One thing I know for certain is that the holidays in the blogging world is never complete without blogmas, a special blogging tradition featuring Christmas-themed blog posts which usually run from the first of December up to Christmas Day.
A couple of months ago, I insisted to myself that I would participate in this blogging tradition, if only to finally melt away the hostility that I have for this holiday. But today is Christmas and I haven’t written at least one decent Christmas blog post for this little blog.
I do not know why and I do not know exactly how to feel about my apparent absence from this platform. All I know is the colossal demand of life and responsibilities pummeling me to pieces, taking away time for the things that I want to do in exchange for the things that I have to do. All I understand is the tremendous amount of effort I have to supply in order to juggle my role as a fully functioning (one could say, productive) adult and my eternal ideal self.
I could ponder all my life in search for a theory to provide a lucid explanation for the delicate balance between the mechanics of supply and demand with which my present life has clung itself onto. But what is the point in all of that if I am still left to carry the high price of surviving alone in the face of these invisible forces?
This strange world always has its own way of making me believe that I am safe and stable, independent and free. I mustered every ounce of courage inside me and carried myself out there where I learned how to thrive and to survive the way other people did. But each night when I am in bed, the solid truth rings loudly in my head like the metallic shrill of an old telephone: I am a product of a fabulation and my life is not my own. In a sense, I am a marionette and a single flick of the finger could knock me out of this fabricated equilibrium. And when I look at other people, I only see pallid faces, twisted smiles, and a lonely banner which says “I am a commodity” where their souls are supposed to be.
As a child, we were encouraged to come up with a wish list for Christmas. I remember filling my list with the typical things that a typical child would ask for: Barbie dolls, story books, and fancy bicycles. As an adult, I find myself wanting the same material gain, only this time I want them bigger, grander, and more magnified.
For Christmas, I want a house along the Cordillera mountains where I can wake up to the smell of morning mist. I want an entire strawberry field to my own where I can spend my days tilling the brown soil of our beloved earth. I want a dog, maybe a beagle or a terrier, to be with for the rest of my human life. When summer comes, I want the prettiest pastel pink suitcase in the world and a plane ticket to Easter Island. All these I want, and more more more.
But all too soon I am reminded of the senselessness of these wishes because in the end, what I honestly want is not any kind of material gratification but an abstract ideal beyond measure. I do not want happiness. I want the very condition that allows for the possibility of happiness to exist in the first place; the same condition that manufactures our dreams and desires, and makes possible the idea of an external satisfaction. In other words, perhaps what I truly want is the process, the long road heading for the west exit to a desire that is not even there at all.
You can scratch all of my wishes for they mean nothing at all to me.
Just the other day, I told someone what I really wanted for Christmas. I told him I want a hand gun, a sleek, semi-automatic pistol gun. And the moment I spoke the words, I felt the bitter pang of honesty between my tongue, bouncing to the roof of my mouth and sliding to the hollow tunnel down my throat. For the first time in a long time, I was honest, naked, and sincere.
All I want for Christmas is a hand gun.
He replied by asking why I wanted a deadly weapon and went on assuming the names of people I want to shoot in the head. But none of his words made sense to me, for there was no other reason at all for my wanting to own a gun except for the fact that I just want to own a fucking gun. I knew he found it nonsensical and thought that in my present state of mind, I might need a miracle to even pass the license application for a gun permit.
I caught myself smiling, winking, almost whispering, like a child who bears the secret of the world.
“Watch me do it.”