I admit it. There is something nice about being called kuya. Maybe it’s the authorative respect thing that comes along with it. As the oldest of seven children I do feel a sense of duty and obligation to lead, protect, and provide for my siblings. Which is strange since I hardly know most of them. It’s a birth right and burden I suppose.
Perhaps it’s the notion of belonging to a clan of some sort — a wolf pack. I now have identity within the family tree. I know where I fit and understand what it means to be a kuya.
Perhaps still.. being granted this Filipino title has reconnected me back to my roots. While my citizenship identifies me as an American citizen (of which I proudly value the priviledge) where I grew wings and took flight my roots reach firmly and deeply into Filipino heritage. It is a heritage which I know very little of and admitedly was not to fond of. Nevertheless I can’t deny where I came from. I am Filipino after all and as such I also bear the identity of kuya and all that accompanies it. It’s still something to get used to and I’m certain it’ll get to a point where it’ll be as natural as my American siblings calling me big brother.
My blog would flourish if two things were ever to happen.
- If could blog right on the spot. Right at those odd windows of inspiration that reveal themselves throughout the day.
- If I could capture these thoughts without typing. If instead I could simply speak them in the natural fluidity of which they are born.
I estimate I would blog 4-5 times a day.. if not more. Maybe with the new phone next week I can at least accomplish the first item.
I started classes again. Statistics and Economics — both of which I’ve braced myself for three, painful hours of lecture twice a week, followed by countless hours at the UNF library. Surprisingly, and pleasantly, both professors have committed to making something ordinary into something extraordinary. And with like mindedness such is only possible when intentions are fueled by passion. I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy these classes much more than I anticipated.
Lately I’ve noticed that few things ever excite me anymore. It’s as though I’ve grown numb to life. I carry on day to day just doing what’s required of me, crossing things off the to-do list, eating, then sleeping. Rinse and repeat.
On my drives to and from work, I confess I’ve fantasized about getting into an all out brawl with some random stranger. Beating each other to a pulp, smelling the iron rich blood from a broken nose, feeling the the blisters on my knuckles, grabbing my sides from a broken rib. I relive Fight Club in my own mind during those 23 minutes of commute.
Sadistic? Perhaps. But I know that’s not my thrill. As I lay here thinking about it I can’t help but to wonder why would I ever want to do that? It sounds irrational and downright stupid. The answer is profoundly simple: I just want to feel alive again — and just for a short while feel less civilized and to be more primal.
Today I was asked to take a few photos of this car. It will raffled off to benefit the Wounded Warriors effort.
