Again, again.


I picked up a new book again after nearly a year of not reading. I was battling with depression and unproductivity for nearly a whole year, and got married. "Why did I put those two things together?", as Bechdel's mother would also ask.

Since it is Bechdel that I just picked up, and like I did with her Fun Home, I wanted to write and weave everything going on in my life in one dizzying, coherent narrative. I will fail, since, one, I am not Bechdel, and two, I haven't written anything remotely substantial for the past six months.

I should go see my therapist.

At least I have been going out for walks and errands for the past week. I remember a young lady in the jeepney I rode to town one day, whose hair was so straight and black it might have come from a rebond commercial, strands falling behind and on top of her ears. Her face shield was on her forehead, one of those people whom my nephew would look at very violently for not following face shield protocols, and her fingers were long and resemble candles. They were unpainted. 

She disembarked at a bank, and before doing so, gathered her bag and her tan parka unto her bosom and gingerly walked out of my life and out of the jeepney forever.

I still have a file to do, it's two audio hours and I have been at it for three days. The technical team doesn't mind, since I have a good track record at work. Classes start tomorrow, and I marvel at how I am again hired for a teaching job, when I spend three days working on a file, and read books instead of going on Canvas and finishing my goddamned modules.

I'm thirty pages into Are You My Mother? and I had to put it down, for in those pages were explanations of object relations and object permanence, and I only recently learned that I am this way, comorbidly, because of my mother. I miss my mother. She would have been 81 this year.

I suppose it's time to gather my parka and my bag, and once again, again, join the real world.

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