Get A Grip

I've just finished finishing another Dean Koontz novel called Mr. Murder. At this point, initially after having read the novel, I have this sense of unfounded disturbance within me. It is not that I had been extraordinarily engrossed with the whole suspense thriller story, but perhaps part of the story has caught up with my flow of thoughts. I wonder how much of what I have now would remain with me?

I am a cynic as most of my friends have informed me in an absurdly outright manner. I am a pessimist by all means, a personal characteristic which I cannot attribute to any formidable encounter in my past - especially the fact that I cannot account as many episodes to prove me to be downright pessimistic a few years back.

When I was seven, eight, nine, though, I remember lulling myself to sleep. Tears would constantly stream down my eyes as I rest my head on my pillow, my heart would be gripped in an intangible clutch from within - and thus I know that I was afraid. Even now that I’ve matured eleven, ten, nine years wiser than I had been, I am still plagued by this fear, often baseless in nature that I find myself crying, weeping, sobbing for no apparent reason. My breath seems to lose its rhythm; my guts feel knots and my eyes are waterfalls of running tears - like an untended faucet. I was afraid, as I am afraid. I am afraid to lose all that I have, all that I hold dear. I am afraid of change.

I am sure many people would agree that although change is most desirable especially in the growth of man, it is not always beneficial to the emotional expansion of an individual. Many speak that change is good, and that in change one learns to experience the vastness of life - being held back, cooped up is a sin to existence. And yet, I admit although I am a social nihilist who dares to question and at times deviate from norms and conventions, I too am inflicted by the joys and sorrows that change could inflict, for I too, as much as I'd try to oppose it, am still part of the system.

I've often been quite defiant of my parent's wishes, although not in a form of utter rebellion, but in my lack of affection towards them. I would often justify this conduct as culturally influenced since Asians are less emotionally responsive compared to Westerners (although Philippine movies would like to portray the Filipinos to be quite Westernized in their ways). I don't remember hugging my mother after every quarrel despite how often I see that scenario in television, and I would blame this behavior on the grounds that it is not my manner of expressing my love.

Love, being so abstract, could be expressed in so many ways, with so many mediums, that the typical (stolen from the movies) manner in which it is shown cannot be the only and absolute means as to how it could be translated. And despite the fact that I doubt my parents would really take time out to read the rigmaroles of their demented daughter, I would like to write it here out for all to see that I love them very much, despite their imperfections, despite their human "fallability", despite their occasional failed attempts to remain faithful to their teachings - I am grateful for their kindness and care and hope that one day I may repay my debts when I'd have children of my own (God forbid).