Last night was ABBA's concert in PICC.
Last night was what I promised my quasi-best friend palakpak that I would go with her, not because she wanted me to, but because I loved ABBA. And because I know that this may be my last chance of seeing them in person. I know that.
Last night, after weeks of anticipating and planning to buy the tickets, I simply said no.
Last night, after saying no, I didn't even feel a slight sensation of regret nor anything at all. The feeling should have been like, someone who has bought a Twilight movie premiere tickets on a one-night-only show in the Philippines and on the night of the premiere slept and miss the screening. But I didn't. It should've been but I didn't feel it.
Last night, I didn't know what happened. I didn't know what happened last night.
No, not just last night. I practically don't remember anything that happened to me in the past two years.
Of course that's exaggeration. I still remember some. Snippets in Palakpak's term. But going back at this point, I am unable to find anything to look back for. Empty and blurry. Except for some escape to Baguio and Zambales and some Tagaytay picnics on weekends, I can't recall anything at all.
Back then, I was the last person to forget good times and memories—because I am composed of 10% water and 90% drama. I just can't simply forget it.
When I told myself, that I had to take drama lightly in the industry where I am right now, I didn't mean to feel nothing at all. I didn't mean emotionally paralize me.
But I did. And I am currently and consistently doing it.
What bothers me is if and when Meryl Streep visits the Philippines, and the same passivity would struck me. Gawd. That must be awful.