Third World Writer

I miss writing. These past months I’ve been staring at empty windows of notepads, typing words without meaning, phrases without depth and paragraphs full of gibberish. And then I hit Ctrl + A + Delete, more than once, to hide the fact that this is all I have become. Meaningless, shallow, garbage.

All day in the office I do nothing. All day at home I do nothing. Between sleeping, commuting and all the hours of nothing that I do, I wonder where I’m going.

Am I lost? Or is there simply nowhere to go?

I wish God had given me a better map.

The one I have doesn’t say where “here” is.

I’m no good at these things called birthdays. I never know what to do about them. I’m a year older. A year closer to my death. And I’m supposed to blow out some candles?

Like small talk, haggling, praying and speaking tagalog, birthdays are one of those things that any given average person does better than I. Happiness and cheer aren’t my strong points, so I find it difficult to feel excited about being a year older.

Rather, I feel a little disappointed. As a kid I figured being grown up meant knowing all The Answers to all The Questions I could think of. I figured perhaps when I turned 25 I’d suddenly have an epiphany and everything would make sense, like God opened up the skies and threw a User’s Manual to Life v1.0 right in front of me. But 25 came and went, no epiphany, no User’s Manual, no Answers.

The Questions just pile up.

While I don’t exactly celebrate birthdays, I do have a little routine for the Sixth of August. I write, I read about Nuclear Weapons, and I do a little something to try and make my day a little better than normal. I guess that means birthdays don’t mean absolutely nothing to me. I don’t know.

Wait, did I say Nuclear Weapons? Indeed I did.

It probably comes with being born on the Sixth of August, the day Little Boy was dropped on Hiroshima, but I’ve read almost everything I could get my hands on about Nuclear Weapons, and they scare me terribly. It’s difficult enough trying to picture 70,000 people – I don’t know how far away I’d have to stand to see everyone – but it’s even harder trying to imagine them dead. All of them, dead in an instant. And these are the ones who didn’t suffer.

Nowadays, nuclear warheads are measured by how many Hiroshimas they can decimate. And with the introduction of MIRVs, nuclear missiles are measured by how many warheads they can carry. One Hiroshima is 70,000 people dead instantly, 70,000 more by radiation poisoning. One warhead is ten hiroshimas. One MIRV can carry ten warheads, for ten different targets. The math is easy. (70,000 + 70,000) * 10 * 10 people killed by a single launch button.

It’s difficult enough trying to picture so many people.

Every Sixth of August, I reaffirm my opinion: Nuclear Weapons are a Crime Against Humanity.

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For my birthday, zee gave me a fountain pen, and I’ve decided, I love fountain pens. They’re a little expensive, but I think they’re worth the investment, if you like pens. And I’m addicted to them. =)

(Ah, but there are so many different kinds!)

It doesn’t take much to make me happy. A couple of Reese’s ( swore off them, but today’s an exception, I think), a litre of chocolate milk (of which I am a little intolerant), some cheap art materials from National Bookstore.

If anyone ever thinks of getting me gifts, I highly recommend art materials. And yes, a video cam does count as art materials. =)

My projects for the rest of this year:
2 songs
2 paintings
1 short video (at least 10 minutes)

Plus one attempt at NaNoWriMo’s 50,000 words. Hm, I don’t have a story idea yet..

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Huh. I never knew there was so much fun to be had with a tiny jar of poster paint, a pack of index cards and a cheap bamboo brush.

Before I knew it, I actually had a happy birthday. =)