a step farther

It rarely comes easy. Rarely, or not at all. So where would you go? And what would you do? Something in me says that it is a fool’s endeavor to go on seeking easier things, an easy world. You gotta roll with the punches, man. Trudge on. Wearily maybe, but trudge on. And yet, to where?

In twenty-four years, I have begun to stack bricks up, seeing to build towers of dreams. But today, what do I have? One-paragraph manuscripts, a half-baked degree, unfinished dreams, unrealized goals—all things unfinished. In the world of successful men, one must at least complete one journey to have a name, to make it—big or small—or risk to be a mere shadow of the gods.

You start with clay, mix it up with some straw, form it into bricks, and let it cake dry in the sun. The next day, you stack it one brick on another with some mortar to hold it in place. Higher. Higher. And higher. Then consult your blueprint to get your bearings. Sweat trickles down your eyebrow and into your eye. The sun beats down on your bent back. Go, struggling man, go. Pause for some water. But do go on for chrissakes . . .

Then you realize that your bricks are not cooked enough, your blueprint not grand enough. Sit down in the shade, dear brother, and think again. Think. Think. Think. Measured by your own critiques and weighed by the perceived biases of the world entire. Not enough. Wanting.

You discard your blueprint and dig your heart again for more spectacular dreams. Dreams of conquests and laurel wreaths. But this time, dig deeper.

Now comes the thought that you do not want to tinker with bricks and mortar after all. Too primitive. You want to try and plant an orchard. No, raise sheep. No, make strong bows and sure arrows and head for the forests of the unknown. Too hard. How about wait for a flight of geese, shoot one down, and make quills from the feathers? Yes, a scribe would be grand.

I could record victories of men great and defeats of the lesser folk. I could tell the world to come of laws and legends of the ruins and the freshly painted edifices of today. The wakings and sleepings of men and their stories could propel me to my own awakening in the world of struggles. And if great men and vanquished folk run out, I could create my own tales of heroism.

One word, a clause, a sentence, a paragraph. “Why does it not read like the work of a master?” you ask yourself next. “I cannot do this,” you tell yourself the second moment. “I’d leave the geese in their flying.”

Another dream quashed before its infancy. Abortion. Murder. But who carries the guilt? Who is the culprit? “A dream can only be killed by the dreamer,” a master scribe once said. Heavy chests accompany guilt. But what could you do? Whine? A whine is a whine—it does not accomplish anything. Even whining about whining itself.

There are new dreams to make. And more to kill. But the heart is weary of chugging them out only to be rent by the uncertain mind. The stomach cries out for food to fill itself. And the soul is disillusioned for belonging to a fickle man. A fickle man creating a field of one-brick palaces, a sea of ruins. Learn from the resilience and the determination of a dog, why don’t you.

And so you take the path yet again for a dogged trudge. Doggedness. Trudging. Then again, quo vadis, seeker?

The author of this little piece was born on December 24, 1983. He spent his childhood and half of his adolescent years in the sleepy town of Guiuan, Eastern Samar. He is now twenty-four years old. He once dreamed of flying fighter jets after watching Top Gun and being introduced to Tom Clancy’s world. Yet for ordinary reasons, he proceeded to enter the seminary after his elementary years. Four years in the minor seminary introduced him more to God, literature, and Latin. He left priestly formation after four years and decided to take up a bachelor’s degree in electronics and communications engineering but veered to human resources management the next year. After two years in a Cebu university, he left for his native Eastern Samar and went back to the fold of the seminary. “Advised to continue his philosophical studies outside the seminary” on his third year, he packed his bags and turned his back from the formation. He, however, completed his philosophy degree. He now works as a copyeditor in a self-publishing company in Cebu City—not anymore really—after a half-semester stint in law school. He thinks that he still does not know where to go. Or whether he will make it—big or small.

~ by ariseeker on June 8, 2008.