I have never lived a day when my earplugs were left ignored by the couch; unused and forgotten. I have broken two or three in the stretch of the whole year, and my current ones are shabby and yellow (just because they have yellow strings, not because of its oldness). For three years, my iPod was my best friend, not exactly producing the same feels as the human variety, but it did keep me company during the good and bad days, which is pretty cool, because it’s something that doesn’t need my response. There were nights when I will just purely sit down, quiet, somber. There will be days when my eardrums beat with loud, rock music, and nobody will even know what’s swirling inside my head. I don’t really like talking, especially about myself. That’s like punching a hole in the dam and squirts of water will gradually crack the wall, and I need to unleash and pour myself out like a great flood to wipe away your reality. So, that doesn’t feel great, right?
Recently, I have only learned to answer with a straight yes or no, and some potential maybe. Words are short. I don’t need explanation. I start not to care a damn thing about what others think, that I have my “own little world” because frankly, having your “own little world” is enough for you to savor the best tidbits of life—like the humming of the birds, the sound of the plates set aside by the sink, the rolling of the wheels by the concrete roads, the whispered stories of the neighbors which they try to keep but my ears just inevitably catch the slightest sound, so I listen. Oh, I love to listen. There is so much life occurring all around me, and I feel radiant. There’s this creeping vibration under my feet, knowing that the cracking floors of my house are settled upon a big chunk of earth, which floats above the great waters, which keep a great ball of some massive, strong material that settles our gravity. Not to mention—the planet moves. It swirls. It dances around the sun in its little own timing. Alongside it, the dust and the comets and the asteroids and all the other unknown elements, popping like magical mushrooms in a dark, black space. Everything is so wonderful.
The hermit life is for me, I confess, even though my heart throbs for the people who’d like to keep me company for years. I am not your ordinary person. I am someone you can place by the corner and live and breathe and grow. And that’s the thing. I grow. Like a plant. Like cacti. I don’t need much of your attention. I just need your appreciation for my difference, because aside from that, I want nothing else.
I feel a lot. In my bones, there’s always a tender nudge of warmth whenever I feel the invisible embrace of my Creator, happening sometime during the midday. The tremor of the impermanence of things always intimidates me; we are living on loose gravel, on sand. Nothing, I dare say, is permanent; which is, sometimes, a relief, especially when we’re talking about storms and floods and earthquakes and the damned humanity as brothers kill another because we don’t know their names. I however, learn to brave my giants in silence. Death, like dangers of all kinds, are inevitable. I walk out of my door with knowing the precariousness of life; the moment I understood it, my fears get shaken down like pine leaves on a tree.
There’s an old wooden cabinet, an heirloom from my dad, adorned with alcohol drips and vandalized names, containing my books. There was a can of medicine foils, the remnants of my two-year bout against Tuberculosis, which I proudly declare victorious. There is a white plastic wrapper containing a pint-sized dress which I wore during my baptismal. There’s a real, golden ring, embedded with three crystal studs, given to me by my Aunt as my share of my deceased grandmother’s jewelry collection. There’s a watercolor painting on the wall, in murky, dirty colors, along with the neon star stickers that doesn’t shine when the lights are turned off. There’s a 25-year old bed, still large enough to fit my measure that doesn’t seem to grow sideways and highways. And then there’s me. In this little world, with my little thoughts, unearthed at the movement of the curtains, at the illuminated sunlight, at the ringing of the fan.
End: Perhaps, one day, maybe, without hesitance, I can pack my hand-picked belongings and start an adventure anew, because this world, my little world, is growing too small for me.