Some nights are just overwhelming. My thoughts become louder for my voice to speak. And I feel suffocated. When I open it up to people I care for; I fear I sound too dramatic, portraying the personality of a needy person latching unto their skins for life support. I hate being defined by specific instances of emotional outbursts, which limits me from expressing how I truly feel in the future.
So I write. Words seem to be only the loyal friend I know. I try to squeeze out all the blur and carefully smear it on paper (or screen, in this case.) I've always felt better after it, and the process of doing it becomes more of resolving myself rather than expressing what bothers me.
But it's not always like this. There are many times when writing feels like a burden. The starting word weighs heavily like a ship. And even if you start to carry it, the next challenge is being able to move it. So, I end up staring blankly, being defeated by the emotional monsters in my brain.
This happened last weekend.
I've been getting good at handling myself and my INFP thoughts for quite a while now, but then I figured I'm still weak by the end of it. There were triggers in both my personal and professional life. I quickly returned to my emotional home and had a hard time pulling myself together. Writing seemed too far away at that point. It was 1:20 A.M. I was out.
Luckily, I was with a close friend. And in the array of possibilities I could have done that weekend at 1:20 A.M., I ended up finding comfort in his company. The universe conspired. For some reason, he decided we go uphill to view the city lights. He doesn't know I was stuck on that potential rabbit hole, so I was secretly grateful we decided to do this.
So we went.
We drove to Busay, a mountain-top part of Cebu. The air was cold, so we opened the window as we went uphill listening to Daniel Caesar. Contrary to the days before the pandemic, the road seemed relatively quieter. It used to be active even at this time since many Cebuanos flock to Busay during weekend nights.
When we arrived at the part where the view of the city was quite good, we were surprised there were only a few people. We parked the car nearby, joined a few people playing guitar, and found our place to take some photos.
I spent quite a time staring at the city lights. It's not my first time here, but this is undoubtedly one of those nights where I badly need to be here. I gaze at lights as if they were paintings in the museum. My eyes move to the direction of roads I know by heart, the buildings that seemed close to home, and the bridges that connected two islands. The sky was pitch black, but no stars were clear. Maybe the pollution. Although, the city lights appeared like stars from here.
And for a moment, I forgot I was overwhelmed by the thoughts that ran around my head. Maybe this was a distraction. But the things that occupy my brain are now replaced by some rumination about life—typical Eu. So I embraced it.
So what was I thinking at that point? I thought about the many instances I was here. I remember eating dinner with family, drinking with friends, taking a breath with someone, and going alone. All those times I was here, I felt pretty peaceful. Including now. But why?
Maybe it's because looking far from the busy streets I belong to makes me detach from the problems solely attached to the streets. Perhaps the whispers of those highways were just illusions. Maybe because I feel like I'm on top of all those thoughts seeing I'm now higher than the highest building in the city. Regardless, it's an excellent place to be in.
I am settled. I am at peace. I control my thoughts, not the other way around. This is a haven.
We moved from one place to another, trying to see which location gave us the best view. For me, it wasn't really about the number of lights we see. It was more of the experience of climbing up, feeling the embrace of the winds, and being in a state of gratitude with the company of a friend. There were no tough conversations about anything along the way, just music, and occasional silence, but it didn't feel solitary. In quite an ironic sense, it made me feel like I was in a multitude of expressions.
I realized how these experiences could be another way for me to find contentment in myself. Well, writing will always be it, but this is something I could do when things are quite unclear and repetitive for me to write about. I learned that it is in going away that you continue to go back to oneself. What an insight.
I would have loved to stay for a bit more, but it was getting really late. We drove down and listen to Kahlid's "The American Teen" album. The beginning of the opening track felt really transcendent as it captured the success of our after-midnight endeavor.
We took a quick stop in 7-eleven and I grabbed two Smirnoff Mule that we like so much. The roads are quieter now, the winds are chiller, but my blood is now circulating with amity. It felt like the aftermath of writing. Tastes like vodka-beer.
I know I'm still going to be writing this since I'm loyal to my words the same way they are to me. And obviously, I did. Now that I'm slowly approaching the end of the rope for this blog, I'm thrilled to feel the aftermath. It'll feel really nice. And I'm pretty sure it tastes like vodka beer.
