The Confessions of an Insom{a}niac XVII

It's past midnight and I am sitting in front of my laptop, shivering and trying to put my thoughts into words. Lately, I have had a difficult time putting thoughts into words. I guess I am in what most people would call, a funk. I recognized that weeks ago, and yes, I still am in it, if you must know. I haven't given my floor the proper attention it needed, I haven't been giving my body the proper attention it needed (I have been skipping showers). I guess that's why people call it a "funk", because most people who are in it kind of smell funky.

Today, I did not go to work. I called in sick. Tomorrow would probably be the same case. I was in a cab going to work and was already running late. The traffic in my city has become horrendous. There used to be a time when a five kilometer ride would only take 10 minutes on an early weekday morning - and that's rush hour already. That's not the case these days, with more and more new moneyed Chinese buying European and Japanese made cars to accentuate their modern new moneyed lifestyle. There used to be a time when all I see on the roads were Jetta's and the FAW cars made in China, and the quintessential Chinese tuk tuks. Now, it's all about Hummers, Bentleys, BMWs, Benzes and whatever designer car you could think of for the filthy moneyed, and Toyotas, Nissans, Audis, Buicks, and whatever's in season for the not so filthy moneyed Chinese. Even mopeds have woofer speakers with surround sound and DTS. I miss the Jetta's and the tuk tuks. Maybe that was the reason why I was riding taxis, because they were Jetta's. So there I was, looking outside the cab window, counting the car models and I wasn't even thinking about work or being late. Then I stopped counting cars. I called work and told them I was sick. After calling them, I paid the cabbie the fare and ate junk food at the nearest Mc Donald’s. On mid bite, I again told myself that I was in a funk. I didn't like it and I didn't like saying it to myself, but hey, I had to start from somewhere. I finished the malnourished burger that I was eating and wandered around the city.

It is not easy admitting that I am in the state of funkness. But then again, most things in life aren't easy. Even shitting is not easy. You have to exert a decent amount of effort to push that turd down the toilet. If the turd is the size of a Buick, then you have to exert more (some pray, others count sheep). But when you hear that "plop", that distinct sound of your turd dropping or should I say, diving into the toilet water, that is music to your ears. There is relief. And a beautiful relief that is. It's like a long awaited exhale. I am, to put it bluntly, in a midshit crisis. There is this Buick hanging down my orifice and both of us, unlikely partners, are waiting for that beautiful "plop" to resonate in my bathroom.

I am shivering. I just got out of the bathtub because I finally pushed myself to write something. My window is slightly open to let the air in. It's -1 Celsius outside but I don't care. I need that air even if it shrinks my balls to the size of raisins.

I scan my flat. It's clean. It has a lot of things - things from the Philippines that I have brought here and things that I have accumulated for five years living in China. Books, notebooks, shoes, candles, boxes, plants, more books, trinkets, posters, rocks (I collect them), post its, pencils and pens that I stole, lighters, rugs, lamps, coins, plates, glasses, pots and pans, chopsticks, spoons and forks, bottles, feng shui things, clothes, letters, papers, receipts, bags, this and that. If I could count them, every little bit of thing that is inside my small flat, I believe it would number to more than a thousand, probably two utmost. It's amazing, how a person can accumulate so many things in a short span of time. Every laundry day, I empty my bag, wallet and my pockets and I find a receipt or two, spare change, an anonymous pen and sometimes even a paper clip or a post it. It made me think. Human beings, in general, like to accumulate, to collect and to gain things, material or otherwise. It's an incessant need. It's part of our being human. I look at my flat and I see things from the notepad that I just wrote on, to the 3 year old trainers that I bought for less than 20 dollars. Things. My things. An aggregate of my material consciousness. I say to myself

"This is me".

This is me. This pair of three year old trainers that ran on Chinese soil and pavements and stepped on God knows what. They also had the privilege of running in one quaint town by the beach in the Philippines two summers ago. They're all worn out all over - ragged and screaming for recycling. This is me. In these sticks of sandalwood incense that I bought about two weeks ago, which I always burn when I want to relax in the tub while listening to Ravi Shankar. This is me. In the rocks on my bedside table that I have collected over the years in al my travels in China. Smooth, rough, small, midsized, shiny, dull - all holding significant memories of places and people. This is me. In these bottles that stand guard by my window. This is me in these coins and notes in my wallet. This is me, in this computer that I zealously clean because I keep thinking about the 7,000 yuan price tag that came with it every time I use it. This is me, in these boxes big and small. This is me, in these spices. This is me in these plants, living and dying at the same time. This is me, in the cigarette that I am smoking now. This is me, in these candles that are burning. This is me, in these letters written by friends, families, lovers, schools and bosses - each containing words that either mean something or nothing of significance to me. This is me, in these trinkets and mementos here and there, some acquired through my travels, some given as gifts by people I have known. This is me, in the coffee mug that I am drinking right now, almost empty and begging for a refill. This is me, in these pirated CD and DVD collections that kept me awake and sane and running in most days. And the books. This is me, in these books that scatter themselves in my small flat. Books that I have read and haven't read. Books that made me laugh and cry. Books that made me think. Books that I found interesting. Books that I found boring. Books that I bought solely because of the cover illustrations. Books that were handed down to me. Books that I "borrowed". Books that I believed and criticized. Books with words and phrases and lines that are embedded in my memory. Books that I have come to love and hate. Books that recite themselves in my head when on a Monday morning.

Me. All of these things are extensions of myself. Resonances. Reverberations. Echoes.

I have come to a point in my life when I discovered that I am landlocked by contingencies. Contingencies that became either because of mere circumstance or Darwinian determinism - the orientation of my gender, the color of my skin, the air that I breathe, the locus that I currently inhabit. Contingencies that became because of the choices that I have made. For the choices that I have made, I have no regrets. For the circumstances that happened to present and impose themselves, I no longer hold any grudge. I believe that I am far too old to hold grudges. Grudges are for 12 year olds. I am not too old either.

I believe that I hold more strength and wisdom now than yesterday. I believe that I have learned more today than in all the days that came before that taxi ride to work. Learning is an odd and a beautiful experience. Right now, I am in that process of learning. I picture myself as a seed, germinating under the earth, breaking out of my shell, pushing in all directions, gathering the strength so the I could shoot up to the heavens and reach the bowels of the earth at the same time. A dialectic trying to break into a resplendent chorus. It's a painful experience. Now I can honestly say that I now how water in a kettle feels like when it is being boiled. I never liked chemistry as a teenager, but I feel like those chemicals that students play with in Chem Lab 101. Chemical change, I've always thought, is not a pleasant word. But it happens every moment. It's happening to me right now. Like boiling water in a kettle, my molecules are intensified and put to the test. Some are broken and released as vapors but some remains. And what remains, is still me - somewhat "purified" but undoubtedly intensified.

I realize that I am changing. I am in a kettle and the heat is breaking me in all directions. I am beginning to question my life not so much in the aspect of what I have become or what lead me here but more towards the aspect of what I want to be. Is it painful and excruciating, the whole process? Yes. Would I have it any other way? No. I have come to see that it is in fact beautiful. I am changing. I am becoming stronger. I am becoming wiser. I am becoming older. I am patiently coming towards to what I want to be. And it is beautiful.

This discovery lead me to another realization. Like the water releasing vapors through the mouth of the kettle, I may have to learn how to let go. I have always believed that I am a bedouin. A nomad. I have always told myself that I have no home (at least not yet), and that I have to search for it and when I find it I can truly say that I am home. I was mistaken. Nomads do have a home. They have themselves and each other. They move as solitaries and as communities together, walking towards the horizon, their sole boundary. They acquire things along the way. Knowledge, languages, fabrics, food, customs, norms and tools that they would use in their journey. But when it is no longer useful, when it becomes an excess, a remnant of their previous journeys that would stifle their present journey, they let go. They have to because they know that they will acquire new ones. I am a bedouin. I have a home. And I have to let go.

I look at my flat and all the things in it. And I tell myself that these things are extensions of me. They are echoes of people, places, experiences of previous journeys and my present journey. I look at my flat and I realize that its quite small, yet I feel like its already a continent explored. I know every nook and cranny, every crack, every leak, every tile, every smell and texture of this flat. I am in love with it and all the things that it holds. But I will move on. I will leave this flat someday and move on. For my home is not located in this flat. It's under my skin. I will take some things with me when I go. Things that I hold dear and useful to my next journey, but I will part with many things too. I will miss them. I will miss the smell and feel of them. I will miss the memory that they hold. But I will leave them and move on. Nostalgia is only significant up to a certain point. As a young man, I have celebrated nostalgia and made love to it like it was my rogue muse. The slightly older version of me will still continue to celebrate it, but with one thing in mind - that I am married to my life and not to my past. I am almost at the end of my writing. My hands are giving up on me and its almost 4 am. After this, I would sleep content at the knowledge that I have in fact already let go of certain things. And I shall wake up tomorrow knowing that I am not the same person as I was yesterday. I may not even drink the usual morning coffee and instead go for tea. I may just do that tomorrow. In fact, I will do it. Water in the kettle, Omar. Water in the kettle.