After sifting through my old computer files, I found yet another example of my juvenile angst. I think I wrote this when I was in third year college, newly shifted into Philosophy, somewhat finding myself at home in the discipline, but at the same time disturbed by the realizations philosophical reflection presented to me.

Reading through the entry, I realized how self-conscious and insecure I used to be then; how I indulged myself in my little tragedies, because I believed that drama was what made life interesting; how I reveled in the emotion of the moment, thinking, perhaps, that being complicated was the same as being deep. There was a certain romance, I thought, with being a tortured and misunderstood soul, and I played it up, if only to have material for my writing.

After finishing college and lawschool, taking the bar, meeting different people, screwing up and being shortchanged, hurting and getting hurt, I think that I've grown quite a bit from those frenzied days of self-imposed profundity, so that now, six years later, with not much to show for myself except that I am actually still alive, I guess I have accepted quite a great deal about who I am and what I want to do with my life, and have thus realized, quite certainly: that insecurity is often self-chosen, and that tragedy is good only when played on stage; that complications are best not analyzed, only lived through (and even loved), and that being misunderstood is only another way of saying that other people's opinions matter too much.

Indeed, life marches forward, and we grow up. After all, as they say, maturity has nothing to do with age, but it has everything to do with time. While I know that I've got much more growing up to do, at least, right now, I have chosen to.

Emotions are somewhat deadened now, reason somewhat sharpened, and insecurity somewhat lessened. Sometimes I surprise even myself. And yet. . . and yet. . . I find, strangely enough, that in spite of it all, I am still the same person.

* * *

Life has been pretty confusing lately. It's confusing because of the many questions and thoughts that have been going on in my head of late. I really can't help it, though. It's the way I am— some say, I just think too much (although I fail to see how one can think too much of an issue. As a friend of mine says, the gravest problems in our world today are due to the fact that people don't think at all).

In the midst of all of this confusion, I am quite thankful for being in Philosophy. You see, I have found a certain security in the discipline, a certain order and predictability. Any true philosopher, however, will tell you that philosophy should be exactly the opposite: philosophy should disturb you; it should unravel your old pre-conceived notions and shatter you present paradigms. And he would be right.

For me, however, in the face of all of this confusion, the study of philosophy has granted me temporary reprieve. I guess it's because of the safety I find in it: talking about wonderful ideas, beautiful words, brilliant realities, and moving thoughts— all removed from all of the contradictions of the world outside. I am at a disadvantage, I know, because philosophy should in fact push me to face life— Lundagin mo, beybee— rather than shelter me from it, sanitize it or make it safe. But for the moment, I am tired. Please do grant me my rest.

Perhaps I’m merely going through an identity crisis. Maybe I'm attempting to rediscover who I really am, separated from people's expectations and notions, separated from my own insecurities and worries. I'm afraid I don't know myself anymore. I have lost myself along the difficult way of pleasing people and fulfilling expectations. I don't know where to find myself, and I am scared, because I know that I cannot trust.

I find, first of all, that I cannot trust myself. Perhaps this is the result of years of timid insecurity, of always playing second-fiddle, and of always never being good enough.

And worse still: I find that I cannot trust other people, because I am afraid. This is why I've found that the real opposite of love is not hate, but fear. It stops us from ever doing anything, from opening-up and revealing ourselves to others.

But worst of all, owing to this self-imposed isolation, stemming from fearful inaction, I discover that I do miss people a lot, sometimes even the very people I distrust, because they are the people that I love the most.

Sometimes, in the face of all of this fear, I just wish no one knew me. I wish I could just lock myself up in the library and just read through all the philosophy books there are. At least there, everything is somewhat certain. Nakakapagod lang kasi minsang makipagkapuwa-tao. How nice it sometimes is to shut everything out and pretend that it is only this room that exists, that there is nothing beyond the door, and all that matters in the here-now-myself. We are, I guess, most ourselves when we are by ourselves. But then, still, I find myself lonely. I find myself wanting. Strange, really, how I can both abhor and love humanity.

Sometimes, too, in the calm loneliness of this existence, I get glimpses of happiness, an inkling or foretaste that good things are soon to come. It is, indeed, an uncanny contentment that is aware that many things are not going right, yet all is still going to be okay, if it isn't already. Maybe this is the absurd victory Camus writes about— that in all the chaos of living and the misfortunes of life, all is still well. Joy therefore flows from the very consciousness and knowledge of such an absurdity.

And at the same time, I also come to realize that happiness, however imperfect, is really a choice just as it is an acceptance. Sometimes, it is even a choice to delude one's self into believing that ghosts do not exist, and that pain is but a prelude to joy.

But which really is better? To face a lonely reality, or to exist in an invented contentment? Or are they just part of the same whole? To be blissfully ignorant, or to be cynically aware? Maybe it's really a question of perceptions or paradigms. Or maybe I'm just a nutcase that needs a little loving and a little attention.

Don't we all?

It is precisely this existential distrust of humanity that is the source of this inaction and loneliness, a loneliness that even love, it seems, cannot penetrate. It is a distrust that stems from humanity's misunderstanding, humanity's judgment, and ultimately, humanity's indifference, so that all attempts to jump, trust, love are met with resistance and hopelessness.

Yet there seems to be little choice but to live in struggle in this desire to be happy and to be secure, because I know that in the face of this existential distrust, all I can really do is trust still, trust always, and believe in the innate goodness of people. It is a goodness that really has no guarantees, but nevertheless has to be acknowledged if one is to live in the world with others. Trusting is not an option, therefore. It is a necessity. A difficult one at that.

Indeed, through all of this, life does go on. In anonymity, sometimes. In pretentious pakikipagkapuwa-tao. In tears. In loneliness. And in rare, blessed moments, in smiles, in happiness, in love.

Sometimes, though, I wish I could be blessed more often, and share these blessed moments with real, honest, and missed people. It is a human hope.

I guess all of this returns to the reality that one can never be truly happy by one's self. Let me, therefore, search for those others. Or maybe go back to them, somehow. It's sad, isn't it, especially when I realize that I can. But I don't, because I'm afraid, or because I don't know how to— it has been such a long time; what common language can we use? And so, in the end, what there is left for me to do, except smile, and hope?

I believe that there is so much happiness, joy and peace out there, so much more than I can ever imagine. I just need to be lucky enough to find it, aware enough to know when it is there, and brave enough to hold on to it when it comes. After all, with all the people who are looking for just the same thing, we're all bound to meet one another at some point along the road. If so, good for us all.

* * *

Abangan: Confessions of a Boracay Virgin