I still get the blues

Yesterday I sat in front of my computer for a long time, doing nothing. I was supposed to be writing to meet a couple of deadlines but I couldn’t. I just stared at the monitor and the empty space seemed to mock me further. Finally giving up, I turned the computer off and decided to read until I feel the urge to get back to work again. This diversion usually worked but yesterday I couldn’t even focus on the words of the book. The letters seemed to swim before my eyes–paragraphs, sentences, and words break apart on the page, stirred by an unseen hand.

Lying in bed, I tried to sleep. I wanted to wake up early so I can make up for the time I lost. But sleep eluded me. I dimmed the lights, lit a stick of incense, and enclosed myself in a pallet of pillows. This technique has never failed me but yesterday was a day for firsts, apparently. I ushered the new day looking at the wall clock on the wall opposite my bed.

November 30 is not just the death anniversary of my father. It’s also the time when I was forced to leave the house for the first time in 2 months to do the morbid task of picking out a coffin for him and make arrangements with the funeral service provider. During the wake, I was forced to be present and had no choice but to face the flow of friends and relatives who inquired/ marveled/ speculated on my state. I felt like a tree struggling to remain standing in front of a deluge.


My father’s death, in effect, ended my hiding from the world. It forced me to look at myself even if I loathed what I saw. The forced gaze hurt me but on hindsight, I needed that push. Even in death, my father still tried to help me even without my knowledge and permission. It just makes me miss him more now. But my grief is not just about losing him. His death marked the start of my long and hard journey to… to what? Recovery? Probably. Or whatever condition I had been in before yesterday. I think I’m also grieving for the monkey that used to be on my back. Sometimes I want to turn over the wheel to the first creature who will take it. Sometimes.

But who am I kidding, really?

I’m fine. Generally. But sometimes, I still get the blues.

But I’ll be fine again. You’ll see.


About the pensive poet

development worker. kasuyo. bugtong na anak. retired drag queen. kalaguyo. kaibigan. future carpenter, bread-maker, or bar-tender. feeling manunulat at makata. borderline obsessive-compulsive. control freak. book worm. isnabero. mahiyain. astang cineaste. aspiring photographer.

Posted on November 30, 2014, in journal, poetics and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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