illusions of grandeur

In my youth, I sought solace in my writing. It's how I ask questions. And somehow, without finding any answers, writing brings me closure; the act is enough. Because the world is much too strange a place to leave unthought of, and I question it all the time.

In the same way, I question myself all the time. But the difference now is I've found an answer.

I ask why I work so hard? Why do I stoop so low for other people? Why am I so driven in entrusted things, in requests, in instructions, in commands, propelled forward by an arrangement of friends, family and frequented fellows? And yet when it comes to personal pursuits, the hearth of my heart is chilled, the fire is stifled, and I find myself too tired to venture out the door, why?

I remember, again in my youth, that my mother would always whisper to me, "You can do anything, achieve anything." On the last night before the declamation competition, in between my sobbing and ineffective attempts to remember Carlos P. Romulo's lines, my mom would tell me I could do anything if I put my mind to it. When I got the letter of acceptance from the premier college I hoped for, and I told her. She would smile a quaint smile, and, as if I questioned the thought, answer me, "You can do anything, just work hard."

And her words over the years have settled upon my body, and seeped into soul. It is this ever-present encouragement that rings in my ears, that flares through my synapses, that pulls taught the very sinew of my muscles.

It is she that empowers me: Pride. I carry within me a surging pride in my capability, in the scope of my responsibility, in my self. I believe that I'll always pull-through somehow. But beyond belief, I realize, it is she who defines most of my motives.

For one, I am excessively humble. This is only because I find it demeaning to speak of my own accomplishments when success itself has a voice--a voice that carries. So I am intentionally humble, because I am consciously proud.

For another, I am a perfectionist. Since, to me, my work, my own creation wrought with my own hands, is an extension of who I am; it is my signature, and therefore, cannot and must not be imperfect. I've become a conscientious employee, in effect, and it has been a fruitful affliction.

I also forgive easily and rarely lose my temper. Through the lenses of my pride, I see all mistakes as flaws of character. And being of greater character, it is only right for me to be benevolent and kind. To lend out a hand, instead of using the back of my hand.

It is also the reason for my inability to say no. Since I can do anything, I am unlimited. And though this does leave a tendency for abuse and I am left exhausted, I always feel a sense of accomplishment for having fulfilled the request, and earn an ever greater respect for my own inhuman tenacity.

The last result of my pride is my brutal honesty. The manner I speak of my everyday life, the way I keep racy wallpapers on my phone, the method of how I parade my mistakes without hesitation, is mostly because I am proud to do them. I am true because I am never ashamed.

And it is this frankness that allows me to write so forcefully, I think, and now allows me to disarm her. She, my pride, wears many masks: kindness, patience, diligence, compassion, strength. And throughout my life, she's led me far and yet I've never seen her face. I see her now, and my ever-wondering has been replaced with sheer wonderment.