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What is the hardest thing you have ever had to do?

Hardness is perhaps best described as what causes that numbing feeling between one’s ears at the back of the head, from ramming into the plaster covered cement wall.  Or that lump in your throat you get when guilt decides to crawl around in you.  Or the forces in isometrics.

Other than that, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything particularly hard.

I don’t think anything we do, is actually “hard.”  (Though if you would have asked me last year during Ms. Belen’s class or in the middle of a Chem exam, I would probably beg to differ.  And then I’d beg for you to take me out of there and give me my sanity back, please.)  Rather though, I see things as either something I can get done quickly, or something time consuming.  Things are time consuming instead of hard, because it’s all a matter of how many times I have to do things over before I get them right.  Because I will get them right.

Eventually.

One of the most painful things to do is watch another human being.  Any one will do really; we’re all the same.  The same doll’s plastic head, the kind with the long lashes and the eyelids that roll back and forth and back and forth; with the same rejected product- defect stamp on each of them.  On us; because of our affinity for self-destruction.  It’s the worst though, to see an image that’s nearly a linoleum-block printing of your own.  Yet obviously still a child, not knowing how to be more.  I hate how we cause each others’ downfall as well, but maybe it’s just the idea of destroy-someone-else-before-I-destroy-myself.  Who knows.

However, even after we’ve disposed of the gunpowder, discarded the amber and diamonds, and left the scar culture behind, death (Or possibly karma.  I believe everything is influenced by it.)  and its little grey rain cloud come.  I don’t see death as something that’s hard to deal with, but rather something that could take a lot of time to get used to.  ‘Hard’ is a feeling that you end up losing in your joints; when you see a grown man completely fall apart right there before your eyes.  ‘Hard’ is the way your mother squeezes the hanky and her hand in yours, as you’re holding her upright, because she would just buckle and fall to the floor if you let her go.  ‘Hard’ is the way you’re listening to the airy syllables escaping your Grandma’s mouth, as salty tears intermingle with the holy water showered on the glass cover.  ‘Hard’ is the way the rush of words hit you; the way you don’t hear any of them.  ‘Hard’ is the way your best friend blows her nose on the tissue soaked with soggy tears while you’re at the memorial after school, held for your most favorite teacher ever.

‘Hard’ is the kind of pillow that you have placed over your face, so that no one can hear you crying, crying because you’ve lost two people you love.

Perhaps the place where the phrase “This is too hard!” is most whiningly exclaimed, with an air of exasperation, is in the room with the noisy plastic chairs; the one lacking the right number of left-handed desks; the one with the dark aquamarine carpet (no longer at the old campus with its stained red floors.)  The air-conditioned hallways of veritas et democratia.  And the blur of darkened eyes, clothed in generally black or white, but also in green, and the occasional Yumiko-esque person in yellow.  Most of the behemoth building is colored in green splendor.

As much as I complain about letters and numbers, and early mornings and late afternoons, I’m truly going to miss this place.  The way I’ve gotten accustomed to eating lunch (my bread sandwiches of course; in other words, three slices of bread) at half past ten, two tables and six chairs over by Délifrance.  The way I sit through traffic on EDSA, trying to get back to school, to go on stage.  The vendors walking up and down the road, selling the bubble-blowing Winnie the Pooh, the nearly wilted red roses, the over-priced bottles of water, the tied-up bundles of scrap cloth, the latest Balita.  The way that the sunset glows with surreal shades of magenta and Creamsicle orange from all the pollution in the air.  The salted eggs on the bibingka and the banana leaves wrapping the purple puto bumbong at the Misa de Gallo.  The deep, resounding voice of the taho man outside my Grandma’s house over in Quezon City.  The way I have to hold my tsinelas with my toes, so they won’t fall out of the tricycle as we bump along the dusty dirt road, driving by the intensely green fields of rice.

I’m really going to miss this place.  I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye.

Description
What is the hardest thing you have ever had to do?

Hardness is perhaps best described as what causes that numbing feeling between one’s ears at the back of the head, from ramming into the plaster covered cement wall.  Or that lump in your throat you get when guilt decides to crawl around in you.  Or the forces in isometrics.

Other than that, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything particularly hard.

I don’t think anything we do, is actually “hard.”  (Though if you would have asked me last year during Ms. Belen’s class or in the middle of a Chem exam, I would probably beg to differ.  And then I’d beg for you to take me out of there and give me my sanity back, please.)  Rather though, I see things as either something I can get done quickly, or something time consuming.  Things are time consuming instead of hard, because it’s all a matter of how many times I have to do things over before I get them right.  Because I will get them right.

Eventually.

One of the most painful things to do is watch another human being.  Any one will do really; we’re all the same.  The same doll’s plastic head, the kind with the long lashes and the eyelids that roll back and forth and back and forth; with the same rejected product- defect stamp on each of them.  On us; because of our affinity for self-destruction.  It’s the worst though, to see an image that’s nearly a linoleum-block printing of your own.  Yet obviously still a child, not knowing how to be more.  I hate how we cause each others’ downfall as well, but maybe it’s just the idea of destroy-someone-else-before-I-destroy-myself.  Who knows.

However, even after we’ve disposed of the gunpowder, discarded the amber and diamonds, and left the scar culture behind, death (Or possibly karma.  I believe everything is influenced by it.)  and its little grey rain cloud come.  I don’t see death as something that’s hard to deal with, but rather something that could take a lot of time to get used to.  ‘Hard’ is a feeling that you end up losing in your joints; when you see a grown man completely fall apart right there before your eyes.  ‘Hard’ is the way your mother squeezes the hanky and her hand in yours, as you’re holding her upright, because she would just buckle and fall to the floor if you let her go.  ‘Hard’ is the way you’re listening to the airy syllables escaping your Grandma’s mouth, as salty tears intermingle with the holy water showered on the glass cover.  ‘Hard’ is the way the rush of words hit you; the way you don’t hear any of them.  ‘Hard’ is the way your best friend blows her nose on the tissue soaked with soggy tears while you’re at the memorial after school, held for your most favorite teacher ever.

‘Hard’ is the kind of pillow that you have placed over your face, so that no one can hear you crying, crying because you’ve lost two people you love.

Perhaps the place where the phrase “This is too hard!” is most whiningly exclaimed, with an air of exasperation, is in the room with the noisy plastic chairs; the one lacking the right number of left-handed desks; the one with the dark aquamarine carpet (no longer at the old campus with its stained red floors.)  The air-conditioned hallways of veritas et democratia.  And the blur of darkened eyes, clothed in generally black or white, but also in green, and the occasional Yumiko-esque person in yellow.  Most of the behemoth building is colored in green splendor.

As much as I complain about letters and numbers, and early mornings and late afternoons, I’m truly going to miss this place.  The way I’ve gotten accustomed to eating lunch (my bread sandwiches of course; in other words, three slices of bread) at half past ten, two tables and six chairs over by Délifrance.  The way I sit through traffic on EDSA, trying to get back to school, to go on stage.  The vendors walking up and down the road, selling the bubble-blowing Winnie the Pooh, the nearly wilted red roses, the over-priced bottles of water, the tied-up bundles of scrap cloth, the latest Balita.  The way that the sunset glows with surreal shades of magenta and Creamsicle orange from all the pollution in the air.  The salted eggs on the bibingka and the banana leaves wrapping the purple puto bumbong at the Misa de Gallo.  The deep, resounding voice of the taho man outside my Grandma’s house over in Quezon City.  The way I have to hold my tsinelas with my toes, so they won’t fall out of the tricycle as we bump along the dusty dirt road, driving by the intensely green fields of rice.

I’m really going to miss this place.  I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye.