Scenes from my so-called life

While on a tricycle ride from Philcoa to Krus na Ligas in Quezon City, my conscience suddenly stirred and talked to me. “You know, you’re too rigid. You play too much by the book,” he said. “Loosen up more.” Now, I don’t know for the life of me why my conscience would strike up a conversation on a tricycle-he usually prefers to talk to me on jeepney rides-but he did have a strong point. Come to think of it, I might have a knack for having realizations while commuting. But I digress. My conscience was right. I am too rigid. My dear mother has often told me that as well. Tita Rose, a Jungian psychologist, also said the same thing when she saw my drawing of a tree for a personality test (She didn’t know I drew it before she said that). Even Nhinya said something along those lines while munching on fries last night. Sigh. As much as I’d hate to admit it, they’re right. I guess I’ve always known it too. Why else would my conscience suggest it? My inner wisdo

“Pour me another cup, please?” I smiled, grabbed her cup and walked to the kitchen where I poured her more hot cocoa. “Thank you,” she said as I gave her the cup. “You make really nice cocoa. It’s ruining my figure.” I laughed. “Thank you, I guess,” I said. “And don’t worry, round is a figure anyway” Sticking out her tongue she said, “That’s mean of you, porky!” “What did I say? Aww, don’t take it personally. You’ll still be cute anyway.” “Sweet-talker!” “I’d rather use the term bolero. ” I got a slap on the arm for that last one. “I bet that would’ve hurt more, five cups from now.” Twenty more slaps rained on me for that. “Are you done? I hope you are. I can no longer feel my arm.” “I didn’t slap you that hard, you big baby.” “Hello. I’m still human. Flesh and blood. See?” I said as I showed her my welts. “Alright, fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have opted for violence. But, just for the record, you

It’s senseless, I know. It’s the whole point of this article; it hopes to derive sense from senselessness. How? That’s a question I’m not sure how to answer just yet. In a previous article about things that I love, I indicated that I love talking sense and talking nonsense. It’s a schizophrenic dilemma and yet a normal outpouring of the soul – my soul. Sense, after all, is derived from a concept of similarity between two sentient bodies. It is, I feel, a dictation of the society that, to make sense, an idea is understood by more than one person. An idea is agreed or disagreed upon by more than one person; that’s why I say it is schizophrenic when sense is attained by an individual. See? Even the preceding paragraph makes sense to me. But if someone else were to peruse it, it would not make sense anymore. Or so I hold to believe. On the other side of the coin is senselessness. I believe it is brought about by confusion; a going around in circles. Understanding is n