To lose is to not gain

As the salty excretions from my eyes dry; and as steamy water wash my lifeless body, I still stand. Though not as firm as before, but I still am holding on.

Forgive me for being empty, cold and bitter. Please, just let me be for a while. For emptiness gives me more room to contain what the future might throw at me.

It was my last shot. I tattooed that to my psyche. I made a landmark of it in what little space my brain has. But when they gave out the freaking sheets of facts, I became a defenseless dog under the butcher's knife. It was anything out of the ordinary.
The moment that I needed to compile everything I know of news writing was the time when I gave up and realized how news writing wasn't really for me. Yes, it was too late. And I must suffer its consequences. I walked out of that dark room feeling the universe on my shoulders. The self-proclaimed failure shall finally be known.
It was sort of a safe haven; free from harms but vulnerable to just being static. It was safe. Just plain safe.

During the awarding ceremonies, I was not feeling anything anymore. My heart beat like it never have before. 7th..6th.......1st... No, my name wasn't announced. My heart stopped. I didn't want it to come back to the beating norm but it must, like how a bird must tweet.

I don't know how I came to this but I kept on channeling my emotion during RSPC 2005. My writing was raw, simple and basic. And that probably was what made it shine. Knowing too much and knowing too little would both mean confusion. It was a milestone in my life, a moment that I would never let my memory dispose of.  Silver. Bagging silver amidst a hundred brilliant minds. Silver. And a year after, I bagged what I think of is a mini version of a lifetime achievement award: being Outstanding Young Journalist, making me an NSPC delegate twice. A normally once in a lifetime experience for many..)except if you're Martha Ilagan, The Legend)..came to me twice. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all God intended to.

But still, I cannot help but to be disappointed. I wanted to make Ma'am Veran proud. I wanted her to feel that she has prepared us enough to face the challenges and the whatnot. Of course, she gave it her all and more.
She doesn't need an award to prove that she is an outstanding adviser. She doesn't. I guess, the successful writers that she has produced are her living plaques and medals, outshining any physical merit or commendation.

And about the school paper where we poured everything into and we only got one award...I don't exactly know how that happened. During the awarding for school papers, I walked out of the venue and just wanted to be with myself. I just couldn't handle seeing everyone sad. I felt that we were being stepped on when all we did was try to rise above other's standards. And The Heartbeat was my ship; I was its captain. And if people are gonna tell me that my ship was ugly then I'd have to throw my anchor at them, then. Okay, kidding. 

I broke down because it dawned on me-my failure, my shortcomings. Every little flaw that you can identify about my editorship surfaced. It was slowly killing me. It partially did. I partially died. I was just a breathing thing, a useless matter. A useless matter excreting salty, excruciating tears.