In reality...

          For two years – well, at least since I entered college, I’ve been dormant. Most people knew only what I was like; crazy-serious, boring. Some even called me inertia that I would stay at rest unless some outside force pushes me to move. I enjoy being like that, with very few people knowing what I want, what I’m capable of, what I’m really like—these few people are my only friends, at least in that turf.

          What I wasn’t able to suppress was my tongue. I find it very hard to stay quiet when something is obviously wrong and when someone’s being blatantly abused. So that’s how people saw me, a madcap.

          I don’t think I’m boring, they just catch me at a bad time—when I’m sleepy, or dying with a head ache. Those outside my very small and yet fulfilling circle of friends are surprised to find me amusing when they accidentally spend some time with us. Suddenly, it became well known that I’m only happy when I’m with them. And they wonder why.

          I don’t get along much with people I don’t know because I’m too busy trying to read them that I forget I’m supposed to interact with them. With my friends, there’s no need to read them, they would openly and honestly tell you what they think and feel at the precise moment—except for some, they prove to be the difficult ones.

          What I don’t like about my friends is their inappropriate encouragement. I can decide on my own. But somehow, those encouragements go to me, and I started listening, moving.

          I stopped writing anything—stories, poems… but because of Nicole’s constant “motivation” (both physical and not), I started writing again. I guess it was because of past failures that I stopped, that I felt it wasn’t really meant for me. But I started writing again anyway, and my friend started reading.  It felt good to write, to feel like I’m somewhere I’m totally in control. It felt good to be read, like my piece is worth the time. They weren’t like most “strangers”, they would honestly tell me if there’s something wrong with what I wrote—they’re very critical, and I like it.

Until recently, I’ve only written for my benefit; I don’t need to please anyone, I was free. But then, the drama fest came, and everything changed.

          It was difficult to be told what to write, so I was left behind. I didn’t pass any kind of concept primarily because I didn’t know what to write and secondly, because I didn’t want to feel disappointed with myself if ever my piece gets rejected. That’s me—the all time pessimist.

But for some reason, the first batch got lost and we were required to pass yet another batch. And again, I had nothing worth writing. They passed their piece enthusiastically and I watched enviously. It was very hard, after several years of just writing what I feel like writing, being told proved to be a burden.

          It didn’t mean anything to me, personally. It just felt like a cruel joke to pass concepts again and again when it keeps on getting lost. I was enraged by their carelessness. Yes, the second batch was lost—again. But they were able to salvage a few pieces, but it didn’t make a difference to me. Unless they chose from a multitude of concepts, whatever they chose for us to use is void. So I suggested our class pass another batch, and this time, inspiration came.

          I was able to pass a concept that wouldn’t make me feel ashamed of my writing skill and that was more than enough. So when I heard that my piece was chosen, I was dumbfounded. Why?

          This is where everything started to go downhill for me. Everyone seems to want to change my story at every turn and I felt suffocated. I found solace in my friends and a few of my classmates who claim they know what it feels like, what I feel like.

          Turns out these very people would betray my trust. My first draft was rejected so I wrote another, not knowing that someone was writing my story simultaneously. So when her script was chosen over mine, it was “fine”. I’d never push for what I alone want to the point of sacrificing the whole class’ fighting chance in the drama fest.

          When I read her script, it was “hollow”. There was no emotion, only words. And when I found out that what out mentor really wanted was to incorporate some of my ideas in hers, I waited. I waited long in agony but nothing happened; she didn’t change anything. That’s when I thought, the hell with it, it won’t be my fault if they lose.

          It seems it doesn’t have to be that drastic; her script was openly criticized for its lack of character. Sadly, it wasn’t open enough. That was end of my noble patience and endurance. Why did it have to be a secret when all the rejection I suffered through was enthusiastically publicized? That night, she was unable to come and the actors felt it was their duty to revise the script if she can’t comply.

          There I was trying to busy myself with other things when the actors and the director were visibly having a hard time revising the script. I counted minutes then hours… I can’t help it anymore.

          I went down for a cup of coffee and I saw very little development. I invited myself to listen to their discussion and when I suggested a line, they officially invited me in. What took them two hours was dragged to five. But this time, we were moving. They were no longer discussing one scene over and over again. I felt better then, that my opinion was valued.

          The next day I heard whispers about the revised script, but nothing tangible. It was my friend Timmy who confirmed everything, she asked and was answered, “Ang ganda na nga daw nung script eh, si ate CJ daw gumawa.” That made me thrilled; it was enough for me to know that they know who made the difference.

          It wasn’t until everything was over when I heard what was happening the whole time we were revising the script; we offended her, but not as much as they offended me. That was when I heard that she would’ve consented, we only had to ask. But my, what irony. I heard about how she reacted when revision of the script was mentioned in an open forum held a few weeks back. She very strongly disagreed. I guess that was why they didn’t ask her consent knowing she wouldn’t allow it.

          This whole experience left me bereft because I know that I have nothing now, she got everything she wanted. I take comfort knowing that at least some of the people who didn’t know and understand me before, feel for me now. It’s nice to know that they’ve seen a better side of me.

           That’s all that matters to me, and now I am fully aware that I should never let this happen again. 


       I guess what that really means is I should never write for others again.