20 years ago, there was the joy. There’d be fast-paced heartbeats, in an insomniac night of imagining tomorrow. The next day, there’d be presents and friends, and – even if perhaps there’d be no cake – a little, simple celebration. Fire of the number-shaped candle danced before the bright, wide eyes. The little soul inside was restless and couldn’t wait any longer. But he knows that he must wait for five more seconds, for there would be a mandatory prayer and wish-making before blowing it. Older folks used to say that it was one of the moments when gods were summoned, just like when a star fell from the sky. They said that gods would grant whatever childhood desires and dreams that went up with the faint smokes from the dying wicks. So the little soul complied and couldn’t care more. For him, today was more important than tomorrow.
But that day has long gone and died have the tomorrows.
The little soul in me is malnourished, awaiting demise. Sorrow lurks above, vulture-like, ready to consume whatever left from him when he transformed into just another part in the machinery of the capital and the state. There’s only this god-forsaken life in this god-forsaken city.
Now I see birthday as the day of lamentation. Grim is the day because life’s also grim. Another year has passed, and in that year countless of mistakes and bad decisions were made. But the more sinister part is that I can’t even know for sure of how would my life be if I took different steps or decisions.
Birthday is also a day of giving up. One year older means one less year of opportunities. One year older means one more year of wasted opportunities. It is painful, moreover knowing that some people managed to achieve things that I can only dream of achieving, at the same age, or even at younger age. That’s why it is the day to sort everything all over again, to see which ones that have failed or are nearing failure, and to toss them to garbage. Peter Pan was right when he refused to grow up. The loss of innocence in being adult turns dreams into targets. Targets turn into obligations, and obligations turn into oppressions – oppressions in the form of fearing failure. 20 years ago I still have this childhood freedom. Now I have to opt for stability again and again, which happens to bring along with itself mediocrity into my life.
All those above notwithstanding, I find the notion of celebration for the sake of feeling good as transitory, or worse, cosmetic happiness. Early Christians believe in happiness through humility and suffering, while Buddhists believe in happiness through detachment. In a sense, I share their views inasmuch I am no longer religious. In detachment, or in viewing the world through somber lens of misery I am able to see the reality, to demand for justice, to be critical of consensus. The maturity of thought is the only thing worth celebrating in being older. Hopefully, this year, I finally attain it, because I feel dumber and dumber in each year passed. This is what I will whisper to the candle, should I have one.
And I of course will whisper for she who loves a junkyard like me: a hope that may her love don’t taper into vanity.
May I become an old anchor, sunk in her ocean.
May I stay with her even in the worst of tides, and be drowned in her till the end of time.
Ah, what is birthday but a curse. Blessed are those don’t know how many years have passed, for they don’t have to mourn.
