Gaming 101

I'm quite the professional when it comes to collecting shelfware: software (in my case, video games) that only get played for the first three hours then left on the shelf to gather dust.

Right now, I have 25 Xbox titles, only four of which I have been able to finish till the end: Splinter Cell: Conviction, Halo: Reach, and the Left 4 Dead duo.

Yeah, I really couldn't play this character much.

Saying that I'm a casual gamer would be the understatement of the century. Don't get me wrong, I got all giddy and hopped all over the place when Halo 4 was released, I drooled over the gameplay of Final Fantasy XIII, but I couldn't seem to get myself to finish an entire game within a week, which is the norm... I think.

Talk about taking slacking off to a whole new level. If there's a game I always play, it would be the multiplayer games of Left 4 Dead 2, mainly because it always changes with the dumbness level of your coplayers, and because you get to shoot things that don't shoot back.

Now I'm in the penultimate mission for Halo 4, and I'm having a rough time with it. This is usually the time when I put it in the shelf to gather dust. But then again, it's fucking Halo 4, the first in the Reclaimer trilogy. I should at least finish it on Normal difficulty.

So when my buddies ask me what video game I like best, I typically reply with nothing, and when asked which one I'm good at, I reply, "Uhm... Spy? At uhm... Team Fortress 2?" Yeah, because the Spy's only job in the whole game is to hide until he can backstab someone.

Frex, I suck at video games. Hopefully it would come off with more practice.

I put on my robe and wizard hat.

The megaphone

Sometimes when I write a post in this blog, it feels as if I'm talking to no one. That I'm just a small squeak amongst the thundering voices around me.

It's red. I like red.

Sometimes I miss the activity. The buzz of comments around my posts, the countless eyes that read my thoughts and my cryptic messages. I was quite the popular kid when I was in elementary, so I took this for granted. Because everyone had their eyes on me. Because in the same school where I studied, my mom was a teacher. Because I was favored, studied, liked, investigated. Every move I make is observed.

The attention was all mine.

And now, here I am, writing to a blog that anyone barely notices. Like in the real world, my voice is a dot in the myriad dots that punctuate the internet. A small contributor to the vast knowledge of society, the massive archive of human thoughs and feelings, all within the bits and bytes of the digital world.

But maybe then I liked the solace. Maybe, I liked how only I can read my blogs, that it just serves as a personal archive of my own thoughts, unblemished by the pressure of pleasing my audience everytime I click Publish. That in my own little space on the internet, I could be me.

Then I shrug all these thoughts, and think, Whether my blog is popular or not, I still have trouble expressing my feelings plain and bare on the internet, anyway. That I still hide my thoughts in cryptic forms, that I still take pleasure in bewildering my readers so as for them not to have an actual glimpse of what I'm talking about.

Cucumbers.

Good luck finding the meaning behind that. In the end, it doesn't matter how popular or unpopular I am, it's whether or not I trust anyone with my thoughts that matter.

Pizza. 

Unspoken words and inducted thoughts

Many have I written blogposts that touch a specific topic so personal I feel that writing them is an invasion of my personal space. If my drafts folder ever get published, you'd view me as a different person.

I mean, this blog *is* meant to be personal, it's just that some things I want to talk about are not really the stuff you would like to say to a random stranger across the street. Just think of it this way: would you just go up to a random passerby and interject, "I'm going commando today!"? I don't think so.

But then, I'm not implying that my personal, most private thoughts consist of my preference for wearing underwear, or lack thereof, but it just goes to show that I need someone to tell stuff to, without prejudice or any other judgment. A confidant. A breathing journal. And probably, a friend.

I have written posts about trust and love and freedom and independence, but they never see the light of day. Probably I was playing the role of the cryptic connoisseur a bit too much, probably my real intentions are muddled up in a sea of confusing lexicon that nobody would understand. But then again, nobody *would* understand. I'm a Scorpio, the most secretive, most misunderstood sign of the zodiac.

I was once punished for my own honesty. Writing my thoughts down led me into serious trouble, something that reminded me of pain and crying and all that desperation. Then I vowed never to write my emotions again: that never would I ever put my feelings down on a piece of paper where everyone could read it. I must lock up all my feelings in my mind, compose long blog posts in the recesses of my consciousness, where only I could read.

I have stories I dare not tell anyone. Not publicly, at least. I think it's justified for me to think that everybody has one: that one fact about them that they don't want just about anyone to know. Like a vegetarian who adores bacon, or a football player who longs for the loving comfort of a gentle woman. Unlike others, though, I don't have anyone to share it with. But probably I didn't need one anyway.

If only opening the lock was this easy.

But maybe I *do* have someone, I just don't trust them enough. Probably, somewhere out there, one of the people I know are having the exact same thoughts as I do, just waiting for someone like me to trust them with all of their spirit. An unbreakable friendship. Where you tell someone that one thing that will destroy you and trust them not to use it against you.

I don't think I'm even making a persuasive blogpost here. I just wanted to write what I feel about things, which is not my forte, because coming from a scientific background, I always write something with a conclusion. Not all this sappy boo-hooing shit you're reading right now. Is it ever so wrong for me not to just tell anyone how my day went and not go delving into waist-deep philosophical ramblings about life? Probably not.

I guess being cryptic has its disadvantages after all. By hiding my emotions, my real intentions, in the comforting illusion of deception, I shut myself out to the world. Then I go like this, complaining how no one understands me. It's probably my fault then, being so shut out to the people who want to reach out their hands to me, to offer their listening ear to my stories, because maybe, just maybe, one of the people I know sees me as an infinitely interesting person, one whose stories never get stale.

Something nags at me and tells me I might be right. Maybe it's time to break the lock. It might be weird, but I'll try. At least if this blog doesn't work, I hope I have someone to tell it to. I don't say "find" someone because I may have found him/her and not just realized it, but still.

Here's to hopefully getting my trust in the world back again.

Crisp letters on yellow pages

Books. People never really stop loving books. Fifty-first century. By now you've got holovids, direct-to-brain downloads, fiction mist. But you need the smell. The smell of books, Donna. Deep breath! 

That's from a TV show I watch about a time traveller (Hint: he's a Doctor). He was commenting on the persistence of books even in a very advanced civilization like the 51st century. And indeed, it rings true even until today. Nothing better represents the repertoire of the human experience as much as black ink sharply embossed onto white paper.

I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and I should say, it was a very excellent read. The ending left on a very bittersweet note, with me undecided as to be happy or sad for the character. You see, the protagonist of the novel, 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen, is being contested with the love of two men, each of who has a significant impact in her life.

In the end, he has to choose one. And she did. But my point here is not to glorify the work of the author but to... marvel on how the written word can as easily move a person into feeling such emotions, how black ink sharply embossed onto gritty paper can evoke sympathy or hate or love or happiness.

In this age of increasingly technological advances, people getting less and less attention spans are slowly deviating from the methodical patience, the gradual build-up of a book's plot. Within its pages, we establish a link with the characters, we see what they see, and feel what they feel.

Through the written word, we do not just simply gloss our eyes over black ink sharply embossed onto crisp paper, but we become part of the story, we see their lives unfold; their lives exist in our hands as we turn the pages and learn more about them.

It's this... deep connection that we have with a book's characters that cannot be done in any other form of media. While music is medicine for the soul and movies are an escape from reality, books are the doorways to another world. Whether it be a post-apocalyptic Earth governed by a Capitol or a Time Lord who merrily skips all throughout time and space, there's no adventure more exciting than reading from black ink sharply embossed in smooth paper.

We read, then we sympathize with the characters. Then we begin to read more, as our sense of adventure is piqued, until we come to a single book that just strikes us the most. We then read it over and over, trying to absorb every little detail in this one little book that is our all-time favorite. This book which we grew fond of shapes our perception of life in some way. We realize that their stories persist and resonate in the real world, and the black ink sharply embossed onto yellow paper becomes our life's beacon.

I close Mockingjay with a faint smile on my face, and grab the next book on my shelf. Another adventure awaits, as I flip through the first chapter.