The shortest days are the longest.
I end my shortest days with a beer on one hand and a cigarette burning on the other. My shortest days end with smudged eyeliner and clothes unchanged, because who has time for changing to bed-wear and taking a shower when you’re too tired and too exhausted from laughing and crying and feeling for the whole goddamn day? And it is when I feel the exhaustion in my bones at the end of that day, and the restful contentment and satisfaction that comes from a good night’s rest the day after, when I know that that day, yesterday, ended too soon, but were so condensed with moments shared with the people I love the most, that it wasn’t enough.
Those are the days when I wish that one-seventh of a week meant 30 hours instead of 24. Those days, I wish time could freeze, when I am in mid-laughter or mid-discovery. Filipinos have a word for this. We call it bitin: the feeling of never having enough. The feeling that you’re left hanging. I live for these days. I wake up because of these days.
I tell myself I have an addiction to beer, but beer alone is hardly as amazing as beer with other people. When there is warmth from the buzz and words begin slurring, there is a moment of clarity and epiphany: things I realize about myself, things I learn about other people.
Perhaps I’m selfish: I can never get enough of these days. Because I’m human, I let discontent sit at the pit of my belly, and I will crave, more and more, ever still.
Still never enough.
(Written for The Daily Post, as is usual these days.)