The Angel

Probably not a good thing to finish this book while I was in a very busy coffee shop with lines snaking around where I was seated. I felt claustrophobic by the surroundings and the book I just finished reading made such a tangled mess of emotions. Somehow, I wished for a better ending, not just for the characters in this book, but for all of us, whether in the shadows, invisible, or not. If there's one fiction to read this year, it is this: Lie With Me by Philippe Besson. Translated by Molly Ringwald. (Yes, the actress from Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club.)

It's been eleven years since my younger brother died. He would have been 29 last September 10. So easy to say that time flies, but somehow, somehow, I never grieved fully--and so eleven years later it has the freshness of yesterday's heartbreak. In the early stages, the first few weeks and months after his death, if I wasn't angry at the world and at God, if I wasn't plotting my own demise, I buried my nose in books, either trying to understand the inescapable pain and burden or escaping into horde of fantasy books. I remember feeling how thin the line between madness and sanity at that time. At any point I would've crossed over to madness and lived gleefully unaware of this sad, mad world.

The first milestone I had was when I graduated in prep school. It was made more unforgettable because I sung onstage. Long before The Voice Kids  or Tawag ng Tanghalan Kids  happened, I tortured my poor classmates, their parents and guests, and my teachers with my voice. In my defense, my teachers made me do it. The succeeding milestones in my life were all that--graduations. From elementary, high school, and finally college. I say finally  because I'm glad that my formal education is over. I have no plans for further studies, except those short courses online that tap into my neglected creative side.

I skipped working out today.  I wasn't very much in the mood.  I noticed it yesterday when I was in the gym.  I was going through my routine and there was that lackluster feeling, as if I was simply going through everything passively.  I wasn't feeling anything except tiredness, an exhaustion that seems to be deeper than I think it is.  Sure my hamstrings hurt, my legs feel stretched, my shoulders feel like I'm just done carrying the weight of the world, and my chest feels like it just got a boob job; but it's more than that.  I feel restless and exhausted by everything.  And it carried on from yesterday to today and until I don't know when.  That lethargy, of seeming without energy to carry on. In one of my vacant moments, I was wondering whether what kind of life is better for me.  One that I see around here--old men and women going with their lives, trying as much as possible to extend it, crutches and knee replacements notwithstanding, ...