if i were deaf

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It is going to be a considerable trend, I think, this continuing silence for me. I have been busy putting out fires in my life -- at work, at home, with friends, with love, with the future. And this mutedness is a welcome reprieve from my once turbulent emotional state. Even now as I begin to write about these feelings, I am out of words and unable to describe the sense of stability I am feeling. It might go on like this for the next few days, weeks, or even months. I'm not one to complain though because it's just what I need at the moment.

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Perhaps it's true, simplicity is the key to a happy life. To either be content with what you already have or to be appreciative of the things that you worked for, to know the value of every little thing that you own. There will always be this drive in me to be great, to exceed my own expectations about myself, to boldly push for an adventure only a few people can boast of having in their lifetime. But the time to go trekking isn't now and may not be any time soon. I am, however, patiently hoping that I will still achieve what it is I was planted here for; then perhaps, if I allow myself to be involatile for the time being, I may say simply that I wish to pursue my passion for optimism.

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It has become increasingly difficult for me to be open up in this blog about how I feel in fear of giving out the wrong impression to certain people. This had become more pronounced when I posted my blog address in a friendly network. It's not that what I write down are absolute truths about myself or how I feel about life and people in general. My blog entries are moments of proactive expression, they are literary snapshots of key parcels in my life. They may not be exciting or always fun to read about. And if you know me too well, I some things about me change as often as the weather. I mean, this blog is an online diary for me so I type down what it is I want to type down. The problem is I fear sometimes that people might miscontrue what I write about. I know, I know, I shouldn't really care, but perhaps, the real fear for me is that I will be understood exactly the way I want to be understood. A good thing gone bad. In any case, sometimes I'd prefer a little bit more anonymity. Just sometimes, when I can't seem to write about what keeps me astir.

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The Lord listens to me. I know He does, and He's proven it a lot of times. For this I'm grateful because I know that somehow I'm in good hands, I know that somehow, I won't go astray anymore. I was telling my friend the other day how I was never the suicidal type. You see, he had a batchmate who committed suicide recently by jumping off her condo unit in Ortigas. Poor girl; successful on her third attempt. Most people will never get to understand what goes on in the mind of the suicidal and depressed. And they should consider themselves lucky enough not to do so. I've been there (but without any serious steps at actually doing it) and I know exactly how it is to be plagued by noise only you can hear, to seek even the remotest bit of attention to appease your hurting, to know that even if you meet with death square in the face, you will never be in peace.

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Sometimes I can't help imagining what's it like to be deaf, to know how it is to hear the world in silence.

If I were deaf, I would hear with my eyes and my voice would come out like water.

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For now I'd like to be careful what I wish for ...

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