7:45

I’m not writing this to defend my “ungraduation” or whatever you call graduations sporadically postponed due to chronic lackadaisical illness (huh?!). Nor is this a result of grave bitterness. I want to write this because I want to write this. Catharsis? Maybe.

I know I want to do something else aside from studying how people behave or much less, how to deal with lunatics. Psychology has been very handy when it comes to putting up with suicidal days and nerve-wrecking chaos that buzzes in my ears for like, 24 hours a day. But I know that deep beyond the abyss of my love for Psych lays my unbridled obsession for art. And my fervent adoration for poems, stories, books, group discussions and the un-sciences of existence that I find more fascinating and significant to put me through every step of my fucking life. People with Type-1 personalities will not get this I suppose, or anybody else who thinks that getting that diploma, apply for a job and make money out of my psychobabbling ass is more important than getting grounded with what I am experiencing right now. So, what am I getting through right now?

A lot. I wake up every single day with my fingers itching to grab my pen and tackle the rough, brownish surface of my drawing pad and put into ballpoint-trace the images I have in the subliminal arena of my brain (that makes it more exciting). And then I smoke. I think of the homeworks or projects I have to make but dismiss them anyway as I see my work almost done as if wooing me back. I seize my weapon again. Without any sound, I make a lot of noise in my pad. And then, walaaah… Done. But the feeling to put into illustration my brainwaves is infinite. I know there’s no ending it. And there is where my dilemma crops up.

I want to do something out of my talent, out of my hobby but I get so tangled up that I sack out all my other priorities! Sadly, even the happiness of my family which, is for me to step on the stage, handshake with Father Taborra and bow in front of the amused audience, I tend to ignore. And that’s sad. Bad. Bad and sad. Bad me, sad them.

Worse, I even find the social theories, practical events and street activities more important than sitting in my armchair, listening to my teacher’s scholarly knowledge and the PL’s bookish tattles. In fact I learn more important stuff in Vaca (sa kubo sa luwas kan Ateneo) where people are molded to be themselves and where we can express all our complains and thoughts without any inhibitions, than inside the majestic gates of Ateneo where students are hyped up to achieve the 4 C’s of the Jesuits’s dreams. Fuck that.

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