Cloud Journeys

NON-FICTION

I will be spending the next hour and thirty-five minutes of my birthday strapped to my seat, on board a commercial flight for Manila. Nine months earlier I was in the same tight spot, figuratively, except that I was homebound then. This trip I surmise is going to be as melancholic as the clouds today and as bleak as my big dreams.

While most everyone is rushing to put some last touches on their summer itineraries, I on the other hand, am in the midst of concluding my final days notice at work as head hunter-slash-fulltime girl assistant. At a time when colleagues are just about starting to build up their respective work portfolios and curriculum vitae I find myself tendering my yet second resignation in less than a year.

It seems ironic now how being thousands of miles high up in the air makes me feel more pinned down to the ground than ever. The clouds look fluffy enough, why do I feel like an overweight crazy caterpillar? Why don’t I feel sedated and invulnerable when I’m inside a pressurized mega machine that detaches me from the clutters of the Earth?

Notwithstanding the emotional suicide and often terrible headaches I get whenever I travel, I am in fact able to look at the world from a soaring perspective, rather literally. My personal realities come rushing to me like the black and white Sampaguita movie re-runs I used to watch with my sisters during summer afternoons in the early 90s. They seem far away and forgotten, but are in fact as real and unsettling as the occasional turbulence that shakes me from my reverie throughout the flight. But it does not throw me off my seat or have me reaching above for the oxygen mask. As in the comfortably dormant years after college that was punctuated only by my episodic delusions of becoming a writer, nothing significant really took off. My previous occupations have served as quick fixes, like a cup of coffee to help finish the job on time when all I needed was a really nice sleep. And when a trip to the nearest coffee place is too expensive, I stand at the edge of a cliff and freefall a.k.a. write my resignation letter. It’s a vicious cycle, I grab the next available job there is anyway. Looking back, one really complex question I’ve been asked during a job interview is “What brings you here?” And I’m thinking how many more similar questions can I take before I stop chasing after clouds? I tend to forget where I’m going or why I’m here or why I even bother getting up in the morning, and so I go wherever the wind carries me—worse, I take an airplane. Recently I realized that I love waking up to our dogs’ wet snout against my face, the over excited barks and frantic tail-wagging. But for how long, before I start feeling like a stranger to myself again, and by reflex create pivotal moments, box everything—my clothes, photos, friendships—beat traffic, head to the pre-departure area and just flee.

There is something romantic about departures and arrivals amidst a sea of anonymous faces but pretty much the same anxious and animated expressions. Coming out of the airport terminal with my battered luggage in tow and a soundtrack playing in my head must mean that I survived. I could have died but I didn’t. This is a gift and I’ve been given another chance to be miss sunshine once more, to wash my hair, to wear pretty dresses, to dog-sit, to be with my family, to find meaning in God’s works.

I am 25 years old and I have a job interview in a few hours. It was drizzling when I left my hometown this morning but looking out the tiny window now, Manila seems sunny enough. This flight may just take me to where “permanent” and “commitment” will no longer be scary words.

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My name is Chrismae J. Laolao, 25 years old. I grew up in Zamboanga City and graduated with a degree in BA Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines in Mindanao, Davao City. I’m not very crazy about flying.