Migration

It's not new to be hearing about Filipinos going to other countries for better opportunities. It's not new to be reminded how progressively difficult the living conditions have become in the Philippines. But it's the same happening all over the world, I try to convince myself, people are all experiencing the economic slump caused by the wars and the sudden increase in fuel prices.

I am convinced though that there are more opportunities abroad and that in order for my life to gain impetus, I would need to leave my home country and try it out somewhere else.

I'm afraid that ship has sailed. At 29 going 30, I still have not accumulated enough work experience to get me a good job past being a call center agent or a waiter in another country. I know it's not too late and all that shit, it's just that I'm more afraid to start over now that I'm older than when I first graduated from college. I had all this angst, this rage of nervous energy willing to be propelled into the shores of America. Now, I only have learned to tone down. A small business here in the country would suffice.

Only 2 days since I arrived from my vacation in Bangkok, I'm already thinking of migration. I know it would be different if I were to live there. I miss the sweet fruits, the shopping districts, the hawker stalls and the people. The whole city is so alive!

But really, you already know the reason for this sadness because I've been ranting about it months now.

I need money! I want to lay on a bed of blank checks and crisp sheets of 500s! I want coin fountains on my foyer, my own accountant, a swiss bank account, royalty and royalties, my own country!!! I want so much of it I'd get bored not knowing where to spend my money on. I want that to be my problem, not where my career is going.

Sigh ...

Quo vadis Ennui??

Grin and bare it

To mention it might upset the sex, and the danger. I dreamt I had murdered someone and would be going to prison for it. I got upset that I didn't do a clean enough job with it, not serial killer precision work. I don't know who I killed because that part of me, left in reality, would not accept the immorality, the danger. And it wasn't a crime of passion. If anything, the characteristic of that dream was that it had no hint of emotion. There was no love.

I found myself awake that morning, disturbed that I had to go to work. Deciphering my dream's message was far more important to me and it upset the sex. Not that I was having any, I just found it a psychological thing to correlate murder with distress. Wanting to "kill" a persistent problem, a recurring comparison to something or the lack thereof, a never-ending quest to self-discovery revealed without judgment. No remorse. Amorphous. No weapon. Totally anonymous.

Yet somehow I got caught. And that kinda pissed me off.