Confessions in Exhaustion
“That’s all I can stands, and I can’t stands no more.” – Popeye the Sailor
I’m drinking deep of the well of inspiration and I find myself parched; these are the moments that I don’t feel like writing, and I can’t write anything of value. True, I have a share in things that may compel you to buy stuff, but there’s nothing like being bone-tired and bored, and realizing that you’re a bit rusty, tired, and you may need to take up other hobbies.
Like brushing up on photography, or playing computer games. No, things have to be written. I think I’ve developed an unhealthy fixation for writing stuff that I need to lay off the blogging and the note-taking and the demands of being creative before I go insane. I can’t help it, though. I think I have the rest of my life cut out for me. That’s a good thing, but it’s becoming a bit frustrating. You know what I mean?
“Why are you not writing about politics anymore, dude?” a friend of mine asked. To be honest, I don’t know why: I can probably give you a dozen reasons, and it all boils down to exhaustion. Losing faith; the institutions and systems and personalities who are supposed to run this country have failed us in so many different instances that you don’t know where to start, where to begin, and every proposal out there triggers the inner cynic in you to ask, “What’s the point?”
All I ever wanted from an elected government official is for him or her to do the job he or she swore upon by virtue of the mandate of the people. I’m sure the tasks of nation-building and policy-making and law enforcement and social justice and economic development are gargantuan tasks. Oh yes, I cooperate. I try my best to improve my life. I put in my hours and effort at work like nobody’s business. I pay my taxes. I follow the laws of the land; that one guilty offense of littering even chastised by the Significant Other that I started picking up after my own mess. I try to contribute a bit to art and culture, writer that I am, by improving my writing whenever I can. I share ideas. I buy Filipino. Every expectation you have of a citizen, I’ve done. And then some.
Why this poverty of choices, then? Why is there a lack of trust, then? The mudslinging and the incompetence at a lot of levels of government just proves a frustration shared by at least one Filipino out there: we give, and we give, and we give, and this is all the thanks we get. The thanks a journalist gets for fair and accurate reporting is the murder of his or her colleagues, buried in shallow graves with a backhoe. The thanks an honest worker gets for working hard and paying taxes on time is the barrage of allegations and insertion innuendos thrown around in the Senate. The thanks a student gets for burning the midnight oil is to share books with his or her classmates all over again.
Just when you think you still have a shred of faith in the Filipino, you’re given the finger by someone somewhere who had the “right idea:” get out of the country.
Yet I can’t remain undecided or tired for too long, although the poverty of choices we have for the posts of the land should give me every right to be paranoid, and pissed at mudslinging and incompetence in government. I guess I should start taking. Fighting. By any means necessary.
I don’t want to do that yet. I don’t want to give up yet. I don’t want to believe I’m tired yet. I don’t have a call to action… yet, except to wake up early enough to help build houses tomorrow. Write better stuff. Make my way up. How, I don’t know. Yet. Stay. Take. By any means necessary.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…