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The Slow Life

I just came back from Batangas a few hours ago. My folks and I went to spend some time with some of my extended family on my mom’s side, most of whom we only see on Christmas, New Years, and random days scattered all throughout the year. I mostly ate, slept, walked Noah, tried to draw, and read, but there’s something about removing yourself from the city that makes you appreciate the slow life.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s still true: I get caught up with life sometimes. I turn it into an unnecessary, never-ending chase, in the hopes of “catching up” with my peers. I’d like to be the kind of person that doesn’t care about our individual places in life, but I can’t help it when technology makes it so easy for me to compare. I’m more focused on what I get—a flicker of recognition, a pat on the back—instead of what I make and what I mean behind what I make. And this admission kills me so much, because I hate that it’s what’s been happening and I hate that it’s true! I think I kind of box myself into a corner of idleness because of fear, pressure, insecurity—whatever—and consequently, somewhat deliberately, waste away and gorge on garbage instead of doing worthwhile things… but who knows if even that is an excuse for my ongoing transformation into a sad and useless lump?

There’s something about removing yourself from all of the noise of the city that lets you really be quiet and still. And even though it’s hard to focus on slowing down and paying attention, you manage to do it. There are a lot of things I’d like to do in this life, and I think that the first step is probably to get rid of seemingly inane obstacles that get in the way of those things, like mindless Googling or going on forums with no real purpose than to burn time. Like an idiot.

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Who even knows why I want to do certain things? There are times when I kind of just want to stop needing to do “important” things and carry on being a nobody until I die. But what a waste of a life that would be. I could be and am capable of doing something meaningful, regardless of what “meaningful” means, or why I want what I do to mean something. I think I get scared when I make a checklist of life achievements—it makes them real, and it makes the possible failure real.

I suppose that’s why I like slow days with bad cell reception, and being close to the sea with a dog to look after. It’s so quiet that you hear yourself think and you can re-evaluate, and you can decide that the chase to catch up is not as important as a stride that may be slow, but is meaningful, deliberate, and worth enduring. Especially for an impatient person like me.

And to end this weird post full of a frillion tiny tangents, a photo of my messy-faced Noah, who is, to us, the cutest beach-dirty dog that ever lived: