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Talk therapy II

…because knowing the end is the surefire way to move forward right.

I AM still listening.

Previously, my head is still a mess.

In fact, I don’t think it will ever get as tidy as I want it to be. Science knows that the beauty of the mess is what procreates life. So, might as well let it be.

“TRUST mommy’s words, and you know you’ll get there,” said my mother when we were driving home late last night.

The last time we spoke, she told me what’s wrong. The time before that, I was not responsive. The previous notes I wrote in here, I committed myself full-time to do writing as my main course of living. When the soul dies, then rose up again, it knows exactly what to do after it awakens, without hesitation.

ALL THINGS ARE TRANSIENT. All things are temporary in this world, in this life. When you’re dead, it doesn’t matter. What matters is love, and true happiness. Money is not happiness.

“As long as you have a good heart, it’s all good. God knows.” That’s the vision.

Taking a trip down to memory lane from the last page in Talk Therapy I, the problems are: I fear making myself not useful and therefore life not meaningful. Behind all that fear lies my deepest yearning to put all my heart into all things I really believe in; all people I feel for and desire to give to.

“I used to believe in Ai. You know Ai. Everybody knows Ai. I threw her away…” I told my mom and I told my friend. The friend tells me I am being a crybaby. But my mommy tells me other things, more important things.

ONCE UPON A TIME, there was this character called Ai who dreams. She daydreams a lot, both day and night. I told everyone I love around me about her, and how cute she was and how much she means to me. She faces fears in the world but with a cheerful heart that never dies. She doubts whether she can reach the moon, and with every full moon passing her by, she cries at night. She’s no pig, but she can’t fly either.

Yesterday I was watching my videotapes when I was still a kid. Chubby cheeks, curious eyes, and fascinating smile. I don’t know who she is, but I don’t recall myself as that girl. Hold on. She’s a lot like Ai. I watch her move in front of the camera. What may become of her?

“Do it,” my mother tells me. That girl loves to dance. Whenever she gets tired, she does not want to do anything else but hug her mother. The other day on the Discovery Channel, I saw a momma hugging her baby chimp, caressing the kid as if she the kiddo meant the world to her, and then nothing else matters. 

DO WHAT? I was so confused. That girl on TV looked curiously at the camera; what is this light? Why am I here? Where am I going? I just want to be in the comfort of my mother’s warmth, as my “dada” in the corner is watching after me.

Even if I don’t seem to be in his arms as often, I dream a lot about being in his arms, because then, I have believed the lie I tell myself that I have a father’s warmth.

From the bottom of my soul in the depth of the oceans there’s a heavy burden of water dying to flow out, in speech of words, to convey this innate desire to give, search for like-minded souls, and bind for eternity. 

I have always, always thought it would be the form of alma mater, so it goes that I’m stuck behind hardcovers and Penguin paperbacks. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve found it all along, in my head, on my mind, from the heart, on the paper. And her name is Ai.

DO: Write.

My mother pets my head and caress my head slowly as I cry. “Good kid, good kid…”

I was in tears the whole time I was talking the other day to my mother. Now, all I do is keep listening.

SHUT UP AND LISTEN is probably the most popularized advice there ever is out there, but it’s priceless. Maybe it’s the multimillion-dollar marketing industry that keeps unfulfilled spirits alive, and I seem to recall telling myself lies, damned lies, and therefore keep finding statistics out there to keep myself alive:

… But the positive lies I tell myself are no longer lies. In fact, the act of lying to yourself pushes your limits so that you collect as much mental capacity for yourself to prove and tell the world your truth.

And then now my mother told me that as long as I remember I’m a good person, then I’m all good. And then my problem does not seem like a problem anymore, so much more than that it has become a solution. 

“At the most specific level, these are your problems: 1. You are afraid that you will become a useless person. 2. You have a big heart that you have a deep desire to give.”

GIVE, with all my might I give off my time and effort to make everybody else happy that I’ve forgotten how to give myself. She told me, on the car ride back to home last night after a whole day of shopping together, eating together, laughing together and, to a degree of crying together at heart, we shared the happiness I haven’t felt in a very long time, wasting my time worrying about the world, and the inequalities everyday we face, and the poverty that does not make living my own life seem fair, and the racial boundaries we all seem to differentiate among ourselves when the truth is that our soulful human touch and the capacity for delivering it to one another, is only separated by the thinnest organ enshrouding our body: the skin. Much more deeper beneath the skin lies prisoners of its soul dying to be free and feel that they belong to Mother Earth and as part of the citizen of the world. As all things are transitory, we can never stop fighting for our belongings, and about our differences – Which should we take and what should we give away? But we have long failed to realize, then remember, that we’re so much more similar than we are different from one another, as does haters have forgotten to see eye to eye with love, beauty, health, peace and prosperity, springing out of the lost place in time of which we originate from, that which we are growing more and more of our desires to go back in to.

IN TRANSIT, do we fight or do we fly? Which is better?

Then again, this is just an opinion. Atypical. Ironically, I am urging the readers of my diary to conform. A public outcry is merely a means to end self-destructive behaviors in me, but I’m hoping also that this means the start a union movement in the human trial to harmonize, in spite of our ugly, unfriendly inequalities dividing us from others we yearn to conform with, all coming out of the unimportant things just above our skin. It’s unreasonable. What more can we do if we are mere prisoners in our own skin?

“Luna dear, picture this: You are just one person. You are neither God nor a goddess, far less a fallen angel. You are just a human being. To the globe, you are one, tiny little dot. If you stop believing in yourself, if you cease to exist, and then you’ve failed living. You live as if you do dying as a living.

YOU ARE JUST ONE PERSON, and you cannot save the problems on Earth all by yourself. I know you have a big heart, my dear, but you are my little girl. You’re young and you still have a lot to look forward to. In time, you can do whatever you wish to solve the problems of the world, if it still worries you later; but right now, seek your own happiness, and your sphere of influence can have a bigger impact on the people within your reach than how big the globe is as it is right now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Hmmm…” And I’m still listening.

“Don’t you see? If you disappear into the deep, dark hole that is only one tiny little dot, you really become nothing. You fail to come into existence. Look at me,” she glanced at me.

I LOOKED into her big, black eyes. Classic beauty of the Orient. I see the same pair of eyes every morning in the mirror. 

“I can guarantee you can get the things you want to get by the end of next year. You can earn a title, and you can guarantee a lifetime of trust with your loving partner. Mommy trusts you, daddy too, both your brothers are behind your back. You can earn them if you really, really want to. It’s your happiness and it’s right in front of you. Do you get me?”

“Yes, but…”

“Throw away your worries for now. Leave it in the back of your mind for later.”

“I know.”

“Do you trust yourself?” Her eyes thrusted through the retina of my eyes, all the way from the cornea. Skin of the eyeballs, so to speak.

“Yes, I -“

“Good. Mom has a lot of trust in you. I have a lot of confidence about you, dear. If you are willing to give yourself happiness, then you have succeeded in life.” 

THUS, this undying soul is for my mother. I didn’t see any monetary exchange between our eye contact, though.

Money is not happines. Money can’t buy happiness.

From the back of my head, a little girl with chubby cheeks and curious eyes, in some distant time, is pleasure-seeking all by herself behind a camera. And then after a while, she runs back to her loved one and give a big, big hug.

After we arrived home, I grabbed a guidebook to writing, pondered upon its words before I go to sleep.

“TO WRITE a good memoir you must become the editor of your own life, imposing on an untidy sprawl of half-remembered events a narrative shape and an organizing idea. Memoir is the art of inventing the truth,” writes William Zinsser in his best-selling guide to nonfiction writing, On Writing Well

To the world, I am just one tiny little dot. And I’m still shutting up and listening.

But, I do write.

SALUNA is signing off.

Saluna and her stories: View all / Diary entries