Admittedly, she has good reason to be concerned. I just got home from yesterday’s work. I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours, most of which are spent in front of a computer. Thus, my mother’s puzzlement on why I want to subject myself to more time in front of another one when I get home. But I don’t have the ability (ok, the patience) to point out the difference between writing a functional spec and writing a blog entry.
Two weeks it’s been like this. Monday blurs into Tuesday; Tuesday into Wednesday, etc. Each day’s end blurs into lifeless cab rides home with faceless drivers whom I mechanically direct with, “Kanan po tayo sa may stoplight” until I reach home where one of the members of our household with undisturbed circadian rhythm sleepily opens the front door to let in the transient of the house.
I’m like a ghost that drifts in and out of their everyday lives. Although, my mother tries to talk to me over breakfast, the only time she gets to spend time with me. In that span of couple of minutes while I feed on sunny side ups, she tries to tell me as much as she can about what has been happening. About anything, really – how our askal is being morose lately, the replaced faucet in the sink, our neighbor’s baby daughter, news of price hikes, her recent followed teleseryes, and whether Angel Locsin is worth all the media hype.
I wonder if she has a checklist somewhere of all the things she wants to talk to me about. There are times when she takes this serious tone and asks me about what my future plans are, about things that involve life-changing decisions. My sarcasm wants to kick in and just say that my goal is, although very short-term, is to have at least eight hours of sleep. Of course I don’t say that. I never want to cross my mother when she’s… Hmm, I never want to cross my mother. Period. I always give a noncommittal nod and assure her we’ll talk more lengthily when I’m sleep sober.
At work, I try to be a good scout. You don’t feel tired when the rest of your teammates who works harder and longer than you do continuously do what they have to do. You just have to do whatever you can and keep up.
But sometimes it catches up with you, that unnamed feeling that makes you yearn to be somewhere else and do some other thing. Dozens of occasions I promised myself that I’ll take a walk outside after I finish something. Just this, just after this, I swear I’ll go out for a walk. But early evening comes, and I end up being reprimanded by Liz, “Ba’t di ka pa umoorder ng OT dinner?!” She has that thing about me dining alone, no matter how I assure her I’d be ok. Although I appreciate it that someone tries to look out for me during these very long hours of work.
In the wee hours while waiting for raised issues, I try to write. Although I’m not sure how wise it is that I should admit that here. Misuse of company resources and all that. Although in my defense, I never get to write anything long and substantial. Once I started something which I tentatively named “Ink-stained Pinkie”. I got it after noticing that when I write with a pen, I always manage to smear some ink in my pinkie. The material never got finished and it’s just taking a resurrection here as a blog title. Sometimes I read ebooks in my workstation. Currently, it’s Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time”. Hmm, I don’t know how that would be any less a misuse of resources.
My mother walked in and in her own way, was very persuasive in making me unceremoniously cut this entry. I suppose posting this is as good enough as any, after a long hiatus. You’ll forgive the over-all blandness. After all, you can’t expect much from a swollen-eyed zombie, recently reprimanded by her own mother for being so stubborn.
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I wrote this early last week but only got the chance to post it now. Internet withdrawal symptoms.
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