Water, Blood.

How do you love someone unconditionally?

The distance, the unspoken words, the limited time that we have together, virtually, they're tearing me apart. I know that this will all be over in a month's time. That we have known each other for over a year before all of this started.  That we know our differences. But the few minutes we have, the words of exchange, the miles between us, they amplify these differences that I have dismissed ever since we've been together. It's all in my head.

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On the another note, I just need to put this in writing in case I forget:

After the next holidays, I'm never coming home.

A hundred and sixteen years.

It's Independence Day here but I am not in any mood to celebrate with what my country has been doing with its freedom for 116 years. Maybe its because of my activist of a father, or the liberal university that I'm still in. I grew up with my father's own tales of college life under the Martial Law (/fashion/ tip: look up Imelda's sea of the shoes). Occasionally, he'll bring me to rallies, to meeting places and headquarters. Still, I remained to be hopeful about the government and everything around me, just as any kid would do. But just as kids would do, I eventually stopped believing in tooth fairies, and prince charmings, and Santa Claus.

Furthermore, beliefs continue crashing down when I entered college. The campus is infamous for turning believers to critical thinkers - religion, sexuality, politics. It's the university that most parents frown upon; the university that my mother actually warned me about. On my first semester, I took a class on being Filipino but we ended up questioning what it means. The following year, a class on art turned out to be a study on the society. History classes revealed the biases that my basic education text books had. Heroes turned into proud, selfish bigots. Dreams and shouts of long ago remained as they were: dreams, shouts of long ago. Despite it all, there are reasons to remain hopeful.

I've always wondered why my father quit school and a scholarship in a prestigious university. In our visit to his university one day, he repeated his answer to that same question asked by the college dean forty years ago, "I can't stay inside when my people out there needs me most".

This is not a fashion blog.

When I went home last April, I brought home everything I accumulated in the four years I stayed in campus, save for containers, shelves and unopened hygiene products stored in a friend's place. That's two large suitcases, one suitcase-sized paper bag and one large box. If ever I do come to the Metro next month, I have to carry back 20 to 30 kg worth of clothes and shoes so that I could bring another set of equal weight when classes start; a total of around 40 to 60 kg for the next five months.

Coming up with essential wardrobe pieces is hard if you're stuck with only two seasons for the whole year, rainy days and summer heat. Over here, people dress to ease the heat, with a jacket and umbrella in case of unpredictable rain. Layering isn't an option; luckily, I have air-conditioned classrooms for being a computer science kid. So far, I have a trench pea coat, a black blazer, a sweater and the college hoodie in my suitcase. Now that I think about it, I should start checking out London blogs on how to dress for rainy days.

I see new people reading my image-less and fashion-less blog, hi!

Proposals and propositions.

This afternoon, my mother proposed that I come with her to the Metro next month. Given the 30-kg limit in the airlines, I couldn't bring at least one semester worth of clothes and shoes in just one flight. So I have get two trips to bring my things back to the campus.

I'm both excited and scared at the same time. I'm in my seventh week of bumming around and not a single word has spoken to my family about him. It might be an awfully long time to wait as I met his parents just three hours after we're officially together, but it didn't feel like the right time on the first week and the weeks that followed. I was too young to remember the last time that one of my sisters brought and introduced someone to the family. It's nerve-wracking.

Three weeks from now, I'll see him again. In around two week, I'll see my parents' faces after they hear what I'm about two say.

Crayolas and citruses.

I used the box of colored pencils my sister bought me for the first time. It's a basic set, with only 12 colors. I've been "designing", creating nonetheless acceptable posters and images, digitally for the past seven years. Prior to that, I sucked at drawing. I still do. 'Suck' may be too harsh, perhaps I was average? I wasn't outstanding; nobody ever complimented any of my work in Art class. At the same time I was exploring Photoshop, I got into photography with my tiny digital camera.

All my cameras are dead now, except for the film one I bought two years ago. Digital design has now become work. I promise to be productive for the next two months, creatively. I have websites to develop for two of my organizations. I also have to update my "clients" for the two projects I signed up for a month ago. I need to relax.

I'm thinking of a good art to color next.

Three hundred and sixty-three miles.

Last night on the drive home, I just learned that my mother and her sisters lived in a boarding house for college. "Oh, is our house that far?", I remarked sarcastically.

We live in a small town away just outside the city - a 30-minute drive from the nearest city district, 45 minutes by public transportation. The street where my mother used to stay was the very same street where my father grew up. There were fewer cars back then. After lunch on Sundays, my father would wait hours for jeepneys going to our town at the bakery. My father clearly recalled his first visit, the friend he gladly ran into and whom he asked for directions. He fondly reminisced how he caught my mother climbing up a tree to pick fruits in one of his visits after.

How I wish to be miles away, under the covers with him.

Something about nothing.

Nothing interesting happened inside my home during the summer. What do you write about the feverish temperature and the dry breeze? Too much time is spent on the benches in the living room, or on the cold, tiled floor, for a change. 24/7 the fan is turning, trying to make wind out of nothing.

I'm craving pizza from my favorite student-friendly restaurant. I'm missing those cold, green matcha drinks. There are times that I just wish to be back inside the campus, drinking yogurt fruit drinks with friends. Some nights, yogurt turns to alcohol. Sometimes I wish to be on the sidewalk of the busy highway, slowly taking the long distance with someone just to stretch the time. I miss him.

But this will be the last summer of my life, the last summer before I finally get my degree. I'm determined to enjoy it until I ultimately grow tired of it.