The Flight of the Rocketman

Welcome to the Flight of the Rocketman. If you are interested, you will be reading his flight through this world (and others) in search of the Elusive Bliss.

My flight has begun quite a long time ago, actually. I think it has begun at age thirteen, when I entered High School and found myself in completely unfamiliar territory (as if Grade school was in any way familiar to me). But I believe the most interesting stories arise from College and they will be returned to. After all, the Elusive Bliss can only be acquired through recalling all the routes you have taken to get there, even if you aren't there yet.

So before one asks "where am I going" they should first ask "where did I come from" and "where am I now?" So where am I now? Well, I'm in my parent's condo in Manila, slowly in the process of moving back in after a two year stint living pretty much alone (semi-alone, haha) in my own studio pad just down the street. My Mom is away in the States for a working vacation and my Dad is here until tomorrow morning.

No one will be able to wake my Dad up for his flight so it might as well be me. After all, I'm a freelancer so I don't have regular hours. I pretty much do what I want until the time comes that I am given an assignment or I get work. So, having the least to lose, I will be the one to wake him up.

I already miss him, actually. Like some sad, cruel story, it is the one who probably will miss him the most who has to be the one to see him go. Sometimes, I feel, he is the only one who truly understands me. When I look at all the things I have done and all the things I aim to do, all I have to do is look at my Dad and know that someone has done it already. It seems that I am truly my father's son. Is it genetic or some kind of subconscious hero-worship? Or is it just that we are very similar people in passions and how we are moved by our passions that when put in comparison, one will find very little difference except for the passage of time. One is sixty and has accomplished so much and the other is twenty-four and still is testing the wings in which he has given himself (or been given). One is sixty, still creating and also looking back at all that has been said and done. The other is twenty-four, creating and looking into the future to what is yet to come.

It is a strange point of pride on my part that I am now lending my father books to read. Me? The child who would not read and wanted to be a writer. "What? You want to be a writer but you don't even read!" were the familiar words that were told to my face by members of my family. Now, a graduate of Literature and a promising young writer (if I may say so), I find myself in strange ground as I lend my books to my father and other people. Yes, it is inevitable that we grow. Some begin to bloom so early in life and others much later. But we all will bloom.

It is just the way things are.

I just woke up my Dad and now he is preparing to leave. I will see him again sometime at the end of this year. If not, I will see him at the beginning of next year. I take the time and the effort to ensure that there is something new to say when we meet. Something, any indication of growth. If it were only so easy to spread your leaves and take in the sun. Spread your roots and take in the nutrition found somewhere in the moist soil. If it were only as simple as breathing - inhale and exhale. But no, we are human beings. It takes more than just sustaining our lives to bloom. We must do something.