It seems like something is going on with me. Like, a quiet kind of growth is building up inside me. No, not exactly growth... more like change (?).
I have been thinking a lot about Camus's The Stranger, to the point that I dreamed about myself trying to justify how much I love my mother more than anyone else. I was crying and wailing and controlling my raging anger unsuccessfully to the French people. I felt so trapped and weak, and when I tried to stand up, my legs gave up on me. In my head, I was cursing them for judging my actions without understanding my emotions that time I killed the Arab. They were all conformist, and they were against me not because I killed the Arab. My actions, my views, and myself just didn't belong in their value-constructed world because for some reason, I think strangely and contrastingly, and my ideas clash with their religiously instigated perceptions...
and they didn't ever tried to understand me at all.
The atmosphere today was somehow a subtle insinuation for a forthcoming revolution. On my way home, I saw my fellow school mates striking back at the government for the inappropriate and derogatory budget cut the Aquino administration would implement next year. When I was just about a ride away from our house, I witnessed the cries of the Jeepney drivers for a fair Jeepney fare. The situation was maddening and awakening at the same time. And, as my professor in English 12 would say, "A strike, as the word suggests, can only be successful if backed by the military." After all, peace was long before shattered into a perfectly masked imbalance between the bourgeoisie and the working class men.
I am slowly regretting that I believed in him. He is, I realized, a man of many faces.
