The Sunbaked King

Moving forward begins with the self.

I’m glad I started filtering your updates in Facebook. I have always been curious as to what you were up to, and every time your name appeared onscreen, I couldn’t help but take a quick peek at your page to see what was going on. Filtering? Brilliant idea. Not even a month has passed before I totally forgot that you even existed.

I’m glad I had the courage to tell you what I knew about you all along. I should have done it earlier, and perhaps met with you in person, but for a non-confrontational guy like me, those messages were a big deal and a big step forward. I’m glad that you’re fixing your life, but it’s a little bit too late for us. The good news? It might not be too late for you.

I’m glad I started to manage expectations. I’m no longer the eager boy I was when the year began. I realize that people do not always turn out to be the majestic angels I once envisioned them to be, so I adjusted my expectations accordingly. Too much time, effort, and money have been spent on people who disappoint you in the end.

I’m glad I’m a stronger person because of the pain. I’m glad I’m a wiser person because of the disappointments.

But most important:

I’m glad this phase is now over, because I’m getting sick of writing the same old tired words on the same old tired themes surrounding the same old tired phases of this same old tired life.

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I have been living my life with my own brand of sorrow.

The year began with an abrupt awakening of the senses, a violent exposure of a vulnerable self. In one swift stroke (or one brief meeting, whichever is more appropriate), I became bare. Despite the pain, I embraced my nakedness. I persevered through the hazy and confusing rules of engagement in pursuit of an end that I knew to be uncertain. I did not succeed in meeting this end.

Several heartaches later, I find myself alone, all set up against a backdrop of a rainy evening and a soundtrack telling me that “good things come to those who wait.”

To all of you: you have hurt me, but I have moved on.

The price of detachment is one of conscious isolation, but the rewards can be enticing: no waiting, no sorrow, no fairy tale expectations. This is what I did last year, to much favorable result: 2009 turned out to be one of the best years in recent memory. I sailed through the year armed with a carefree attitude, a body that was 20 lbs lighter than when the year started, and a career that was well on its way to peaking.

A wave of a hand and the career nosedives into a place of insecurity and unhappiness. A snap of a finger and the pounds come rolling in. A blink of an eye and the confidence vanishes into thin air.

How easy it is to lose what one just had.

I am Kerwin Ray Sentillas, and I reappear six months later, broken and torn. But I am not gone. I have not given up. Although I am only the shadow of the king I once was, I will pick myself up, piece by piece, until I am whole again.

This is me, picking up that first piece. Watch me.

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The moon is full tonight. I stare at it from the rooftop of our boarding house– my first visit this year. I have forgotten how beautiful the skyline is from this vantage point. I have forgotten how enchanting the moonlight appears as it drapes the earth with its ethereal glow. I have forgotten how comforting the night wind feels three stories from the ground.

Like everything else, I have forgotten. But now I am remembering. And remembering well.

Rewind to Friday night, and the cast of Rent the Musical had taken their final bows. My roommate was inviting me for some bonding session with friends at Boni High, but I declined; it’s been weeks since I’ve been with my brother, and it was time for some much-needed catch-up banter. But like everything else, I have forgotten that my brother is no longer single. He wouldn’t be spending the weekend with me: the girlfriend awaits.

At that point, the biggest shard of loneliness in this entire mess of a month struck my fragile little heart. Mad (as in Johnny Depp crazy, not Jack Nicholson angry), I sought for an escape. Looking at the Twitter status of my close friend showed me the solution: a spontaneous trip to Anywhere, Anytime. Frantic, seeking flight from a flurry of profound frustration, I scoured through the airline websites, typing in random destinations with reckless abandon. Unfortunately, they didn’t allow online bookings for flights that leave within 24 hours. So I did as any rational person would do: I called up the airlines.

I inquired about the earliest flight to Hong Kong. Rationalization: two of my closest officemates were there, and I definitely could find some excitement with their company. I also inquired about the earliest flight to Davao. Rationalization: I could surprise my parents with the sudden appearance, and could celebrate my brother’s 30th birthday with them.

The universe had other plans. The costs of going to Hong Kong this late were prohibitive, and the Davao plan would earn me more rebukes than resolutions. There was only one way left to escape.

Sleep.

That was probably the best decision I had that entire day. I woke up the day after feeling refreshed. And, as though the universe thought it was enough torture for me, I got four different invitations to hang out that night. I had prior plans though, so I had to decline them all eventually. I spent the entire night instead with my awesome girlfriend, and while Miss You Like Crazy was no One More Chance, it provided the release that I needed. Not to mention of course the wellspring of jokes that my girlfriend and I shared over Thai dinner and frozen yogurt at Lullubelle’s.

When she drove me home, I felt something lift from within me. When my roommate arrived minutes after, he couldn’t tell that around that very hour just a day ago, I contemplated leaving Manila, and he wouldn’t have known that I had left.

February gives way to March, and I am on the rooftop during the transition. The moon is smiling upon me. There are good times ahead, that glow tells me.

I can’t help myself. I smile back.

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For the love of a daughter

Although the story felt rushed (and therefore confusing) at the end, the movie was still able to deliver a fantastical and quirky look into the mind of Dr. Parnassus, pulling me in with questions about love and the hard choices it brings.

For the love of a friend

I love a good mystery. I grew up with Agatha Christie books, and I devoured all the Hercule Poirot detective stories. My favorite part (as I guess anyone else’s) is at the end, where everyone’s gathered in a circle and Hercule Poirot explains his thought processes (driven by the little gray cells) and reveals the murderer. I felt the same level of excitement watching Sherlock Holmes, and while there was a disjoint between how I pictured Sherlock and Watson, the movie provided much entertainment in 2 hours.

For the love of God and all things holy

Paano na kaya kung di ko to pinanood? Mas marami kaya akong nagawa sa buhay ko? Malamang na-solve ko na ang problema ng world peace.

For the love of a father

Nicholas Sparks is a one-trick pony. Recipe: add one boy and one girl, add a flimsy love story, add a death or sickness or separation, add an inanimate object and turn it into a romanticized connection (a moon, a coin collection, a telescope, a notebook), and presto! Contrived tears! Forced drama! The only good thing? Nicholas Sparks movies turn out to be much better than the books. Fine, that’s not saying much, and Nicholas Sparks is getting paid more with every movie adaptation, but that alone pushed the C- book into a B- movie.

For the love of love, and love, and love

What if I told you that I watched Valentine’s Day thrice? February 18, February 21, and February 24. That should be enough of a testimonial.

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The world does not halt for me. It is unfeeling, it is cold. It does not recognize my loneliness as a matter of importance. It will continue to turn and turn and turn. It will not send me help in any way, in any form. I am alone in this, because the world does not care.

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February 21, 2010
1:51 PM

I guess the most appropriate thing to say is thank you. It feels good to be liked. But I know how hard it must feel that I seem to be just floating in my life now. Well, I am, and I don’t know what to do with this info. I’m sorry to make you feel this way. But I’m not even stable to hold any of my dating relationships now, even though I try. So, at least know that I’m grateful that you told me.

That’s that. Let’s all close the pages on this one, folks.

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February 21, 2010
10:27 AM

I like you. I really do. I just wish I knew what to do with it. You’re a free spirit, I can see that, and I know this isn’t part of your plans, but I just wanted to put this out there. Sometimes I wish I didn’t like you as much, but who am I kidding.

Enjoy your life. Try to take a breather every so often, and don’t step too close to the edge all the time. Living life dangerously is fun, but you’ve got to rest! You’ll notice more things when you stay put.

Three pesos to express one’s emotions.

I’m seated Indian-style on my bed, waiting for the response.

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I’m quitting The Club.

In order for one to succeed in The Club, one has to be at least one of three things: aggressive, attractive, or aloof. I am not those things. Or to put it more accurately: I am not those things enough.

I should have known this all along. Knew it, and stopped going.  I’d probably have enough to save for a decent console or that brand new pair of Hush Puppies I’ve been craving since I started working. But the spirit is weak and I become hopeful, so I give in to the fantasy that I’ll actually be able to find someone decent in The Club.

I just get hurt in the process, because no one’s really there. All those people? Shadows. You attempt to grab them, to feel them, to touch them, but they’re not real. They’re just illusions of  a desperate soul.

You will lose the people you meet in there. Sometimes a little bit longer than the average, but you will lose them nonetheless.

I don’t want to extend this torture any longer than necessary, so I’m quitting. I’m quitting the darkness. I’m quitting the beat. I’m quitting the fleeting fun.

Goodbye. And good riddance.

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When your last entry’s two weeks ago, something’s definitely up with your life. Either you’re a) terribly busy; b) terribly sad; c) terribly infatuated/lovestruck/crazy-to-the-point-of-rabid; or d) terribly uninspired. Guess what? I’m three of those things. Whoever gets them right wins a nibble on the ear from me. You should be excited! I nibble extremely well.

I kid. But seriously, this depresses me. Remember I paid for the maintenance of this site? I should be filling it up with entries and pictures and widgets and what-nots, not empty spaces and long gaps between posts. Ah, but zee life eez strange, eez eet not? For the past three weeks, my mistress– let’s call her “Office”– has seen more of me than my wife– let’s call her “Boarding House”– has. Not that I’m complaining about my work, but I’m just pointing out that every time I come home from a busy day in the office, there’s no time to fool around with FB, WP, and Tweetie.

That’s right. You can tick a) in your checklist. Reason for lack of entries: a career path that requires me to churn and churn and churn.

How about lack of inspiration? Is that a consideration? Yes, yes, one big mighty YES. Part of it might be justifiable because of the above-mentioned tiredness, but, ceteris paribus, the lack of a driving force is one major obstacle to writing. To put it simply: nothing comes to mind. To put it accurately: nothing comes to mind that I can transfer to this 14″ screen. Ideas are a-plenty, sure, but it fizzles out before the thought gets into my tippy-tappy fingers. I’m a few axons short of a complete synapse.

Kiddies, kindly tick b) in your checklist.

So what’s the last one going to be? Infatuation or depression? Love-craziness or sadness? (Man, the nibble’s getting extremely easy to get.)

Okay, I will admit it: I am in love. I am truly, madly, deeply in love. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t even freaking breathe because whenever I see this person, or get a text message from this person, or, OR GOD FORBID be with this person, my heart leaps to my motherfreaking throat and stays there until I die of asphyxiation or something similarly defined as suffocation.

WHERE’S MY BROWN PAPER BAG I NEED SOME AIR.

But I kid. Again. (This is so Ellen DeGeneres.) I’m not even in love– are you crazy?! But I’ve been hit. By this truck. Called “crush.” And while it’s not the knee-weakening type I’ve so elegantly described, it still packs a heavy punch. Check my entries before I left the blogosphere temporarily. The evidence is there. Of course, being the stealthy little boy that I am, I coated the words with much enigma and mystery that it’s completely possible that I’m talking about another thing entirely.

I wish I can be as open as other people.

That’s not the point, though, and I digress. The point: this crush has rendered me at a loss for words. Which is partly the reason why I disappeared in the first place. I can’t really fill this blog up, at its early stages of infancy, with lines about hope and rejection and fanaticism because that just wouldn’t be me. Or rather, that wouldn’t be realistically me. Or rather, that wouldn’t be wholly me.

Whatever. This journal-type word diarrhea has got to stop at some point, and the 570+ mark seems like a good spot to do it.

So that’s a), c), and d). Now take the hair off your face and show me that ear…

Kidding.

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It all began in October 2004, when I decided not to go back home to Davao for the semestral break just so I could spend my days in McDonald’s Katipunan to study for my first actuarial exam. My friends in the dorm had already left for their provinces, and those that remained had a few fun adventures in mind to merit their prolonged stay. I had no such reasons, no such adventures. I didn’t know it back then, but skipping vacation for studying was just the first of many sacrifices that I had to make in pursuit of this actuarial dream.

In a nutshell, the dream is this: to become a Fellow of the Actuarial Society of the Philippines. Four exams entitle you to Associateship; four more entitle you to Fellowship. In an ideal world where unicorns exist and pigs fly, these exams will be like puffy cotton candies that I can eat while I dance and sing my way to the Wizard to claim my Fellowship. But this isn’t an ideal world. In this world, the exams are battles, and the dream is the war. And just like any typical foray into the fray, people fail (say, thrice, two of which consecutively), people cry, and people do not make it.

Five years, ten takes, and seven exams later, I am still standing. And I am still battling my studies to win this war. What began in October 2004 as a trade-off between vacation and vocation have transformed into a lifestyle of sacrifice, but it’s OK. I’m fine. With the end in sight and one more test left to hurdle, what’s another few months, right?

If this means victory, then I will charge into the fight head-on.

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