What the hell?
It follows that I waved his rattle toys before his face, the jingling sounds increasing in tempo the longer he cried. It didn't work. I made faces and tried to talk to him, "Sinong pogi? Si Ethan!" It didn't work, either. Not knowing what else to do, I turned on the music and sang to him in Japanese.
It actually worked. He went silent and just stared at me. I spent about half an hour that way, peering at Ethan, singing, "Akachan dango wa itsumo shiawase no naka de."* (The baby dumpling is always in the midst of happiness.)
The whole activity got me thinking. The house was quiet besides my singing voice and Ethan's slight whimpering, so I could almost really hear my thoughts. Calm, silent... what now?
I'd always liked imagining the future. I would picture scenes that I'd love to see happen. I would play quirky conversations in my head, as if rehearsing them. I would make plans, feeling like I could do anything, if I so willed.
But I never thought of things graver or farther reaching than that. I never took the time to ponder my beliefs, my dreams even -- are they really mine?
So when faced with the decision of whether or not to quit being a campus journalist, I was quite baffled. In the first place, I applied for the publication thinking that it's the most natural thing for me to do -- having been an avid writer in high school. I didn't want to leave that part of me -- the bright-eyed, inquisitive journalist -- behind, so I rashly dove in.
Then it spiraled out of control.
My grades were fine, actually, but I was constantly nagged by the thought that I could have done better. My articles were alright, but they took huge effort to finish, requiring me to forgo my introvert tendencies. My friendships were strained; I was always too stressed and surly to talk. I am was a mess.
It scared me. What if that kind of writing turned me into a person I don't know? What if it made me realize I'm not for engineering school? What if it forces me to choose?
It was too much, too soon, and I suddenly felt so young to be confronted with such choices.
Ethan began to cry again, and I hastened to shush him. I picked him up, grateful for the distraction from more disturbing thoughts.
"Hey, little cousin. Mukhang pareho ata tayo ng music. Magkakasundo tayo nyan," I told him, smiling. He stopped crying.
I rocked him for a bit, and soon he was asleep. I couldn't help feeling a pang of envy. The future, after all, was for him only his mother's arrival -- milk and bedtime (again).
*Lyrics from Dango Daikazoku, an ending from Clannad.
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