Local Interest Story: The Personal Account of Femmerose

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It begins all the lost pages … most of her friends called her femmerose as her sobriquet. She’s a practical woman of the 90’s and beyond. She can do what she wants to protect herself from harm and defamation. Her secret weapon is a prayer and only God can help her in times of dreadful needs and can be her “Master” no matter what it costs. Here is her diary:

“Someday you’ll find yourself when you read back your diary.” It was once said by my mother about having my own life adventures written on a diary. I didn’t get what she meant but I found it satisfying and worthwhile because I could express all that is in me. The means of showing the real self which can be beyond what others might see. My diary was made of recycled bond papers covered with old white folder. It looked odd, so I decorated it with colorful stickers. I started writing it on May 1, 1998 at exactly 10 pm. I could remember the first thing I wrote was about my anger towards my father. It showed the thoughts, ideas and felicitous sentiments of a high school girl for someone only God knows. There were times that I could not put exactly what I had in mind that made me stop and thought back again. It was almost four years since I stopped writing it. Now, I barely laid a hand on it or skimming its pages again.

However, my capacity to detach from my slumbering past wasn’t enough to resist the forces to scan again its pages. The difficulty to return again to the world was already seen before the very eyes of others. Surprised to my realization, each page contained only the expression of who I was before. There were happy gestures and incidents that brought delightful impression in my heart and there were moments that brought pain and terror and devoured the solemnity of my reading soul. Pages revealed an ideal expectation beyond the touch of reality. Stories made romanticize to the things that were never happened.

But there was one page that caught me into silence. It was on October 1 on the same year written only in two sentences. It left me hanging asking to myself ‘What Happened?’ I ceased from a moment, it was a planned date for barkada’s trip adventure to a different route in northern part of Cebu. That day gave me too much excitement, for I missed them so much. On the said trip, the beauty was drawn on the faces of my friends plus the different places I’ve seen. The sunshine, the freedom, the cool and serene blue colors of various beaches; the rosy colors of flowers intertwined over the green grasses, and everything that natures bring had turned into dark, pale and harsh day for all of us.

The warmness of their presence found me on a chilled place but a little bit restless. I talked with the wind. I played alone to what my eyes had seen. No one heard the trembling commotions. And no one dared to notice it. No one understood the murmur behind my unsolicited smile. With the gnash of the wind, I was lost to the place where nobody knew. Everyone was a stranger. And no one, not even a single soul who tried to lift a hand kept me from the river of oblivion.

Seemingly alive, yet half dead inside, the thing that I thought was always good … and it was unmistakably wrong. I was hoping and wanting to be part of them. I never expected that for the years we’ve been together, there was something missing in me: popularity in wealth or in beauty. I didn’t have those things. It was natural for one to dream of something because of its reverse beauty and intimacy for someone amiable. There were times, one left oneself solely to the acceptance of other people’s life, searching for something ideal was not always ideal for everybody. A food of the one might be bitter or a poison to the other. One’s happiness can only be at hand if one’s satisfaction or contentment is greatly achieved. I might not have all the beauty and wealth but I had my wit to surpass the vanities of the world.

These written words of nuances and remorsefulness were mere façades of being me as “femmerose.” Being hypocrite would greatly acclaim to someone who also claimed to be someone–who was not and never will. I ceased for a moment regrouping again the unwritten memories that lay behind each page. It was a calm recompilation of the regaining soul–searching for a place where one certainly belongs. Towards the deepening twilights of the horizon remembering what was before and what is today, I realized what my mother meant and now I’m living a part of the lost pages of my soul.

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