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��ࡱ�>��	GI����F�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������9	���5bjbj�@�@	.F�*�h�*�h�-	�������&&������8T,�at���������������$���"n���"������2```�~���8��`��``�`������;ި8������nv`�10a`�"���"`�"`l��`����������a�������������������������������������������������������������������������"���������&X~:	4Chiaroscuro: A Play of Light and Darkness

Why do I write? I've been asking myself this very question for weeks now. I once answered this in the introduction of my MA thesis. I think, since MA is over, it's safe to say now that I lied. Whatever reason I've come up with, it was too much a lie that I couldn't even remember. So, for weeks, I've searched again and again. Why do I write? I�m asking myself this because I was lectured just recently not to make deadlines brought about by continuing studies as an excuse to write. PhD would have to wait then, till I have a better reason on pursuing it. "Just because I want to and I like to," is valid enough but in this busy world where one is bound to so many other things, this could not sustain my writing. I needed a better reason.

I was reading essays early in the morning about motherhood and how to raise a child with autism. Out of nowhere, a glaring memory had struck me. Not that my reason to write was related anyhow to motherhood or autism. The weight of depression that the essays had just unearthed this long-lost memory. It was the contents of a poem that I wrote back in high school. I remember it being more than a page long. But I only remembered four lines from it, one close to the start of the poem and three more towards the end. It goes like this:

....
 Akalang ang buhay ay isang yugto lamang
...

...
Naglalakad sa mundong puno ng kadiliman
Unti-unting nauubos ang dugo sa katawan
Saka pa lang natanaw ang kaliwanagan

"Thinking life was just a phase," seems like saying it should have been over by now, like fairy tales are short tales. Happy ever after is where it ends. Why didn't it end when I was younger and still happy? It must've felt something like that. And those last three lines conclude what this wreck of a life has been. Light comes after death, that must've been what I meant when I used the image of a body draining out of blood. After writing this poem, I remember feeling proud just because I feel I wrote a good one and it seems to possess a strong emotion. I don't really have an idea how poetry works then. That was ok, I guess. What alarms me was that I never realized how much of it speaks about death and wanting to die. I might, things are so blurry now that I don't remember much, have a death fascination back then.

My death fascinations didn't go as far as wanting to hurt myself or having a concrete plan on how to die. No, thankfully, no. I have zero pain tolerance, to start with. I was just fascinated by the idea of not being, I seem to recall. I guess, I felt an insurmountable amount of tiredness then. I've had a few close friends, but it didn't stop me from feeling that creeping isolation. As for my family, we were very close. It felt standard, since my limited experience never showed me that there are families who don't go well with one another. I guess, I never appreciated them that much, both friends and family. I do find nothing wrong with them, I always knew that it was me who was different. 

I had a vague recollection of being bullied in school. One fascinating thing about overcoming bullying, in my case, is that it seems like my brain has a warning signal towards memories concerning it. I can never truly recollect those moments. When I try to include them in my stories, they always seem incomplete or slightly incomprehensible. I needed to invent some parts just to be able to ground them in. But I never connected my wanting to die with my struggles from being bullied. I'm stuck up on my void that neither positive nor negative emotions mattered. I just wanted things to stop, completely. Because they didn't seem like they�re moving that much either.    

I should stop here. Digging any deeper than this might have grave consequences. I'll just get back to my poem memory. I remember submitting this as a project in Filipino class in high school. My teacher accused me of being a fraud. Her exact comment on my paper read "Saang libro galing ito?" I cried the moment I saw that note somewhere near my failed mark. I approached her after class to insist that it was really me who wrote my poem. My teacher was persistent. She didn't want to believe me. Out of desperation, frustration and all the darkness that overcame me that day, I stomped my feet. And she said "Bastos!" Then left. I cried harder. My friends knew I always loved writing and I also helped them write their poems. So, they knew, for sure, that I wrote that poem. One of them even offered to escort me back to my teacher and explain, once again. That time, I tried to fight my tears from falling and let my friend speak on my behalf. But it seemed like my poetry piece had been completely forgotten in this discussion. It was all about me, stomping my feet. The only thing that mattered for my teacher was that I was being very disrespectful. I had no choice but to apologize and allow my poetry to be gone forever. She never changed my grade. I guess, I failed to redeem it. 

I was crushed. But I was too much a child to know why, really. I scavenged for ears to listen to my story. At first many were willing to listen. But as it went on, the story grew old and every one of my classmates and few friends were tired of hearing about it. So, I stopped babbling about it as well. And just let things be bygones. The experience was painstakingly harsh at that moment. Remembering it now, makes it none the less painful. Yet, I think I understand my pain better now. What it was that made me cling to this story, to this pain even if I never really cared about integrity back then. I always cheat at exams for one and copy most of my assignments from classmates. I don't care about grades at all. I realize now that what it really was, is that I was robbed off my pain. I was being told that what I'm suffering and the whole lot of it that made my sleepless nights an ocean of tears was not real. I'm older now so I think, I think better now. When I learned how to write decent poetry, I realized that I did have a tendency back then to overromanticize and therefore must have led my poetry piece to sound so unoriginal. But this realization came very late in my life. For years I�ve brought it upon myself, somehow unknowingly, that my pain is not valid.  

The experience seemed to have a serious impact on me. Because for years, my writing had never been more than the scribbles I wrote at the back of my notebook. I never stopped loving writing, but I was scared to ever let anyone read what I write. That's why I was contented on letting my thoughts flow on paper, never mind not knowing how to improve it (that includes not reading books as well). Afterall, no one's ever going to read me. But one day I just ran out of words to express myself with. Or I just didn't know how else I would release the darkness that has always been inside me. I exploded. Good thing, I no longer had my death fascinations then. But what I did was quit my job and enrolled myself to the most accessible academe that could teach me all there is to know about writing. I almost never made it. And when I was there, it still feels as if I was not there. It felt like having false courage. I finally took that once in a lifetime �leap of faith�. Yet a second later I ask myself what has gotten into me. It took a while before I was able to embrace this new life and write my stories. 

My first story was about a girl who wanted to die. Who would've guessed, after all those years, I kept the pain. The poem was also part of that story. But I only talked about it in passing. The contents of the poem were still somewhere lost within the deepest parts of me. It was not a good story. It was my first, the fact that I was able to write one is a big accomplishment already. But even if it was poorly written, I didn't really care. In fact, I was glad, glad that I have a group of people pointing out what was wrong with it. It was a chance to finally improve. And no one accused me of being a fraud or copying words from a book. The workshop experience was very nice. I had more of those workshop experiences and enjoyed all of them.

I'm not sure how it happened. But it didn't take long that I was able to go back at working on my day job again. And somehow, I was not that filled with darkness anymore.

I remember I once emailed my first story to a friend. Her exact response was, "I suspect that you put in a lot of yourself in the protagonist that you write. There isn't anything entirely wrong with it, but for the purpose of making short stories, di kaya maubos ka?" I didn't know how to answer that question back then, so I politely dismissed it. But now, after successfully writing, rewriting, and defending my short story collection which earned me my MA degree, I can just say that I've never been more complete.

My short story collection only had one protagonist. The stories in the collection shows facets of her early to adolescent years. Her stories dealt most about her seeming lack of emotion and capacity to bring about an emotional response. Moreover, it is about her cluelessness towards relationships (all kinds). When I wrote about it, indeed, I was trying to address my shortcomings and undoing. After those 2 long years of writing, rewriting, and writing again, I thought I've made myself wiser.   
            
I never did. I've somehow grown, that much, I can give myself credit for. I recently watched "A Silent Voice". It was a Japanese anime movie about a deaf girl who was being bullied by this guy when they were younger. The deaf girl never hated the guy, she even had feelings for him. But she hated herself and seemed uncapable of loving her own. I cried watching this movie. And it made me realize another thing about myself. I never hated myself, and it's not like I never loved me. More than the lack of emotion bit, I realized that I didn't know how to accept that people can love me. And so far, no one has proved otherwise. 

My mom recently got mad at me because I lost her free induction cooker voucher which she asked me to claim at the mall. I was ready for the sermon but then it was getting slightly darker. She began mentioning how much I don't care about her, how I never cared for her emotions and to the extent of not really loving her. I guess then that it runs in the family. This darkness that frequently overcomes me might be somehow genetic. But as for mom, she handles this common darkness by demanding more love. I, in the other hand, allow myself to be consumed by it and play as if I'm part of the shadow it creates. 

I guess my writing, in its own accord, tries to depict a picture of my darkness. In a way, this becomes therapeutic because a story has its own life and creates its own light. It transforms gradually from one revision to the next. I need to give credit to my adviser, professors and the few peers that I have that took time to read what I write. I need to thank them for never getting tired of showing me a glimpse of that light. I write down hopelessness as an attempt to give it hope. In the long run, I might, in its very first draft, be able to shed my own light to it. I'd want to believe that somehow, in the last stories of my collection, I was able to do just that.  

I write to bring light to my darkness. Or I write to see if light can pass through my darkness. Most probably, I write because I want to see light being capable of surrounding my darkness. That might be one of the reasons why my story collection was entitled "Lilim". Light and darkness can co-exist and that should be ok. That in the end, I can't fully vanquish the darkness that lives within me. But I can let light come in with it. I can, at some point, with my writing, enjoy just being.















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