Isn’t it ironic?

Let me tell you something about communication. I’ve been saturated with this kind of stuff for about three years now and I’m going to use it to my advantage. Communication is a process. First, source relays a message through a channel to the receiver. Then, the receiver would send its feedback on the message through a channel to the original sender or source. That is, according to communication theories taught in class. With the current pace of technology’s advancement, we are in a state of lightning fast exchange and supersonic transmissions. Everything is just so easy. Everything is just click and go. Click. And. Go. Especially communication, the miraculous gift known only to humans, a requisite to civilized living.

Before I get too academic (read: boring), about three weeks ago, I argued with someone over something so petty: an SMS reply that never got to the other end of the line. I am guessing he thought I was not replying accidentally on purpose (yes, you read that right, accidentally on purpose), since it was Feb Fair week and I was hanging out with some org mates at the booth, or worse, I got ran over by a speeding PUJ somewhere along Grove and my poor, mangled body remains unidentified, covered with yesterday’s newspaper. I attempted to send a text message, explaining that the signals were possibly jammed. The open field was thick with hundreds of people, and judging by the difficulty I experienced, everyone was using their phones, even the kurimaos who have been infesting the campus prior to the event. Besides that, I was contemplating on the fact that it was Valentine’s week, and people are apparently getting desperate. They needed a date for that weekend, ergo the hurried proposals sent through SMS. But the dreadful phrase MESSAGE SENDING FAILED kept appearing on my mobile phone screen, severing my fragile strand of patience bit by tiny bit. Unfortunately, even the explanation did not get to him, and there we were, two fuming individuals, about 3 hours away from each other, both so sick of the telecom company we subscribe to, and positively hating each other at that moment.

Sometimes, things just go out of hand and you are spiraling out of control. You need someone to talk to. You need someone to listen to you while you yak about your hell-er than hell week, and how your notorious Math professor makes it all the more noxious. You need someone to help you keep your boat of sanity afloat because it is ripping at the sides and you can only do so much to cover the holes. You need to send an SOS to the world! So, you reach out and grab your mobile phone. After a few minutes worth of clackety-clacking on your phone’s keypad, you have finally finished your heart-breaking, soul-rending, woe-is-me message. Then you press the send button (repeatedly, if you want to send it as a group message. Or maybe not, since there are phone models that allow you to send group texts with just one press). But instantly, you hear a loud, irritatingly familiar “ENGK!” emanating from your phone, and the infamous CHECK OPERATOR SERVICES flashing on the screen, affirming the fact that this is definitely not your day. Doesn’t it make you want to walk to your Dad’s bathroom, get a blade and go emo all the way?

You see, technology is not exactly 100% foolproof like real, face-to-face communication is. There is a chance that what you are saying in person can be misinterpreted because of your tone, choice of words and non-verbals (i.e. raising your perfectly drawn eyebrow, wringing your shaky hand or crossing your freshly-waxed arms). You could just imagine how big the chances of you being misunderstood are when you are trying to get through by means of text messages and/or IMs (or instant messages) where they cannot see your facial expressions and hear your voice. Yet, there are still those who prefer to “talk” to people they live next to, or sit next to everyday through colored LCD windows or LED screens. I get it. They are not so into the whole hi-hello-nice-weather-isn’t-it experience, which precedes the awkward silence. What else would you expect for kids who grew up on XBOX and PSP to become?

Does that mean technology is indeed dulling our sense of socialization? That while it is making us feel that we can harness the power of time and speed, it is also corrupting our ability to connect to another human being?

There are some sorry cases when one cannot help but rely on mobile phones and the Internet. It is when the possibility of being with your loved ones is nil. Nada. Zilch. I should know, because I am a long distance relationship veteran. My father is in Dubai, the land of artificial palm islands and acrophobia-inducing structures. My mother, my two younger brothers, and my closest friends are in Biñan, my other relatives are in Cainta, my boyfriend is somewhere in Dasmariñas, Cavite, and I am stuck here in Los Baños. Mind you, I am not complaining about where I am; I sure wish they were closer though. An hour-long phone call or a sweet text message can never replace the feeling that they’re right there, in the flesh, breathing, screaming, rolling on the floor and laughing with me, instead of sending me a string of ha-ha-ha’s or he-he-he’s because I sent them something droll. I do not even know if they have sincerely found my message amusing.

Isn’t it funny how man’s machinations to improve his life backfired and made everything a lot more complicated than it really is? Man created a world that was supposed to be economical, where everything can be done in one to three easy steps, but it cost him very dearly. Now we’re paying the price of convenience by experiencing apathy and the loss of humanity.

Suicidal Note

Dear Finder,

I am cold and lifeless now because of two things.

One. I think I’ve found enough reasons to conclude that life is boring. It follows the same pattern. You get born, you grow up, and then you go to school. While you’re at it, you can get a boyfriend, and then get screwed. You get a job, break up with your boyfriend (this can happen on or before the job though), get a new one, get married, have kids, grow old, lose your senses, then you die and get buried. Well yeah, things can turn out quite differently in the middle, but it’s still the same. You’ll die in the end. Why prolong the agony?

Two. I’ve found my missing diary.

Please get me a glass coffin and seven little men to keep watch. And don’t get me roses; I want stargazer lilies. Please tell my mom that I love her so much. Tell my dad that I know about his other woman, but tell him I love him anyway.

To my closest friends (they know who they are. I’ve told them countless times), life was less boring because of you. I hope my absence wouldn’t affect your lives as much as your presence affected mine when I still had it.

To Paul, you remain my universe, my sea, my stars.

Soon enough, everyone will forget what it felt having me around. I won’t be there to make them remember, nor can anyone replace the lot I left. When I took my own life, I knew they’d call me a coward. But I think I’m brave enough to face the unknown, to face the consequences of my actions. I can never drop a line after I’ve crossed the threshold between life and death, so I am saying this now. I have lived and loved fully, maybe even remarkably than most.

Life is a song. Unfortunately, I am deaf.

Sugar Rush

I don’t know how it started, or exactly when it did, but I am happy. Inexplicably, utterly, lick-your-sundae-and-don’t-give-a-damn-if-the-world’s-spiraling-the-other-way happy.

I am happy. People like me don’t get to be happy. People like me end up alone, socializing with Microsoft Word or an empty write-a-blog-entry page. People like me get stuck with a ghastly pig of a boyfriend who doesn’t know the difference between Bacchus and Bach, in such unsatisfying relationships that have been more of a habit than a haven. People like me are left weeping after a critical indecision, a careless, thoughtless word, a moment of idiocy. People like me, who seem to float around dreamily, quite out of touch with reality, who never really know how to care about how other people feel, who swore never to involve themselves with another obnoxious, self-righteous jackass don’t get to be this happy.

Enter music: Come Away with Me by Norah Jones.

Happiness.

How could three syllables conjure so much positive images, like dancing in the rain, making sandcastles at the beach, or watching children blow bubbles in a meadow? They’re the simple joys that life allows us humans, and they are what we’ve all been dying to live for.

I’ve never really tried writing about my current relationship directly. I’m not the type who climbs to the top of the globe just to scream at every living creature, declaring I’m with someone new, and that someone makes me feel extremely blissful. Only a few of my closest friends (by few, I mean only seven of them) and my family know the real score. I don’t like giving details, and most of the time, the only explanation people get from me when they ask if it’s true that we’re together now is a knowing smile. I always end up talking or writing metaphorically when they ask me about him, how we’re doing, what’s he like. They wind up mystified, and they’re not very good at hiding it. They ask too many questions; I’m not fond of giving out answers. I’m selfish that way. I want to keep my magic to myself, and in telling them, I feel like I’m giving a part of it, no matter how infinitesimal it is, to a bunch of hungry piranhas that will want to devour the freshest and juiciest updates on our semi-clandestine affair even before it hits the water. However, I must get over my self-centeredness and step out of my comfort zone. Finally I am ready to talk about it, as clearly as I could, as far as words could carry me.

I guess part of the reason why I kept it within my close circle is because I was committed to somebody else when I began seeing him. In the public’s prying eyes, I did something unforgivable, morally impermissible. I left one for the other, and as a woman, it’s something that is frowned upon by everyone, making the deed appear worse than it really is. That’s life. Females have to live with these double standards. However miserable you are, or how arduous staying in one relationship has become, the scorn will always fall on you who decided to assert your right to be happy. Not too long after, you’ll get a tag bearing the letters c-h-e-a-t-e-r, or f-l-i-g-h-t-y, or s-h-i-f-t-y or whatever you call fickle or unfaithful. It’s not uncommon to get confused while you’re still with someone. How could you resist somebody who is interesting and smart enough to keep you awake until the wee hours of the morning just to exchange instant messages? Whom you can talk to about anything, from Alcoholics Anonymous to zygotes? Who can actually make you laugh without donning a hat and a square mustache? Maybe it’s the teenage hormones raging again. Maybe he catered to the silly little pigtailed girl inside me. Maybe it’s the adventure, the novelty of it all, the mysterious person behind the headshot since I’ve never really met him before. This is the part where my mother comes in, singing “It’s Sad to Belong” by England Dan and John Ford Coley. She knows, but she doesn’t say anything. She just…sings, and gives me that wise smirk she usually wears when she knows I’m up to something. Maybe this is her way of letting me go, of letting me grow.

I know it was totally unfair to the other guy, and things like these never really are forgotten. It’ll be permanently written in my personal history, my name branded with the same exact mark emblazoned on the names of every woman who ever cheated. I was pretty positive I’ll rot in hell for what I’ve done, but then I thought I’d rather see my cheek dissolve because I chose my own happiness than see my hair fall off because I lied. Suddenly the line between right and wrong has been blurred. There is no naughty and nice anymore, since it has become a question of justification. If you’ve defended your truth well enough to convince everyone that your means, however wrong it is in their eyes, has ultimately led to a fitting end, then it could possibly be right. You could think I have a much distorted version of morality, but when it boils down to it, that fence between the black and the white sheep doesn’t exist anymore.

We have a slightly unconventional relationship, but you’d probably recognize the way we have come to know of each other’s existence as commonplace. I blog, and so does he, and we were online buddies in one of the popular social networking sites on the net. It took us almost two years to actually meet in person, and it did not go anything like “let’s meet up somewhere and please wear an orange shirt”. The first time we saw each other was when I was in a dress and he was wearing a tie. It was my debut. I was drawn to him, to the subtle waves of attraction he exuded. How could a miserable paperclip refuse a horseshoe magnet? From then, we began going out while I was still tied to another relationship that’s been wearing me down, all ten months of it. Summer was looming close and I feared that maybe my affair with him is bound to be just another summer romance which will only last for as long as the season will. But it grew into something deeper, something life-changing. Forgive me if I sound too mushy. To make a long story short, I broke up with the other guy and got together with him. There began this whole crazy air expedition across the Atlantic.

Enter music: Anyone Else but You by The Moldy Peaches from the Academy award winning film Juno.

Unlike most young couples our age, we don’t have a “monthsary”. We don’t have numbers attached to our names when we send text messages or e-mails to other people. Partly, it’s because we don’t really know when he and I have become “us”, and partly because we agreed that it’s too tacky. We don’t necessarily say we love each other every day. I don’t know if that’s good thing or not, but this makes saying it much more meaningful. It’s a long-distance relationship, but I guess I can safely say it’s thriving. We get to see each other on weekends if we’re not too caught up with school work that we practically cram for, whose weight is already breaking our backs. We’re not the teddy-bears-and-flowers sort who just coo and stare at each other, but we sure dig ice cream and sweets, movie marathons, and books. We dream of going to places together. He’s also into writing, and it’s nice to find someone who can criticize my work and vice versa. We talk about a lot of things, disagree at some point, but we manage to reconcile our beliefs. It’s a game of intellectual seduction, twisted in a way that we both win and earn something vital. Whoever said relationships hinder personal growth sure is clueless.

Enter music: Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. And then fade out.

What we have is not perfect, we’re not perfect, and nothing ever is. No one’s complaining. We just go on growing. From what I learned, I don’t need perfect. Perfect doesn’t always mean happy. Maybe it’s an early onset of insanity; the first phase of delirium, but these little doses of madness bring on visions of flying kites and ocean waves, dancing dolphins and butterflies flapping in rhythm with the wind.

So far, we’re good. We’re so good.