Dose of sweet caffeine to end bittersweet dreams

“I’LL JUST KEEP ON dreaming ‘til my heartaches end.” This line, I suppose, is the most intellectual advice you could hear from a human being whose heart, poetically speaking, functions more than his brain—someone who decides according to his feelings rather than his thinking. Scientifically speaking, he must have been predisposed by endogenous opioid peptides called the “endorphin,” which is produced by his pituitary gland and his hypothalamus, thus leading to, for example, a feeling of well being.

Yesterday, I’ve spent hours with two of my high school friends, Lee and Angie. We prattled about such things that are pointless for others, I think; yet there’s one thing I’ve noticed: we’ve grown just enough for our age bracket, but in my case, something has been left behind.

I haven’t spent quality time with my social life recently. It’s a good thing that I found time yesterday: sipping my white hazelnut frap with two close friends I haven’t seen for the last seven months while overlooking through a glass window, from a porch, a contour of average-sized green trees, the classification of which I haven’t recognized.

Both of them asked about my religious stand, which has been a controversy for them recently. “Have you reaccepted Roman Catholic as your religion?” They asked. I said, “I don’t know. Perhaps, I’m half-Roman Catholic and half-Born Again Christian.” After all, I explicated, Born Again Christianity is not a religion. People who confess they are such add the statement, “It’s a personal relationship with God.” The level of sincerity of that statement? I can’t detect but we shall see.

I told them I’ve been depressed recently; a depression of the “self-proclaimed” kind since I haven’t been clinically diagnosed by a doctor (wink). I needed an outlet, perhaps. They’ve been flabbergasted, especially Angie, because they thought I’ve been so blissful with my life. Well, with my career perhaps. We should always remember, however, that career is not the only facet of life. Well, for faking my laughter on the phone and my strength when speaking, I could have won a Golden Award for being the Best Actor, I confessed.

We took photos together, but I told them not to tag me. I don’t want people see my physique at a time of my life when I’m just struggling to recover from something. My smiles are fake; they looked like smirks.

I wish I could restore my happiness, I told them. I wish could restore my strength. My wish is being granted gradually, I suppose. My strength starts with my career. I firmly believe it must also start with God. Oftentimes, however, praying leads me to a “tug,” a term I’ve read which pertains to certain facets of life (e.g., good and/or bad memories, events, and quarrels) that let you feel uncomfortable when being recalled. According to the author, you must fix it; don’t escape from it. This is one factor, perhaps, why my healing has never been complete. I used to escape from my tugs and keep on dreaming that things are okay until the pain is gone that it hurts no more, and then just to realize that it’s an endless dreaming.

Abruptly, I thought sharing my cup of coffee to God would be a pleasure, so as to wake Him up that He could comprehend He has forgotten something. I wish I could beg for smiles too; the smiles from people who have an overdose of laughter. I have been lacking genuine smiles lately. Perhaps, I just had to finish my cup of coffee to wake me up from these sentiments. Nothing last forever, they say. Anyone who keeps on dreaming should cease from doing so.

Once in a while, we need to visit a coffee shop, order our own white hazelnut or black forest frap, our own cups of sweet coffee to cease from dreaming about bittersweet dreams, which we keep on grasping. Just don’t ask for the decaffeinated coffee please. That won’t help.