my weather woes with as much good music as I could get my hands into: lots of India Arie, Carrie Underwood, some Broadway, Christina Aguilera (tried her "Walk Away" and "Save Me From Myself" upon a friend's recommendation), and good ol' Ella Fitzgerald.
Several friends are in La Union for some surfing and I kinda feel a tiny pang of regret that I didn't go with them--even if they had tried to cajole me into it, like tens of times--though, at the same time, these rains would've taken away whatever fun I would have had if I'd gone.
There, you see, the weather has got me all confused, too!
What are you doing to keep dry and sane?
=)
One bright spot to my week is that my dad and brother were in the city for a few days and the kids and I got to spend time with them, roaming Glorietta (which has become a dismal disappointment) and Greenbelt (which is gorgeous, thank you).
Other than that, I've been trying to assuage my weather woes with as much good music as I could get my hands into: lots of India Arie, Carrie Underwood, some Broadway, Christina Aguilera (tried her "Walk Away" and "Save Me From Myself" upon a friend's recommendation), and good ol' Ella Fitzgerald.
Several friends are in La Union for some surfing and I kinda feel a tiny pang of regret that I didn't go with them--even if they had tried to cajole me into it, like tens of times--though, at the same time, these rains would've taken away whatever fun I would have had if I'd gone.
There, you see, the weather has got me all confused, too!
What are you doing to keep dry and sane?
=)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Pessimism is Ugly.
Looking at the sky still shakes my faith, at times. Its vastness warps its beauty.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Growing Up
Some years back, the sight of a plane in flight was a beautiful sign of good luck, a portent of something pleasant about to happen. Etched against the blue sky, the plane was my beacon of hope. It lifted me from my slump.
Now, I have realized that the only reason why I constantly see airplanes is this: I live near the airport. (Well, relatively)
Poop.
Now, I have realized that the only reason why I constantly see airplanes is this: I live near the airport. (Well, relatively)
Poop.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Parched
I am going through a dry--no, make that very dry--blogging spell right now.
It's been eons since I last posted an entry here. It's not like I haven't tried, though. It frustrates me to look at all the unfinished drafts staring back at me from my posting box. They blink at me, waiting, waiting, waiting for me to, maybe, click on "edit" and finish them, give them the shape they think they should have.
But, for the life of me, I couldn't. It's probably the stale, dusty winds in the workplace that are sucking my creative juices dry, not that I had much, to begin with. Too much reality for li'l ol' me, I guess.
I am waiting for the rains, summoning them whenever I manage to muster the strength to do so, eventually giving up because I always fail.
So this is all I'm publishing for now, though I wish it were something else.
I really do.
(image from here)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Vapors
I still feel like I'm teetering on the edge of some high place. After the hell I had surpassed, I've begun to think of myself as someone who will steadily face each setting of the omnipresent sun.
Lately, the feeling that this may not be the case has been nagging me like some persistent echo.
In January 7, 2007, I wrote:
You probably know how it is, when that tiny wail clamped inside your chest balloons into a huge lump of painful, ear-splitting screams. For some of us, it's easy to let it out. Never mind that the odds of being heard by the people two doors away are ninety-nine to one. It's as easy as one, two, three, scream! Then it's all over and you feel a thousand times better where it used to hurt like needle-pricks.
For the less fortunate ones (namely, the repressed), shouting is out of the question. The thought of it just never comes, simply because it's not the natural instinct. We probably never learned the trick as children.We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream.
And, with it, the pain.
And then the tears never really come.They have retreated, pushed down, as well. And we think, what a feat it has been, what sweetness in the strength of temperance, one more victory for the taking.
If it's victory or something else, I can never really be certain.
Lately, the feeling that this may not be the case has been nagging me like some persistent echo.
In January 7, 2007, I wrote:
You probably know how it is, when that tiny wail clamped inside your chest balloons into a huge lump of painful, ear-splitting screams. For some of us, it's easy to let it out. Never mind that the odds of being heard by the people two doors away are ninety-nine to one. It's as easy as one, two, three, scream! Then it's all over and you feel a thousand times better where it used to hurt like needle-pricks.
For the less fortunate ones (namely, the repressed), shouting is out of the question. The thought of it just never comes, simply because it's not the natural instinct. We probably never learned the trick as children.We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream.
And, with it, the pain.
And then the tears never really come.They have retreated, pushed down, as well. And we think, what a feat it has been, what sweetness in the strength of temperance, one more victory for the taking.
If it's victory or something else, I can never really be certain.
Wanderlust: 0%
People talk about scheduling (or coming back from) a trip to Singapore, Hong Kong or LA, climbing mountains and cruising down oceans, driving out of town, sunbathing in Galera, girl-watching in Bora, etc, etc.
People go places (or at least express the desire to) like it were the most wonderful thing in the world to be somewhere other than where one is.
And I wonder: why can't I be like them?
Yeah, I do want to experience what that eagerness to gallivant feels like. Truth is, there is an element of envy here (the innoccuous kind, that is), some sort of "can we trade places for a day?" thing.
Friends have invited me for a day or two at the beach, a trip to Phuket, a shopping pilgrimmage to Hong Kong. I've always had some difficulty saying "no," because with the "no" comes the prerequisite explanation why. How do I explain that the prospect of toasting in the sun has absolutely zero appeal to me, that the thought of skin aging (few of us are aware, and we will only see the effects later on, but skin aging does start early and the sun is one of the biggest culprits!) makes me shudder and avoid the sun as much as I can. A long trip, on the other hand, or one that would require me to pack and board a plane and land in a place where everything is strange, has never been a part of my life's itinerary.
This is not to say, though, that I am as boring as I sound. There is that occasional longing to go out (aside from the proverbial coffee with friends and shopping at the mall) and have a good time somewhere new. But again, the word is "occasional" and the supplementary adjective is "fleeting."
And people, of course, would start preaching about how I am missing half of my life and all that good stuff. How do I explain that I'd much rather stay where I am, that a real break, for me, means sleeping for 12 straight hours in my warm, cozy bed (just because for the longest time, I haven't really had enough sleep), that a cup of coffee and a good book, movie or magazine are enough to keep me company to the places I want to go to, and that, through the words I've read, I've actually already gone to the places I want to visit?
How do you explain that to people and expect them to understand? In the same way that I respect their desire--and need--to go to far places and satisfy that itch to see the world (or the blue of the beach, for that matter), I expect them, too, to respect my wish to be left at peace and, when prodded to accept an invite, not have the need to launch into an obligatory, lengthy (because too few words would mean not getting yourself across and having to explain even more) explanation and, worse, be forced to say yes to something I don't want.
I appreciate the fact that I still do get asked to go, proof that my friends do not hate my company all that much (lol).
Well, who knows, one distant day, in a cafe in Prague, you'll look up and feel a jolt to see me offering you a cup of coffee. Or, one Friday in Bora, you'll catch a glimpse of me, bikini-clad and tanned, cavorting with my friends under the hot, glorious sun.
Now, that'll be the day. I'm in stitches, just thinking about it.
;p
People go places (or at least express the desire to) like it were the most wonderful thing in the world to be somewhere other than where one is.
And I wonder: why can't I be like them?
Yeah, I do want to experience what that eagerness to gallivant feels like. Truth is, there is an element of envy here (the innoccuous kind, that is), some sort of "can we trade places for a day?" thing.
Friends have invited me for a day or two at the beach, a trip to Phuket, a shopping pilgrimmage to Hong Kong. I've always had some difficulty saying "no," because with the "no" comes the prerequisite explanation why. How do I explain that the prospect of toasting in the sun has absolutely zero appeal to me, that the thought of skin aging (few of us are aware, and we will only see the effects later on, but skin aging does start early and the sun is one of the biggest culprits!) makes me shudder and avoid the sun as much as I can. A long trip, on the other hand, or one that would require me to pack and board a plane and land in a place where everything is strange, has never been a part of my life's itinerary.
This is not to say, though, that I am as boring as I sound. There is that occasional longing to go out (aside from the proverbial coffee with friends and shopping at the mall) and have a good time somewhere new. But again, the word is "occasional" and the supplementary adjective is "fleeting."
And people, of course, would start preaching about how I am missing half of my life and all that good stuff. How do I explain that I'd much rather stay where I am, that a real break, for me, means sleeping for 12 straight hours in my warm, cozy bed (just because for the longest time, I haven't really had enough sleep), that a cup of coffee and a good book, movie or magazine are enough to keep me company to the places I want to go to, and that, through the words I've read, I've actually already gone to the places I want to visit?
How do you explain that to people and expect them to understand? In the same way that I respect their desire--and need--to go to far places and satisfy that itch to see the world (or the blue of the beach, for that matter), I expect them, too, to respect my wish to be left at peace and, when prodded to accept an invite, not have the need to launch into an obligatory, lengthy (because too few words would mean not getting yourself across and having to explain even more) explanation and, worse, be forced to say yes to something I don't want.
I appreciate the fact that I still do get asked to go, proof that my friends do not hate my company all that much (lol).
Well, who knows, one distant day, in a cafe in Prague, you'll look up and feel a jolt to see me offering you a cup of coffee. Or, one Friday in Bora, you'll catch a glimpse of me, bikini-clad and tanned, cavorting with my friends under the hot, glorious sun.
Now, that'll be the day. I'm in stitches, just thinking about it.
;p
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Day is Done
I had meant to post this poem on New Year's day but somehow missed to.
So let me share with you a favorite Longfellow poem which, somehow, almost always finds itself on the first page of my journals. I don't know why I hadn't posted this much, much earlier. Consider it one of my major blogging/writing lapses.
The Day is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-
So let me share with you a favorite Longfellow poem which, somehow, almost always finds itself on the first page of my journals. I don't know why I hadn't posted this much, much earlier. Consider it one of my major blogging/writing lapses.
The Day is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-
Friday, August 22, 2008
Prayer
My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
- from Gerard Manley Hopkins'
"My own heart let me more have pity on"
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find...
- from Gerard Manley Hopkins'
"My own heart let me more have pity on"
Monday, August 11, 2008
Right now, I am...
1. sleepy and know that I ought to sleep; instead I am blog-hopping and having a lot of fun reading about other people's lives.
2. wondering how other bloggers manage to find something to write about day after day. I, on the other hand, have these dry spells wherein I simply can't, for the life of me, type a single sentence, let alone one whole entry!
3. still thinking about my key take-away from the Emotional Intelligence training class I attended this morning: that I am, in no way, emotionally intelligent.
4. listening absently to Jay Leno's blabber--the TV's volume is too low for me to really make out what he's saying.
5. seeing blue spots on the screen--I must've stared too long at the blue wall.
6. reminding myself to remind Jackie and Kim to study for their upcoming exams. I know Jackie will complain that studying takes too much out of her "fun" time. She'd cooperate more if you ask her to study Anne of Green Gables, though. Sigh. You should see her stare, horrified, at a page of math problems. She is simply too much like me.
7. counting my blessings.
8. bracing myself for a storm which I know is coming very soon. Time to test my mettle, once more.
9. trying to make out what Jay Leno is saying. I wish I didn't feel too lazy to reach for the remote control and turn up the volume.
10. ending this entry.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Answers
I often find myself caught off-guard by the questions people ask; mainly because a) I am, by nature, absent-minded and almost always adrift on some invisible cloud, or b) it is the nature of the questions themselves (not your average "how are you?" or "what's your favorite color?" sort) that get the wheels in my head to turn, and I mean, really turn.
Here are three actual examples (I've taken the liberty of answering them in this blog. Sad to say, I wasn't able to answer all of them during the time they were thrown at me. A blank stare was the most they got. Or, a puzzled frown, if they were lucky.)
1. Do you prioritize building relationships? (this question was from Sheila)
As a rule, no. I generally veer away from getting up-close and personal, be it with a colleague, a boss, an acquaintance, or a friend. Don't get me wrong, I do have friends, but generally, very few (and I mean less than a handful) of them are who I might call "close" friends. I put up a wall or, if I was unable to put up that wall at the start either because I was too busy or unaware, then I detach myself. In retrospect, this is something I've been doing since childhood. Practice makes perfect, as they say; so now, I could say that I've mastered the art.
Well, almost.
2. Tell me one weird thing you do when you get home. (from Wowoo)
Until now, I am drawing a blank. I don't have any unusual habits. So, this question is apparently useless. But interesting. I could probably try to come up with a list of weird habits, decide which one is the most unusual, and then put it into practice.
3. Is this what you really want to do? (pertaining to my line of work--several people have asked me this)
Truth be told, no, and there are so many reasons why. Among them are the following: a) the stress level is extremely high; b) I have to smile and appear agreeable even when I don't feel like it, which means I have to keep in check my moodiness and tendency to sulk and brood--which is very difficult to do because those things are second nature to me; c) my job involves a lot of critical decision-making and it just drives me nuts, at times; d) I go berserk when I get confronted with numbers and excel sheets; e) I seldom get the sleep that each of us rightfully deserves and needs; and f) I haven't read a single book in ages!
I could go on ranting but I'll stop, at this point. As the wise say, count your blessings, so, despite the complaints, I am thankful that I have a job. Which, come to think of it, is not such a bad one, after all.
(And here, folks, you can see the many colorful ways in which the female mind works.)
*My eyelids are drooping. Will turn in now. Good night.
Here are three actual examples (I've taken the liberty of answering them in this blog. Sad to say, I wasn't able to answer all of them during the time they were thrown at me. A blank stare was the most they got. Or, a puzzled frown, if they were lucky.)
1. Do you prioritize building relationships? (this question was from Sheila)
As a rule, no. I generally veer away from getting up-close and personal, be it with a colleague, a boss, an acquaintance, or a friend. Don't get me wrong, I do have friends, but generally, very few (and I mean less than a handful) of them are who I might call "close" friends. I put up a wall or, if I was unable to put up that wall at the start either because I was too busy or unaware, then I detach myself. In retrospect, this is something I've been doing since childhood. Practice makes perfect, as they say; so now, I could say that I've mastered the art.
Well, almost.
2. Tell me one weird thing you do when you get home. (from Wowoo)
Until now, I am drawing a blank. I don't have any unusual habits. So, this question is apparently useless. But interesting. I could probably try to come up with a list of weird habits, decide which one is the most unusual, and then put it into practice.
3. Is this what you really want to do? (pertaining to my line of work--several people have asked me this)
Truth be told, no, and there are so many reasons why. Among them are the following: a) the stress level is extremely high; b) I have to smile and appear agreeable even when I don't feel like it, which means I have to keep in check my moodiness and tendency to sulk and brood--which is very difficult to do because those things are second nature to me; c) my job involves a lot of critical decision-making and it just drives me nuts, at times; d) I go berserk when I get confronted with numbers and excel sheets; e) I seldom get the sleep that each of us rightfully deserves and needs; and f) I haven't read a single book in ages!
I could go on ranting but I'll stop, at this point. As the wise say, count your blessings, so, despite the complaints, I am thankful that I have a job. Which, come to think of it, is not such a bad one, after all.
(And here, folks, you can see the many colorful ways in which the female mind works.)
*My eyelids are drooping. Will turn in now. Good night.
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