Caught in A Trance

I take the last stick of cigarette inside the almost creased pack. The skies are almost turning gray, tinged with pink. Standing under a tree beside the condominium, I let the smoke obliterate into nothingness, leaving me in a trance. Once again, I am left alone with my thoughts, the ringing in my ears, and the subtle pounding in my chest.

I embrace what is little left of this solitude before I go back from doing my usual routine. Wake up, eat, shower, watch videos or films when I have time, sleep. The cycle is never ending. It is not that I'm unhappy or depressed with the life I'm currently living. I am not the ungrateful human being that you think I am. In fact, I appreciate every single little thing that this world has thrown at me. But there are certain moments when I cannot help but look back onto myself; from the way that I was before. Aren't we, humans, all like that? We tend to hold onto the past that is already long gone. We cling to it like how a child tightly grips his favorite toy. It possesses a certain value that we cannot fathom. Still, we know deep down that there was once a point in our lives when we considered it to be the most important thing in the world. And if it weren’t for it, we would not be the person that we are now.

It is still surreal to me that I have been walking around anywhere and breathing for 21 years. Time really flies past you when you are fully unconscious of it. I can still recall my first memory as a toddler. We lived in my grandmother's house back then. My eyelids, glued to each other due to the incessant sleep in my eyes, did not stop me from crawling around the four walls of our bedroom. Everything seemed huge and spacious when you were younger. Then, the next thing I knew, I had an ambition. You know, the type of ambition that our parents wanted us to pursue when we were just kids. My mother, Meriam, finished college as an undergraduate in Nursing. Unfortunately, she was not able to pursue her career because she was too afraid to take a big leap from where she stood. I think that’s what parents innately want for their children: to become the better version of themselves. To be more than what they are.

I was shy and timid as a child. At least that’s what my mother told me. She would remind me how worried she was about me because I never wanted to talk to other children until I was five or six years old. She would compare me to my two younger siblings, Angelo and Angela, who were both the complete opposite of me. I also remember her telling me that the reason why she quit her job was because I cried in her arms back then. Not because I was asking for petty things as a child but because I refused to believe that she was my mother. In my early toddler years, I was taken care of by my grandmother for she had to leave home for her job in Manila. She’d complain about how exasperating it was to commute from Cavite to Manila for five days. But I could see how much her eyes lit up when she talked about those times. It’s like I can almost perceive and have a glimpse of her youth. Her golden days.

Of course, her stories about how she and my father, Joel, fell in love with each other when they were in their teenage years will never be gone. To my surprise, it was not like the fairytale stories that I used to hear when I knew nothing about the world. But still, it was real. Until now, I could see how much they mean to each other. Their steady and loving gaze that never breaks. The warmest hugs that came out of nowhere. These little things kept me holding onto the thought that love really does exist.

Even if I have not spent that much time with my father even as a kid—since he works abroad as a seaman—whenever he’s here, it feels like he was never gone. This house will always be filled with his distinct laugh, his lame jokes, the gaudy thumping of his feet whenever he marches up and down the staircase, and the other traits that make him who he is.

I have always thought that I was more like my dad rather than my mom. My dad keeps everything to himself. He never shows us his vulnerabilities even when we know how much he’s struggling. I have never seen him cry. Not even once. Not even while watching a tragic film. And I wonder if he ever had anyone to show them to. I know for certain that my mom knows everything that happens to my dad. She just chose not to tell us, her children. Knowing my parents, they also try their best to become dependable adults. They don’t like it when their children are bothered by their personal issues. They try so hard to hide their fears, sorrow, and regrets just to spare us from distress. Just to make this home the safest space for us. A home without worries and despair because the world is already too treacherous to live in.

And then, there’s me. Their eldest daughter. You could say that I was a decent child. I was just a little too quiet as I mentioned. But it was not long until I learned how to make friends and build relationships with my peers. My childhood was solely filled with rainbows, butterflies, and sunshine. They were the best years of my life. I will never get tired of reminiscing those days; when I would wake up to the sound of the rooster’s cawing, and the taho vendor would call us by our names because we were one of his suki. I spent my days playing outdoor games with my friends from sunset to dusk. And when it’s time to go, my mother would call me when it’s too late for her liking. Those were the times when my happiness was measured by the toys that my parents give, and the company of my childhood friends.

Though cliché as it sounds, we all know that nothing lasts forever. People change. Friends outgrow each other. The moments I treasure turn into sheer memories. They’re now living in the back of my mind unless there is a chance to even think about them. And then suddenly, I’m in high school, greeted by new and unfamiliar faces. Did I mention that I was in love with writing even as a child? Disregarding my childhood ambition, writing replaced that old dream of mine. It all began with the journal stuff which consisted of stories about one’s first crushes, heart-fluttering moments, and all that. It became the friend whom I could always turn to whenever my thoughts about a specific thing have my head running wild, and when my fantasies were at their peak. I was not even a bit conscious about how tacky my choice of words is, or if I had any grammatical errors to begin with. It was as if I was in my own little world where I could be whoever I’d like to be.

High school became the time when I wanted to further improve myself, as well as my craft. I tried joining my school’s publication to focus on writing. Luckily, I was accepted so I immediately participated on interschool competitions as well as off campus schools press conferences.

I remember winning for the first time when I was in my 2nd year of high school. It did not even feel real. It was the moment when I felt like my efforts were enough to be acknowledged by the judges. Since then, I continued to be critical of myself. I wrote more articles for our school paper. I read more books. I practiced writing with different styles. I tried so hard until I was all worn out because that’s how passionate I was. Back then.

Just like how most of us are sensitive of our passion, I was immensely swayed by the doubts that I had on myself. I lost all the confidence that I have mustered. I felt like I would never be good enough no matter how much effort I put into my craft. There will always be others who are better than me. Others who could tell stories better. I engraved the word ‘mediocre’ unto my entirety.

And maybe I was always meant to be that way. I am not depressed about it, though. I mean, sometimes if not most of the time, a dream can only be a dream. It remains a desire, a fiery thought, a silly ambition, or just a figment of your imagination. Sometimes it’s not meant to be true. And we must accept it either way. That is the reality that most of us humans can’t seem to accept.

My thoughts were disrupted by the drizzle from the light rain. I did not notice that the sun was already out of sight and my last cigarette had already been mushed between my fingers. I throw it in the trash before returning home.

It’s still not the end for me, though, I thought to myself with a grin on my face before the pouring rain swallowed me whole.