On with the Chase

Friday marked the beginning of my chase. Because I figured that if I can’t have money, I could at least have my dreams—those that I can afford.

It sure wasn’t easy chasing after my supposed dream. If last Saturday night I tried squeezing myself inside the forlorn MRT, I would certainly burst into tears out of exhaustion and frustration.

It all started when I attended a meeting that seemed to be a grand exodus which I have met halfway where everyone knew everyone and everything, and I? I was at a loss. But I can certainly use a challenge so catching up I must do.

I was hoping to steal a few hours of sleep after the meeting for my scheduled all-nighter which I didn’t mind at all. To tell the truth, I was looking forward to it the whole week. To see how the Job Market pull-out is made and become part of its being. Even if my mom seemed to object. And my brother, skeptical.

But we all know how traffic is in our country so, I didn’t have time to sleep, and I ended up running late for my night gig. Which was embarrassing because who gets late at night? You can’t tell your boss, “tinaghali po ako ng gising!” (or can you?) Plus, I was afraid I’d get fired even before I was formally hired. You see, I think in extremes.

And so, even if I hate riding the MRT which deprives me of my precious space—I consider my personal bubble sacred—I braved it. I descended the stairs as quickly as I could and in my rush, I stepped on the skirt of the nun walking in front of me. Good thing I didn’t blurt out cuss words. Instead I said sorry. Even better, her skirt did not rip off or fall down to the floor. If that were the case, lighting would probably strike me.

So I did my job. I was lucky the work was not toxic that night. My baptism of fire wasn’t all a shock.

Then it was time to sleep. Sleep where? I was expecting I’d be losing consciousness seated while my arms work as my head’s cushion. (If I assumed that position, my fingers would be dead in the morning due to an obstruction in my blood circulation.) But behold! There was a white leather couch waiting for me upstairs, in the anteroom that leads to a clinic. It was not long enough to accommodate my height but I’d take what I can get.

A few tossing and turning later, everything faded to black—or white, depending on my dream.

The moment I regained consciousness, the sun was up and there were already people inside the clinic. It was embarrassing! I tiptoed out of the anteroom, walked downstairs and got ready for another eight hours of work. By “got ready” I mean, comb my hair, brush my teeth, eat my instant “healthy” cereal breakfast, wipe my eyeglasses.

Eight hours crawled by and I was close to “wasted.” The Bicol Express and rice I bought at the turu-turo nearby (with fingers crossed—sana OK pa ang hepa shots ko, stomach be strong!) for lunch—the sole decent meal I had for the day—had worn out. I hadn’t taken a bath for 26 hours but I don’t believe I stink. Thanks to the air-conditioning, I didn’t! Being that I took a bus instead of the MRT, I was 2 hours away from home—traffic is that horrible! I lacked quality sleep. And a tiny voice was telling me that devoting around 26 hours of my life for this cause and be paid for merely 14 hours is not encouraging at all. For a moment I thought I’d start looking for a printer who’d stamp on my shirt, “starving dreamer.”

But it is too early to complain. Things can’t go worse. How bad can running for one’s life's goal be?

My “bigger picture” will be my inspiration.

And the chase continues.