Weak beams emitted by the Golden Sphere glide through the thin spaces of a locked door on the fourth floor of an old building; some of its rays slip in on the tainted glass windows, liberally making their way in and engulfing the room as though no form of resistance could ever halt them. Feeling the powerful warmth of the sun, the Boy-Who-Lives moves restlessly on his bed, no matter how comfortable it looks. Something must be wrong. Something is wrong. Little drops of sweat started forming on his forehead and neck. And very soon, these salty excretions will flow freely on his bare body, washing away all the beauty enchantments he has had before he slept that night. Nobody can stop them, though. In like manner, his subconscious is manning his soul now without restraint, feeding it with nightmarish images, created from the past or a foreknowledge of the future? He wakes up feeling exhausted and drenched from his own liquid substance. Trying to recall what he has just seen in the dream, a searing pain bursting from his inside started to disturb him. He gripped his head firmly to stop the pain, yet with little success. Then, it occurred to him. He is not Harry Potter (kidding aside). Remembering the scenario, he cried like he never did before. It was the most painful feeling he has ever felt in his life. But it was just a dream. Or is it? What did he see? A mixture of sadness and fear etch the contours of his face. He looked older and his eyes have become swollen from crying out profusely. What did he see? He grabbed his phone immediately, made contact. Everything is alright.
Introduction
It’s been ages since my last blog, and I am just so happy that I have finally been able to break free from all forms of sloth that have been imprisoning me since the dawn of the start of summer vacation. I do admit that blogging has not always been a leisurely activity, for one, it requires an arduous editing and brainstorming. Add up to that the task that brings the most painful headache, entitling the blog. A blogger is never free from savage critics (hi there). So I had to think of a clever way of introducing this new entry. And since I just arrived from an outing (the major part of it is spent reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows), I thought that it might be interesting to begin it that way (sorry to all Muggles or Squibs), for in one way or another I want to be like Granger (LOL).
What did he see?
This is the moment. I have to be honest, but you have to promise that you will not tell anyone. Okay. Here it goes… I am the Boy-Who-Lives. Hold that thought! Let me continue. The suspenseful (if you do not find it that way at all, how dare you. I exerted much effort on that. LOL) story you have just read actually happened in real life. It happened to me. To cut the story short, I dreamt of my Daddy being killed by an unknown gunman. There was a part of that dream when I seem to have gone away, then returned home and found Mommy and another woman preparing the house for the funeral. I was fuming with anger for instead of fighting for justice, they seem to have simply accepted that he is now dead. The rage converted itself into despair (how can I argue with my mother?) that instead of an exploding bomb, it was a downpour. I was crying in front of them insisting, “…but he was killed… I saw it… He was shot…” over and over. Then, I suddenly woke up. No tears. But when I got hold of my surrounding and was able to remember what I just saw, I started to really cry. I do not know when the last time I cried was. The pain of loss is just too much for my mind to accommodate that my body has to compensate. So I cried and cried and cried. When I’ve recovered my sanity, the first thing I knew I should be doing is to check them out at home. I didn’t want to shock them of this so I simply informed them that today’s the start of my classes. Mommy and Daddy both replied positively. I felt so light afterward. Thanks be to God.
Philosophy vs. Reality
I have lost relatives in real life but no life lost has ever made a great impact on me as that of an unrealistic one. I have witnessed the death of both my grandfather and grandmother on the father side but no painful feeling whatsoever. Back then, I thought my pursuit for philosophical studies has finally sunk in. I got the impression throughout my schooling that a true mark of a philosopher is the mastery over all emotions, to the point that one emits a poker-face aura. I have been exercising this to be true to my identity, that I seem to have lost the humor in me and even the impetus to socialize. Manhid. Snob. I get those a lot. But what if you came face to face with death itself? Will you still hold on to those principles you hold dear? Realizing that what happened was only a nightmare, I still have second thoughts answering that question. Who you are or what you want to become? If it be pushed further, can I dialectically glide into one territory to another? Am I my Daddy’s son or my discipline’s servant?
No comments:
Post a Comment