if there’s something that could drag you deep down into the abyss, it’s regret.

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a quick post to prevent missing entry in monthly archives.

(content to be drafted later : P)

Eight and a half years ago, I sat onboard my first flight out of the country. My first flight. 

Eager to start a fresh, new, exciting life. Getting to know a different world. Where they’ll be speaking different language. Where I wouldn’t be a financial burden to my family. To study abroad. To leave behind a self-inflicted miserable life at then my university. To carve out a promising future for myself. And perhaps for the family, too.

Going to stay oversea without convincing means of life support was the only reason my uncle needed to object to my plan. He didn’t give his blessing. Other family members followed suit. I was young, there’s very little sense of worrying in me. So, without anybody’s consent, I left anyway. The day I did, practically nobody was home, except my uncle, to which my saying goodbye couldn’t have mean anything. Or so it seemed.

My life hasn’t changed much since then. I am still pretty much the same once-prodigal-boy-now-reduced-to-be-almost-nobody. Well, I’m a bit better off than say, two or three years ago, but it’s barely worth mentioning to justify all those eight years I’d been away.

During my one-week homecoming, I had a long heart-to-heart conversation with my now a widow aunt. She revealed the difficult period my uncle had gone through, for weeks following my departure. The pain, the constant worry that had always been in the back of his mind. When was it that I sent my first letter home? Six months later? One year later? And another three or four years before there’s finally a phone line in the house, and I was able to speak with him. A short one, lasted barely three minutes.

Turned out it’s the last time I ever heard his words directly.

I cried when my aunt and cousin recounted the agony of their husband and father. I’m sorry.

**********

A week ago I left for the second time. This time, I made sure I took my leave. I said goodbye to all my uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. I left, but my heart and mind, they refused to come along. It’s a different journey. The one I do not want. But it’s one of the many second chances I’ve had. “There’s time to be good again. For you, uncle, a thousand times over”.

Toward the end of the year I was back at my hometown for a week. My uncle passed away. He’s been sort of godfather to me. Perhaps to all of my brothers and cousins.

The moment my brother called, telling me that uncle was hospitalized and was in critical condition, I started searching for air-ticket online. Then there’s another call one hour after the first one; the dreaded news.

I had to get on the next day’s flight, otherwise I’d miss out on the main ritual that is the cremation, which was to be held early the day after. I’d never had a plan to go back for eight and a half years. To finally go home on such a sad occasion is certainly not the homecoming I’d want.

Booking a ticket for a flight less than 12 hours later proved to be a fruitless task. Initially it’s all straight forward, I logged on a certain airline’s website, there’s seats available, filled in my details, only to find out at the last page that online booking by credit card must be done at least 48 hours before departure.

Disappointed, I called a few travel agents, and thanks to my late calls and early closing hour of their offices, I wasn’t able to settle any booking.

After asking left and right, apparently there’s an option to buy ticket on the spot, that is, at the check-in counter at the airport. A friend said it might come cheaper, but travel agents had the opposite views, saying it will be more expensive.

Around midnight I packed my stuff and off to the airport some five hours before the scheduled flight. Understand it’s my only second time going to airport to actually get on the plane. Two hours before the boarding time, the check-in counter opened, and with luck on my side, I got a one-way ticket. For this on-the-spot booking, return ticket costs more than double the conventional booking. The travel agents were right; I thought they were just bluffing me.

Slacking is never enough. Every character in this post represents one hour of slacking.

C.h.a.r.a.c.t.e.r.

Not word. Not sentence. Not paragraph.

I’ve been doing a variety of physical exercises everyday this past week. Running, jumping, yoga, swimming. Some weight lifting, push ups, pull ups. Kicking and punching.  They are supposed to make me feel freshier, to make me more energetic, to help me concentrate, and what have you.

Paintings depicting me losing focus and struggling to punch that keyboard might just be enough to fill up the entire wall of shame.

I’m wondering why would I want to go to a friend’s house, across the island, to help with some computer problem, taking a few hours off my now-has-become-precious weekend, while the friend doesn’t bother to stay home playing host, opting to spend the weekend in the city instead. Once would be okay, I guess. But I already did that three times. The fourth time,… I’m not sure anymore.

Well, the very fact that I’m writing about it here makes it obvious that I’m not sincere in helping, doesn’t it. Sincerity aside, personally I think common courtesy is highly relevant, too.

On the technical side, the latest problem is not solved yet, already I’m bragging about the helping.

I sat for four or five hours at a nearby McDonalds cafe, under a fan (it’s the non air-conned section). I was reading. At the end of it, I started sneezing.

Three days later today, I’m still nursing the common cold. Lessons learnt.

It’s true what they say about new habit. It’s hard to start; although in some cases it’s quite the opposite, what with the excitement and all. It’s hard to start. It’s easy to stop. It’s harder to start again. Eventually it’ll go away.

I jogged regularly three to four times a week for the past three or four months, and it sure felt great. First and second time were so hard on me, I could barely walk straight the following day. After a few times, my body adapted to it. I quite enjoyed it; increasing the intensity and/or the duration each time.

And then I stopped.

One evening I was accompanying a couple of friends on the tennis court. I don’t play tennis at all (I don’t play sports), but out of courtesy they let me have a couple of shots. My serves went all over the court in all direction and in every angle possible, even past the complex gate out to the street. It’s no surprise that I spent most of the session either bending down picking up balls or chasing the balls around the court. Session’s over, having a little bit of those extra energies, I went for my supposedly regular jogging session.

The next day, the legs gave up to soreness. I decided to rest. And rest. and rest.

So now, a little over a week has gone by without me jogging. And already I don’t feel like doing it anymore. Every day I stare out of my window at the place where people jog, and I always tell myself, “I’ll be right there, folks!”.

Not to mention I’ve not been cycling to office since… three weeks ago ?.

On meals, too. Yeah, right. First two months in this new house, I had decent dinners. I would prepare a nice portion of fish, veggies, and fruits. Sometimes even rice; I got myself a brand new, shiny rice cooker. In the morning I’d have a healthy breakfast. Despite the apparent lack of appetizing flavour -the veggies were just plain, boiled without spices, salt, what have you-, I felt healthy.

And then I stopped. One evening I didn’t prepare my dinner. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be much easier that way. Well, what the heck, before I know it my dinners are now almost the same as my breakfasts. Two slices of bread with some sort of cheese in between. So much wanting to lead a healthy lifestyle.

Waking up early. Yeah, right. With all the excitement of living in a new place, a so much nicer place, I slept really well. I’d wake up early in the morning. It’d be two or three hours before I have to come to office, there’s so much time so little to do. It gives you the best morning mood. Sipping tea, watching morning news, running on the treadmill, taking long shower, swallowing each bite of sandwich slowly, checking whether the laundry has dried enough, and so on.

So one morning, I was a little tired after having the day before indulged myself a little too much, I woke up late. I’ve been waking up late ever since.

Not to mention those language lessons I’ve abandoned.

Those books I bought.

Unironed clothes.

Unmaintained websites.

Once you stop, it might take the world to get you restarted.

On the other hand, I have recently picked up my old routine; watching films. Since I started working a little over a year ago, my movies seen list had not been updated at rate it once had. This last month, though, I saw at least twenty titles; among them are the Bourne trilogy and three of the Death Wish films.

I have no complaint. There’s no problem. Everything’s good. And fine. 

NOTTT!

I’d just stare at my code editor for days. I have an endless list of excuses, but excuses are anything but. I cringe every time I count the lines of Javascript I have typed in this week. I’ve been working on just one form for weeks. I’m having a Coder’s Block. I die here.

On some mornings I was able to sit down and punch in all those keyboard keys to assemble sort of workable script. Those could’ve been the greatest times, but when the inevitables came knocking on your door, some computer not responding at the other end of the building, got to to spare a few minutes to smooth things out. Few minutes. Well, it’s more than enough to disrupt the train of alphabets badly wanting to make their way to the source codes. Suddenly they’re all over the place, and you had no clue how to glue them back together.

It’s a long project. It’s been projected as such since the beginning, and as such we’re allowed to interrupt it with many different things. Afterall, what’s a moment fixing some trivial matter compared to months-long assignment.

An article on the net says, the key to staying alive on a long project is not to start with motivation in the first place. Whatever.

I die here.

Or I don’t. I will just think of something. Do something. I should be back browsing the self-improvement section in the library.