He stood there, in the middle of chaos, quite confident that he's doing the right thing. He's engrossed, giving out instructions to those on the ground, walking around occasionally, keeping himself busy, keeping himself satisfied. He was in a daze, a positive kind of daze, and his head was - pardon the cheesy reference - in it.

But, from out of the blue, some guy approaches him and decides to nudge his legs. Specifically, that area behind the knee, whatever that's called. One moment, he stood confidently; the next, he was feeling weak, losing composure, losing balance, almost falling down. Obviously, he didn't like it.

"Ano ka ba?"

The other guy was unapologetic. "Masyado kang nagpapadala," he said. "Kalma lang. Masama ang masyadong napapagod."

He didn't know how to react. It was an exasperated frown forming on his face, or perhaps a convoluted laugh, but he instead proceeded to do what he was doing before. His step was slightly wobblier than usual. Nobody noticed it, but he definitely felt it.

The knees have given way, like the guy stuck in front of a desk, seated for hours on end. Or the cop who ran after the criminal, half-inspired by what he saw on television. The kid whose imagination runs wild, he who constantly daydreams about him and his crush, together, rainbows and all.

Crumbling defenses.

There are those who try to keep a game face, the attitude that screams preparedness for anything. Some play with wit, while some play with substance, and most manage to move on, doing what they have to do, or force themselves to do. There's no use with dwelling in the past, after all. Never mind the lost pay raise, or the injured hostage, or the failing grades, or the ruined reputations.

All it takes is a nudge on that spot of the body, and then you crumble.

They say we all have to keep strong. Never back down, never buckle, never lose faith in the goal, whatever that is. You're here to get to the hotel room, and not to stare at the mountains on the way. Not to aim for something you cannot reach, for something you've never planned to take in the first place, for something you somehow believe you deserve. Not to wonder about where you have gone, or what happened to you.

And, inevitably, think about the holes your past attempts have left behind.

You are no longer the same person. The daydreaming kid is standing out there, doing what he does best, acting as if he never showed any sign of weakness in the past. Or of lacking. One that hasn't been filled yet.

And act as if it never happened.

"Maybe you're imagining things," Asia said. She loved insisting it.

It's funny how much a week can change, or how much changes in a week. My only sense of security got shattered. The office bitches have stopped being subtle, deciding instead to go one step shy of outright high school bullying. Things have not gone the way they're supposed to be. Maybe I am imagining, that this is another cosmic conspiracy to kick me out of existence, but I'd rather think everything is becoming as mindless and mundane as an idiot. Absolutely no consideration for me.

And so, this world deserves my middle finger. Six billion people in the world, and then there's me. And yes, you'll all say that I'm luckier, that perhaps half of the population are facing death by hunger, or disease, or oppression, or race, or mindlessness, but you do not have the right to contest what I'm saying. That's tantamount to not listening, to not caring, and that's not what justice is supposed to mean in the first place. (What justice is there to talk about when the offended are being blamed for causing the offenders to exist in the first place?) I don't want any more of that.

Think about it, though. I don't trust the world, but is it wrong to expect something good from it? Hah, I deserve much more from you, who swiftly turn to an apathetic insensitivity when I come around. I deserve so much more.

I refuse to think I'm just imagining things.

There are people who are misunderstood. There are people who refuse to be understood. There are people who people don't want to understand.

There are people who are considered weird, and there are people who are simply tagged weird.

There are many things we'll never wrap our fingers around with.

It will definitely take long to accept that, but the sooner you do, the better. One by one, or all at once, it will pop out, the strings give way, everything falls. The pictures have to be reestablished, rebuilt, reconnected. One try and it's wrong. Another try, much more. For a moment, everything around you is out to get you, forcing you to formulate conspiracy theories about conversations on the dinner table, double-crossing everyone you trusted, or used to trust, it all goes out of the window.

And then you'll get used to the implosions. What gives if one lets go, and then another, and then another? If one apparently hasn't held on to you, chose to tag you this and that, play with you and spitting you out? And the things you've held dearly, you're letting them go, slowly creeping in desperation, of what is supposed to be and what is promised. Little by little, you'll find ways. And then, there will be one moment when you just take everything in stride, quite unusually, and just do what you have to do.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

The most ridiculous thing that could happen is, you suddenly believe in destiny, the very thing that you trashed as impossible. You've looked for answers, you never got them, you insist on getting them, because there must be a reason. Maybe there is a noted difference. You, perhaps, are the better one, ahead of their league, ahead of the game, meant to fall off the tree and do better things. Hesitation gets set aside, things are seen differently, and who knows? You can finally live without constraints.

Imagine those constraints creeping back. Everything coming back. Breaking through the filters, kicking on the door, stabbing you in the back, or wherever it may be.

You start wondering where you went wrong. Was it the shield? Was it the forgetting? Man, you shouldn't have forgotten, rather preferring to coexist, and accept. But you've done that, perhaps in a different way, but if it's you who matters then nobody should complain. Was it pure evil? Are they just out to get you? All those tags, perhaps, coming out, stepping in with white or green shoes, whichever? And then everybody will tell you to do the things you should've done but didn't. Accept. Welcome. Forgive. Accept some more.

After being pushed against the wall for so long, I cannot blame you for being hard on everyone else.

"Seven Harry Potter books daw ang bigat?" I asked, after placing my signature on the second column.

"Actually, parang car battery," Chris replied.

He led me through a couple of rooms before finally finding our way to an obscure door in the fourth floor. There were many boxes inside, mostly unclaimed copies. There were a few posters, but most of the walls were full of shelves, and old DVDs. The 2007 edition, I figured, and Chris reiterated. Something went wrong with our DVD, and I'm not allowed to divulge anything.

He opened up one box, and pulled out on of three smaller boxes inside. I knew our yearbook was big, but I didn't expect one printer-delivered box to have only three copies each. Thankfully it came with a handle, and it made it easier to carry. "Kaya mo ba sa stairs?" Chris asked, and I nodded before thanking him and leaving. It was an easy to carry car battery, and gravity helped me as I got down the building and went straight to the GMG booth. I promised Elaine I'll show her the yearbook first. There wasn't much conversation.

I was at school yesterday, basically to attend (and cover) the miting de avance - a stark contrast to my belief that something I do should benefit me in a way. Well, there was the honorarium I had to pick up for a couple of tarpaulins I worked on immediately after graduatation, and then there was work. I remember the surprised faces of my friends who have stayed, and the candidates who didn't expect me to actually return and take photographs. "May work ka na?" is the usual question. "Naka-leave ka?" almost always followed it. I was in the presence of strangers, all right, but my reasons were simple to those who knew me. I said I needed a break from work; I could've elaborated, but that was reserved for the few who know, like Asia, who I met up with later in the day, in the least ideal circumstances possible.

So, at least, I had a valid reason, but it felt pretty awkward. For the most part, it felt that I shouldn't be on campus, not for the most trivial of reasons, at the very least. I spent most of the morning walking idly around, wondering where the familar faces - those I thought would stay when we go - have gone. There were the occasional surprises - Ayanne was there, Naomi dropped by, Chelle was at hand with explaining the goings-on at the second floor - but as the day wore on, I felt slightly disconnected. The car battery wasn't helping - I got it late in the day, but it got to me, especially during the bus ride home. Traffic made things worse, but I should've seen it coming.

I only got to really see the yearbook when I got home. Sure, I was browsing at Kitaro, when Asia and AK welcomed an outsider like me to their complicated world, and I was also peeking a bit when Elaine and Zelle read out write-ups of common friends. The first book was ours; the first pages were ours, especially, and quickly I knew I wouldn't pick up my yearbook for a very long time. No, I wasn't disappointed. I just didn't want to dwell on the past, on three years spent trying to get things right, and failing in most of them. Inevitably, I'd chuckle at the airbrushed photos and the write-ups, because they tie in so well to all of those random moments.

There's Jill, my first ever college crush, who's "bold enough to break the mold".

There's Kizia, whose presence is obviously heavily documented in this blog's early months. I wonder who wrote her write-up? It's in third person, but there's a reference to the writer lost somewhere.

There's Tina, a friend I met through Ale and Tracy, and I snickered at the fact that I only knew her last name long after graduation.

There's Majet, and she doesn't have any photos. At least she has a write-up; Asia thought a one-liner attributed to someone else was an excuse for non-submission, but someone had a completely blank slate.

There's Jepoy, the guy who borrowed my calculator during statistics class and didn't return it until I hunted him down.

There's Krisnell, the girl who later died in a fire the newspapers got wrong. I was struck because she still made it to the yearbook.

We were roughly seven hundred people in our batch; obviously not all of them made it to these pages on time, and some of the names here were delayed for terms. It's funny that, all of a sudden, all of the faces that you've seen at the third floor just passing you by have names and attributes. Perhaps one can call it a stalker's paradise; all of those pretty faces that you've seen on those corridors - an exception to the rule: Neobie is absolutely nowhere - are finally within reach, at least through email. It's funny. You thought all those faces will just get blurred as you graduate and fall down hard.

I actually refuse to believe everything. I choose not to remember those airbrushed photos, those big words used in the profiles. I don't know. It's not what I know, and it's not definitely what I prized, or what I held on to fondly. It's a little surreal, perhaps, all those familiar names - and all those missing, which means I'd probably forget Misha soon - and the sudden sense of connection, the something that brings every name in the yearbook together. Where was that before the printers rolled?

I don't know where the yearbook will go after I've finished flipping through it, or when I get tired of it. It's a big box, fully packaged, wonderfully designed (no wonder I called Claud a "layout genius") and perfectly suited for remembering, or rewriting, as I insisted before, especially when my neural connections disappear and I forget I even felt this way in the first place. There's the missing organization photos - the batch assembly shoots went nowhere - and there's the things that they wouldn't be able, or choose not to, tell. That's where I come in. I may feel disconnected with the changes on campus, but that bench is still where we sat before, and that classroom is where I did the silliest things, and that studio is where the best and the worst happened. That'd probably mean six volumes for the yearbook. Two car batteries, or more.

In a world where effort is mandatory, it's weird seeing people give a lot of emphasis to those who never have to try. Now, this guy, he came from a rich family. She possesses indescribable beauty. He has a smile that brings everyone to their knees. She is the person you'd want to be around with. He makes for the perfect husband. And then there's us, the hopeless people who want to be just like them.

So, perhaps because that's what we're told to prize, or at worst endure without choice, we try to achieve what they have achieved. There's a reason why cosmetic surgeons and facial care manufacturers make a lot of money. There's a reason why billboards along highways insist bad grammar gets in the way of a kiss. There's a reason why I'm paying a dermatologist, and why I'm occasionally buying style magazines with the guise of good journalism when all that matters is what I should do best. There are the talking points, and then there's looking good. Both are utterly indispensable.

And then, there are the people that don't have to try. They'll just throw them inside a house with 24/7 cameras, perhaps make a million hearts swoon, and make you a star regardless of whether you won anything, or wanted you around with your partner in the first place. Or, they'll have you wear a bikini and pose for the cameras; besides, you did not have breast augmentation surgery, didn't you? You didn't have all your zits popped out. You didn't have all your unweildly fat sucked out of your body. You just happen to have a certain charisma, a certain charm, which attracted people to you, for better or for worse. Perhaps the ability to crack jokes, make fun of anything and everything, make sense, or maybe not. Touch people. Change them for the worst. As for us, well, we know the right steps and yet we can only try harder.

Score one more for the hypocrites. Here they go, telling you to do something in order to get something. Start reaching out. Check on yourself. Stop being insensitive. Be scared of losing friends. You do not want that. At the very same time, they gravitate to those that they like, and those that are like them. You want it natural? Sure, better bust out those awkward moments. You don't want a conversation to go to a stop because the other side is thinking of the best thing to say, to prevent getting rid of you. Never mind that. You'll get rid of them anyway. No more reaching out. No more tactfulness. No more regard for anything and everything.

"Get this geek out of my sight, then we'll be best friends."

I've been here for four days and I haven't had an idea of what to write. Blame four days of the forced wear-off. I'll try saying something substantial.

Ariane got a phone call from one of the radio stations she went to, asking her to make a guest appearance on one of their shows. Many of us told her about it, and she didn't expect to actually make it that far, so never mind the late time, and never mind the distance - she still did it. One night became two nights, and both nights I fell asleep while waiting for her to pop up, because I'm no longer used to staying up late. And then she tells me the gig wasn't her kind of thing, and promptly backed out.

Jackie asked me about nouns that start with the letter A, and by then I quickly realized that creating questions for quiz shows are harder than it looks. It took me almost half an hour before I submitted "Abba" and "ashtray", and it does feel good to realize that she's made something out of it, and only hopes for it to be approved before it gets asked to a partly-hapless population, complete with gyrating dancers and slightly-risque humor.

Samantha keeps on sending me group messages, basically push Twitter with incomprehensible symbols and code that probably refer to her and her boyfriend. I finally told her to stop sending me those messages, calling it flat out annoying, and she promptly apologized when she realized I was serious. The next day, I greeted her a happy birthday, which is an extraordinarily special occasion if you've been following your history. She asked if she can send me one group message. I said no.

Icka and I were discussing American Idol over the past few days. She's rooting for Anoop and I'm rooting for Allison, and we've tangled each other up in many debates about whether one did better or not. To her benefit, I was sending her publicity photos that she wouldn't otherwise get, and she's been screaming "Indian babies!" afterwards. Never mind the parallels with everything else. We just had something different to talk about, outside (finally) of her high school years and human anatomy, and it felt pretty good.

Leslie was driving herself to work one day when, in an attempt to avoid traffic by taking a detour, a coconut fell on her car and she was apprehended by police for alleged swerving. She claimed it to be her worst day ever. The irony was, I texted her before she left, hoping she wouldn't be late. Well, her work relationships are much better, except for one.

Valerie convinced me to get a Twitter page. She convinced Erik, too, although it only lasted a day of sorts. It's not the reason why I've been suffering from writer's block, though. It's fun writing down as many thoughts in 140 characters, but I find it better to write long essays with complicated metaphors and no conclusive endings. It's weird following British radio DJs, political pundits and former professors, but oh well. I sometimes feel bad that I haven't been writing much substance, instead telling the world that I'm going to lunch, which makes Jon Stewart's point very valid, indeed.

Asia was texting me a few nights ago, and while we exchanged updates about how we're dealing with our own heartbreaks, she mentioned that she is gunning for the top position at the Malate Literary Folio. I simply hoped good things will happen to her. To all of us.

The idea was to let go, but that was an understatement. It appears as if you had a daunting task in front of you. You weren't just to let go - or, better yet, you cannot let go until you address some issues. There's trust. There's confidence. There's actually making things work, making sure they don't get affected by whatever it is happening outside, or within you. You had to look the part before you can do it.

Well, it should be easy, then. Just keep quiet and keep to yourself, shouting out everything that you feel in obscure metaphors and complicated subject lines.

It did not work.

And now, you're forced to let it go with your dignity missing. Or, at least, that's what I think you think, or feel. And you're wondering how, for all the subtlety you could employ, things got out of hand. After all the conversations with people you trusted, all the details you kept secret and all the details you let slip thinking it won't be noticed, this. All your perceptions were wrong. Terribly wrong. And, rather you slip away with the peace of mind you've missed for so long, you have to leave begrudgingly.

You didn't want to leave different. Inevitably, however, you will. And you have.

So the plan got messed up. It was, after all, supposed to be an innocent, wistful feeling; it was supposed to be something that you'd be quietly happy about, something that'd keep you afloat for the rest of the day, or for the rest of your stay. But, inevitably, you wanted more. You thought you deserved it, and you started fighting with yourself, about the things you should be doing, or other people say you should be doing, and the things you cannot do, or other people think you cannot do.

You did keep your calm, for most of the time, and stayed quiet, but you did forget that one important fact that you shouldn't have delegated to the literary cliché bin: actions speak louder than words.

And, now that you look back, you should have known. You were walking inches separated on the sidewalk, and turning your head at the worst time. You were acting with a smile on your face every time an opportunity came. Bashed your head when it disappeared. All your attempts at cracking jokes, at being personable, well, it showed. Perhaps you shouldn't have presumed she wouldn't get it, because she will, and as much as you believe in the goodness of people, not everybody will understand what you want to do, or to who you want to do it with.

I could try appeasing you by saying she wouldn't understand it anyway. But there it is. She doesn't want anything to do with you, even if you're trying your best not to have anything to do with her. So stop trying, as much as you want to try because it's the best thing to do, and because doing nothing isn't going to help you in any way. Stop doing anything. Just stay there and be idle. Take a break. Stop.

Afterwards, the only thing left to do is just to slip away. You have lost your dignity, although that's probably too much to say. But you can rebuild that. You can disappear and show up somewhere else, where you can start again and pick up, piece by piece, everything that your efforts have shattered. I can't blame you for aiming far, and I can't blame you for wanting things to happen, but I guess it just wasn't meant to be, even if you thought it was.

And it will take a long time, but that's how it should be. Perhaps, much longer than the time you've spent hoping for a breakthrough, either to get closer, or to get away. You only have one option left. You no longer have to save face, like you always wanted to do, for there is nothing left to save. At least, until you finally take that first step.

And then, after eight months, I've gotten tired of my friends complaining the same complaints, about me complaining the same complaints. It's because I'm not doing anything about it. It's because I never stood up for myself. It's because I never assert my needs. It's because I prefer to focus on what I'm doing rather than be distracted by idle conversation. It's because I don't ask anyone for anything. It's because I act so awkward.

So, they say, I should just zip my mouth and live with the crap I get here. Because, they say, I'll get out of here soon. And then they'll say I haven't been looking for a replacement hard enough.

Funny they say that.

Eight months. I took this job hesitantly, and I was telling everyone that I will leave at the end of the probation period. I didn't like the idea. Eventually I did, or more because I got my groove, writing about stuff I don't particularly care about, or stuff that I didn't know I cared a lot for before. Then there's this audience who's willing to strike you down with factual errors. It rarely happens.

But things don't go as well as planned. Three months ago I should've received a pay raise, settled in work, perhaps have conversations that go beyond typed words in a computer program. Instead, the appraisal process never happened. I have bitches for co-workers. I feel frustrated that I can't find a good job - and the good ones that I find never call me back.

All around me, people are finding their footing. On the other hand, I feel left behind.

I was talking with Ariane this morning. She came from yet another job interview. Already her second. She's thinking about it, in between complaining about the unusually terrible traffic, but if I got her correctly, she already has a job offer. Sure, she's still in the "die trying" stage, but she's wanted to move on, and she is moving on. And then there's what spanking new television writer Jackie told me a few weeks ago, when she guessed that Ariane would be the next to move up the ladder. Just pointing that out.

As for me, well, I have absolutely failed myself. Was it the expectations? I shouldn't have believed everybody when they said my diploma will get me far. Nobody looks at those anymore. So what if I am a cum laude graduate from DLSU? They're asking for the education sector to adapt to this outsourcing crap. It's the only way. The newspapers trumpet about companies halting all their hiring, which means I'll be here forever. What happened to my future, then? I made the wrong decisions, didn't I? I should've taken up journalism, I should've followed Rico Robles, I should've joined The Lasallian when they asked me to.

At this moment, regretting past decisions serve as the only way to justify that I got myself into this. A corner. Nowhere else to go. Supposedly benefitting from the new order, but the fuck with utopia. I want to do what I want to do. At the very least, I want to be treated with dignity and respect, not just be left behind by those who think they're so good, by those who think they deserve better from me, and by those who turn out to be actually better than I am.

Them complaining the same complaints, about me complaining the same complaints.

To be honest, though, I feel tired. I've said this before, but this is the dead end. I still get a sugar rush from half-bluffing about American Idol, and I still get a sugar rush from when a really good idea comes to me. And when a few people come to me and say they've stumbled upon my work. And my mother gushing with supposed pride. But for what? I don't want to be here forever. And yet it seems everybody wants me here forever, to endure being useless for half a day, and being shunned for what? For trying? For keeping quiet? I am literally taking a step backwards. And all I have is a wall.

I literally want to cry, for the past six months, but alas, I cannot do anything about it. I've just run out of steam. I don't feel sincerity in my words, and I don't feel pride in my ideas, and I don't feel confident about myself.

My fourth desk. I spend five in the afternoon staring at Neobie as she signs out and walks out. I could've have regretted anything more, actually. That's what I thought. Useless.

I've been here for eight months, and yet I still can't get used to this.