Choices.
One famous person said that there is a point at which everything becomes simple and there is no longer any question of choice, because all you have staked will be lost if you look back. Life’s point of no return.
I don’t believe him.
***
A few months ago, the foreign students in school, including me, attended a pot luck in school with our foster parents here in Singapore, and I happened to stumble upon one Indian mother who said this: “I don’t think time management was a big deal back for me then. What I found difficult about the IB was that I had to do subjects which I didn’t really like.”
Well, good for her, I thought. I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with such a problem, a nuisance, a conundrum. I thought, at that very moment, that I would be satisfied, happy, delighted. I thought that I would be happy with my textbooks, my notes, my timetable . I thought I would only needed to fight time, to keep up with time, to chase time. I thought, at that very moment, that the choices I made were right, manageable, appropriate. But now it seems that I, like the flowing river, have no choice but to flow downstream. I, like the fighting salmon, have no choice but to fight the undercurrents. I, like the carried away pebbles, have no choice but to be carried away by the gushing water.
Superheroes. They are the cliché-st of all clichés. They always have choices. They always do. They always will. Comic writers always give them a choice: to be or not to be? They always go around emo-ing, contemplating, self-reflecting, upon their roles in the society, in the world, in their inner selves: should I save them? Should I use my powers for the good? Or should I stay around doing nothing?
I may not be spider-man who’s gone emo, but actually, I did have a choice. I once had the opportunity to flow upstream, to embrace the undercurrents, to resist the gushing water. But I chose not to. Because I was afraid. Ironically, not choosing the things I wanted to choose was itself a choice that I consciously made.
And now, there’s no turning back. As one famous person said, “Be miserable. Or motivate yourself. Whatever has to be done, it’s always your choice.”

Recently turned 19, I am an International Baccalaureate slave, a Roman Catholic, now of legal age to vote, to drink alcohol, to drive, to marry, to smoke, and to f*** around. I am manufactured in the Philippines but currently utilized in Singapore. I am the thick-skinned, ingrate bastard who dumped the Government in exchange for a $100,000 two-year private scholarship. Most people in the Philippines call me Row, as a result of a passed down genetic trait that triggers laziness. Actually, my nickname is Anju, which I am really really not so fond of. But I am fortunate enough not to suffer from the ubiquitous Filipino frenzy of naming nicknames with letter 'h's sandwiched between other letters, e.g. Jhong, Jhing, Bhong, or Bhing, and from the usual repetition of the same syllables - usually created by the whole extended family giggling in delight as one utters his or her baby cry while shitting unconsciously and secretively on the lampin, inside the duyan - resulting in stuttering names like Ton-ton, Ping-Ping, Bam-bam, Ging-ging and Don-don.
I am currently having the time of my life.
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