The Most Important Thing In Life

I happen to read a lot. A lot of my early idols were Ludlum (Bourne Trilogy and Scorpio Illusion which has been my favorite novel during my teenage years), Stephen King (never read his books but the movies rock, it’s on my to-read-next list now) and Nicholas Sparks (The Notebook and The Wedding which by the way literally moved me from being a boy to a man). These writers are the one whom I owe my life to; of course without them even knowing. That’s a lie; of course they do know. Whenever they write, they impart a portion of their soul to their piece, just like a painter to his paintings and a baker to his bread; they know that there’s someone who’ll be moved or affected by what they do. It’s a universal law; every action has an equal reaction.

What really influence me, not only in my everyday living but also in my writing perspective are Paulo Coelho and Mitch Albom. Both of them I have to thank for the thoughts and the style. They’re my heroes.

Like the Flowing River is a book by Paulo Coelho (I’m in the middle part now). A compilation of his thoughts and reflections. Every page I read is an epiphany to me. It’s like reading through life; a guide to living. I would definitely recommend it to everyone. It’s really your money’s worth.

I want to share with you what moved me most in what I’ve read so far. (Quoting Paulo Coelho) Possibly the most important thing in life: death.

Its hypocrisy if I tell you I didn’t fear death. I did actually, a long time ago. But ever since I’ve learned to put my faith to Him, I never did again fear it. And with that statement, I can look you straight in the eye. Not fearing it doesn’t mean you’re waiting for it nor to wish for it to come, but it’s a natural phenomenon that all of us would certainly end up there, and the journey after that would be another story.

Going back to my subject death, I do get a lot of questions from friends and strangers, sometimes even ending up in a debate, during times of a round of tequila. The most popular is the one I just told you about. About me not fearing it. I do get a lot of raised eyebrows there. I’m sorry for feeding your skepticism, yes I don’t fear it. Simply because I don’t see any reason to fear death knowing it’s just an arm’s reach away; an everyday companion (same as Paulo Coelho’s perspective) that I understand to be there, just waiting for its time to show me its face. I somehow grew to accept the bond between us, between this faceless friend and me.

Another topic that we all get excited about, having to share to everyone a somewhat profound side of you amidst your crap talk and hollow laughs is your very own funeral.

But before that, we rewind a little and talk about how do we want to die? Or what do we think our deaths would be like?

Some of us shares dreams of how they’re going to die. Some relate to us how they want to spend their last days with a list of people they want to come and see them for the very last time. Here’s a list of mine:

A bullet in my spine.

I had this nightmare once. I think I was twelve or so at that time. We were in our house at Cubao, this is where I spent most of my childhood days playing on our street with some other kids living in the block. We are being robbed by armed men in black ski masks (confusing because we don’t have that kind of wealth), their guns pointing at the tip of our noses. When suddenly Mum creates a distraction, she’s fighting off the robbers actually and I think the rest of the grown ups followed on cue, shouting at us to run and get help. My sister and I ran as fast as we could and just as we were out of our gate, we heard gunshots and somehow I knew I have no family to return to. So we ran faster, and by this time with tears in our eyes. Ever since we were kids, between Nikka and me, I was the faster one. So I was running a good two meters ahead of her, making sure I was not going fast enough to leave her, glancing every now and then at my back to see if she still can catch up. I had a quick view of the street in front of our house. Look straight up then looked back again and saw this man standing in front of the house aiming at us. We involuntarily ran faster giving it our best. Then suddenly I heard two consecutive gunshots. No, it was a number of gunshots. A couple of second’s interval from each other. A careful aim. I knew my sister was hit by the thud behind me. Then I felt it. A burning heat at my back; two painful holes I felt; vertically aligned. And everything’s gone slow motion by this time. It’s like hot drills making its way in the center of your back. I’m falling to the ground. Thud. I’m in my bed lying on my stomach, sweating profuriously.

Drowning

This has a couple of versions. I had multiple dreams of this. My earliest memory of this dream goes like this. I’m running up the high stairs of our house. And the flight just won’t end. Just when I’m about to think the stairs are endless, it came to an end, and an abrupt one to say. Because the flight suddenly ended and I have this running speed of hurrying upstairs, I never got to stop so I fell. And the long climb from the stairs is just a second long falling. I fall in a pool of water enclosed in the same room as the stairs were. I can see the first flight of the stairs again where I had began the climb. The water’s just about six feet deep but I wish it was deeper. And I sink myself to the clear water and drown myself rather than climb back the stairs. Another is in the open sea. I am sailing on open sea. I think I’m a sailor or something because of the tone I set in with the people I’m with. It’s a clear sunny day with no signs of rain clouds or any obstacle running our course. But I somehow fell off board clasping on a rope but quickly loses grip. And I drown on sea. I have a lot of versions of this but only vary with the stories but basically have the same plot. I die of drowning.

My Dream Death

I walk with my love along the seashore. We watch the sunset and we reminisce the life we had together. I am now more than eighty years old since I stopped counting when I turned eighty and I don’t know what my real age is. I believe it’s unnecessary to count. The sun sets and the dark resides as we continue to talk more and more about what we have or had. The wonders of time can bring us; our most unacceptable faces to the eyes of our loved one yet they continue to love us even more. We now know the root meaning of the word love. We are one and yet we are unique and different from each other. We talk about a lot of things. And we never take note of the time. We hardly ever did. We understand that time is not a continuous line that we can never go back to, a line that has a start and an end; it is a continuous form rather that has no start and no end. It is infinity. And as the darkest moment of the night approaches, we too talk about our darkest times and how we managed to overcome them together; our very own fairytale. We talk about how we ended up being there, at the beach, at the shoreline watching the stars. And with that we talk about what is to become of us when we temporarily detach of our bond; how the waiting would work. And we tell each other that it will only be us in each other’s heart. We just have to bear with the waiting. The waiting that no one knows how long. And as the morning sun nears to the horizon; as the Redding of the skies reach our sight; we part ways, leaving in each other’s heart the promise of waiting on the other side.

Zooming out of our imagination boxes, we go back to our sober moments, way past tequila rounds because by this time we sort of mellowed down from being a loud crowd to a sentimental one.

I come to think of this experience as something therapeutic. It relieves this kind of strain going on inside, something you might want to take out of your system but you’re too proud to admit so you use this sharing as an escape route. I think that this “living funeral” idea brings out some of your frustrated confrontations with people you’ve been willing to talk to but too proud to do so or whatever your excuses may be.

My Funeral

I want to be cremated. But I do want to have a wake. My ashes would be in a seven day celebration. I want to have my urn in black and gold. The first two days would be at my own house. A house that I had built on my own or with my love. There, my current friends would be celebrating, visiting me. The next two days would be at my Mum’s house in Cubao. A house that I grew up in. There, my relatives on my mother’s side would be celebrating, visiting me. The next two days would be at our house in Royal. A house where I had my best times exploring my young life. There, my relatives on my father’s side and school friends would be celebrating, visiting me. The last day would be spent on a place special to both my love and me, which at this very moment I have no idea. The last day would be the most important one. Here the closest and the dearest to me shall be present. One of my closest friend Joseph Joseph III would facilitate the whole day, knowing that my best friend Carlo would not be much of use in this kind of situation as he will surely be dramatic and all. It’s just like I’m there. They would have this activity that each of them would tell something they experienced with me, something good or bad, something memorable or not, doesn’t matter, as long as they experienced it with me. They would sing their heart’s out because that’s what I love to do. When sun down nears, I would want my Family to say something about me. Then my best friends as well. And lastly, I would want to hear the last words in memory of me from whom I’ve spent almost my whole life with, my love. And with the sun setting on the horizon, everyone would grab a handful of my ashes and throw it in the air uttering their goodbyes. (Of course, you’ll wash your hands afterwards). Then, everybody that I know could freely forget me, my face deteriorating in their memories, and they could get on with their lives. But my heart and soul would always be with them, forever.

After writing this piece, I can’t help thinking that it’s somehow written like a will.

My friends asked me once during one of our coffee talks when I brought my laptop with me and writing something while we enjoyed our coffee cups, what it is I’m writing for. I said I’m writing typescripts. They quickly responded, for what. I said, feeling somehow interrogated and measured at the same time, it’s like I feel I have this certain kind of obligation. When I started writing, I thought I write because I only want to, just a hobby or an outlet. As time progressed, and my enthusiasm for writing grew, I felt somehow obligated. It’s like I have this kind of obligation to impart to the world what’s life like, being someone ordinary. Regardless of what my life is, I feel like I must be able to share something to whoever reads my writings or sees my art works. The sensation of writing for me is something greater than this world could offer.