A LOCKED-UP LIFE (a 2-year old op-ed)

June 22. 2006

A LOCKED-UP LIFE

I may sound pretty weird but I have never perceived a jail in a purely negative manner. I believe freedom and restriction exist in a prison cell. Freedom from witnessing the unpleasant episodes of the outside world and restriction to live with utmost dignity and honor.

Every now and then, I would wildly fantasize of locking myself up alone with nothing but paper and pen as company. Being the dreamer that I am, I know it's really not that bad. It's a different kind of freedom for me. Freedom to create my own world through my writings. Freedom from the people who do nothing but judge you. And mostly, freedom to think. This, I have concluded imagining the individual cells they shoot in Hollywood movies. But every time the realization of belonging in a third world country hits me, I would become skeptical. Then the news last week pushed me to forget that one wild fantasy. A woman prisoner was raped in her cell by her cell mate.

I have never seen a prison up close before. But I am aware of how repulsive it has become through the years. Its bars are as rusty as our justice system in the Philippines. Power and wealth have become the major determinants of “innocent” people. Cops have grown into butlers that protects the “moneys” in the country from the impoverished people who now serve as the residents of the calabooses. We don't have to actually see a prison to help us judge it. Every news involves it. Tortured prisoners. Unhealthy environment. Prison riot. Leakage. Woman prisoners raped. Death Penalty/Abolition.

What difference is there between a tortured prisoner and a tortured businessman? A dead prisoner and a dead congressman? The performer of lethal injection and a murderer? Yes, there is difference. A piece of paper signed by “qualified people” with capitalized A-U-T-H-O-R-I-T-Y. But really, where? Because I honestly am blind to it. Though, I'm still undecided whether the abolition of death penalty would improve our judicial system. Its like being stuck in the middle of an elongating rubber band with your moral beliefs on the other side and intellect on the other.

For now, as a communication student who is obliged to care about the social and political issues in the country, I still feel useless. I have no idea if any of my actions in the future will bring change. I'm still locked up in this stage where the best thing to do is finish my studies and think of a way to get out of this big box called “Lack of Self-Confidence”. I can't do anything big for now but I wish to do one in the future. And after all those goals are finished, I'll probably go build my own cell on my future rooftop with a laptop and the vast of the sky as my company.

the unfulfilled writing career.

I have not been writing for a long time now. Funny, 'cause I work as a researcher/writer here in Makati Ave yet I have never really felt like a writer at all. I got motivated to blog about this frustration while I was listening to some OPM (Original Pinoy Music) songs last night until 2 in the morning. Then, this afternoon I have read a good friend's blog [Gusto kong magsulat] about how he missed writing so it just triggered the frustration further.

I do not hate my job. However, these past few weeks I am starting not to like it either. I guess the pressure and stress that the work delivers are making it hard for me to appreciate its once promising purposes in my career. I do not know if its because I am growing tired of doing the works or the system. All I know is I am growing tired and restless.

A Room Hidden

Like most people I know, I have my own warehouse at home I call

MY ROOM.

My apologies for the constant disarray of my place. I'm merely writing down my thoughts to exercise my seemingly rusting literature. This is not the first time that I would write something in regards to my sacred room. I remember how I have described this place as the sole spectator of my restless existence. This is where I have seen myself on my most extreme days. This where I have slept the whole day and stayed up the whole night. This is where I have jumped in joy and cried 'til I'm dry. This is where I praised myself and hurt my life.

So, how do I define my room? Stating that I considered it as my bestfriend is a boring cliche. Saying that it is my refuge is much more boring. So, I guess I'll just say that it is my ASTRAL RIDE. Excellent metaphor. Being in this room is like being dissociated from the world outside and associated to my world inside.

Amongst its four walls is a place where stories and voices transpire. Characters walking around trying to locate their roles. Sentences floating around waiting for their inscriptions. This place is in chaos. This placed is in rage.

And I can sense that the descriptions are blamed on my irresponsibility to manage them passionately. The root word of the last has corroded into something less of how it should be. The gift is now undeserving of me. For I have been high with arrogance. For I have been clouded with contentment. For I have been forgetful of their existence.

Now I am afraid of them. Afraid to stroke them with my cold writing. Afraid to look at them with my impassive eyes. We have grown maddeningly apart and it hurts like hell. They are vagrants desiring to leave the place they have once helped built. And I am the tyrant taking advantage of the harvests I have no right to claim mine.

I have so many pending apologies to give. To Him. To Them. and to myself. I have been ignorant of many things. Overlooking the gifts bestowed by the Higher Being. That is why I am currently castigated by Them. So, I could see myself small of everything. So, I could swallow the blindness and vomit the sight. So, I could embrace mistakes and let go of the right deeds like doves in my hands.

But why would they want to go? Where would they go? Who will take care of them? My room is their shelter and only ground. No one can take care of them more than what my imagination can give. They would be lost. They would run scavenging for music. And that music would not play anywhere else. It only plays in their native place. Full length. Never ending.

I'm almost done with this piece. I'm really not sure how this will sound to anyone reading. But who cares, it makes perfect sense to me. As I finish this last paragraph, Their whereabouts is gradually arriving in the depths of my looking pupils. They are here. They are still here. and they would not leave me as long as I have my room hidden.