I’m having a writer’s block these past few days. I’d log-in to my Wordpress account, click the Write tab in the topmost panel, and stare at it for minutes. I did the poem in the previous post out of mild agitation of letting out things. There are other things–such as shifting courses–which bothers me so much. It keeps on swirling in my head, never escaping, to the point of almost relenting to my decision.
I love risks.
Dad: What are the chances that you can shift to Communication Arts?
Kevin: Like, 70-30. 70 positive. 30 negative.
Dad: That’s quite big.
Kevin: I like it risky, Dad. (The exact words I said was, “Ayos nga yun eh. Risky.”)
I’ve been waiting for things to fall on the right place, and now that the bullets have been triggered, I think it’s time for me to risk things. When I told the Department about my shifting, they said it was a do-or-die decision. (My writer’s block goes off easily, eh?) I said, fine, goddamn it.
I did the shifting even if I’m not even sure if the Department of Humanities will accept me.
The risk is actually huge: if I will not be accepted–or to put it simply, rejected–in the course I am shifting to, then I’ll be what they call a “floating student.” Dad could be immensely disappointed with my risk-taking attitude that I’d probably be off in another university. Mom could be easily put off with hastily-made decisions; my sisters would reprimand me for my half-baked practicality.
Dad wants me to take Agricultural Economics since it’s practical. Jobs are there. The Economic Meltdown is still out there bankrupting businesses. Mom, however, insists–with my sisters echoing in the background–that I should take Physical Therapy. The world never runs out of sprained people, they said, and that a medical course is best for me.
I never (without exaggeration) thought Dad would be so practical. Why are we so goddamn practical, without even considering the things we want? Academically speaking, it’s not expensive–not even a luxury–to pick the course you want. It was never a luxury for most people. It’s just that my parents and my sisters wanted me to take… Physical Therapy? Economics?
The chains of practicality.
I want to do what I want to do. I want to be what I want to be.
It’s funny, but that’s what I’ve been fighting for ever since High School; ever since I had doubts with the existence of a supreme being; ever since I had doubts about a million things in life, without even the courage of asking, of inquiring people about it.
I want to be a writer, a photographer, and I don’t goddamn care if there’s no money in it. I don’t care if they think tattoos are dirty, immoral, even obscene. I don’t care if anklets, too, make me look indecent. I don’t care if a college dropout’s future looks bleak for other people. I just want to be taught how to write, how to express myself, how to communicate myself freely.
When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a painter. It was silly but I imagine myself in a cramped house painting, not even earning money, just mixing colors in a palette, probably engaged in sidelines to fund my canvasses, oil paints. I hadn’t thought of money not because we have it, but it just wasn’t the factor I considered in getting a job (or at least, in composing that dream in my mind).
Here I am, fast-forward.
Practicality nagging at me, passion nagging at me. They tell me things. I go for my passion. Cliche as it may sound, we only live once and we have to make the most out of it. I shudder at the thought of myself working in the hospital, tired, heaving a sigh and telling myself point-blank that I don’t like what I’m doing. I shudder at the thought of telling my son or daughter to be a writer–begging them to, fucking please, do it for me.
That’s the last thing I’d do, really.
