When I was a kid, my parents used to warn me to keep my hands behind my back whenever we’re in the fragile part of a department store (i.e., the glassware and home accessories section). My mom would tell me that if I break something, I’ve got to pay for it. For a kid with limited funds, that’s enough to make me get scared and opt-out from the excursion on that part of the store.
Now, looking back on those words, I can’t help but relate it to every day my life, but it a less literal way.
I learned early on that glass, ceramics and porcelain are not the only things that can break. Trust, hope, love and all the abstract things in our lives can be broken too — and we have to pay for it one way or another. Continue reading You Break It, You Pay For It→
Hope, a four-letter word that means so many things to many people.
Since time immemorial (i.e. the moment I began using this word), I have associated it with everything that is good and positive. Then, as I get older, I began to question the sincerity of every uttered “hope” in conversations — whether verbal or written.
We all hope for many good things — both big and small. But is hope really such a nice word?
Nope. I’m not [really] going to talk about my old shirts nor am I selling them because, frankly, they’re as good as rags. However, I still keep them. Viewing it from another’s perspective, I guess those shirts represent something metaphoric. I’ll tell you what . . .
It just came to me while sorting out my laundry why I’m always washing one of my ratty old shirts — the one that looked like it got caught in a mine field with multiple holes in it (and I never bother to sew them close or mend them), almost threadbare with the faded logo of something in front (that I couldn’t remember what) from frequent washing. I just realized that for more than 15 years, I’ve been wearing and washing the darn thing at least once a week and it looked so pitiful yet I can’t seem to let go of it.
It’s because despite its depressing condition, it’s comfortably soft from wear and it makes me sleep better at night.
In a way, that ratty old shirt represents my comfort zone. I’ve had it for so long that I don’t even know if I’ll have the balls to throw it away anytime soon — not for sentimental reasons though.
That thought ushered the question: Why is it so difficult to let go of something comfortable . . . something familiar . . . of something old and not as functional as when I first had it?Continue reading Ratty Old Shirts→
Yes, it’s almost Christmas and it’s funny what gift wrappers can evoke in a meandering mind like mine. Just by looking at them whilst wrapping a few, all the pretty colors and repetitive print spell out J-O-L-L-L-Y and all that just make my heart smile even a little. But sometimes, pretty wrappers hide a not so pretty gift. Sometimes, it’s even recycled — not that I’m recyclinggifts, mind you (I know people who do) — and receiving a fugly-assed ashtray when I don’t smoke sucks.
So, the whole wrapping deed begs the question: have you ever caught yourself trying to psyche yourself up and telling yourself, “it’s going to be fine” or “it’s easy” in the face of a challenge you’d rather not get entangled with? Just like the pretty wrapping paper (that will inevitably get torn in the process) taped around the not-so-pretty object within, camouflaging the truth inside.
I’ve been rather neglectful in posting something — anything — for the past couple of weeks. I can blame it to the catastrophe that struck my country recently and the survivor’s guilt I was beset with after seeing numerous pictures of the poor, unfortunate souls who are still struggling to survive to this moment . . . whilst I tap my shaky fingers on my keyboard.
Anyway, there are plenty of things to blame for my neglect. And that includes my recently emptied head. After all, I can’t always have a lot of pertinent stuff to share.
Somehow, tragedy — even if I was indirectly involved — leaves the brain cleanly swept for no other reason than the lack of significant topics to ponder on. Inasmuch as I would like to rant on and on about the injustice nature strikes us with, I cannot for fear that I will be rightfully certified as a cuckoo-coo-choo.