My Genesis

By Johanne Margarette R. Macob

I don’t really like writing about myself here. For one, this isn’t Facebook.

But sorry, for once, I will, sort of…maybe because there’s nothing much to talk about this past week (or at least there’s nothing much for me to comment on) or maybe simply because it’s my birthday. And so please allow me the privilege.

Turning 21 years old felt basically the same as when I turned 20, or 19 and so on and so forth. There was no big bash or any ‘ceremony’.  There were only more dreams that I want to make real. And as the usual, there were those people who make my a-little-more-than two-decade existence worthwhile.

A week ago, one person so dear to me asked me what it is that I want for my birthday. I then sort of rummaged into the four lobes of my brain but ended up saying, “I don’t know exactly.” It’s not that I don’t want anything, in fact as I earlier said, I want so many things. I guess I just so believe in the saying that “one way of saying nothing is saying everything”. So as much as I want to pronounce this and that, such and such, I thought it’ll be better for that person to figure out the answer.

Nonetheless, since this column will be out when my birthday’s done, then I could share some of those wishes I have in my mind, just some. Well, I want to have a copy of all of Nicholas Sparks’ books. As of the moment, I only have like one and a half pair. And Paulo Coelho’s collection, too; I’ve got five already. I also want to have a digital single-lens reflex camera, for I am a self-proclaimed frustrated photojournalist. More (or most) importantly though, I hanker after ‘things’ that I already have in my life, which is simply desiring for consistency of these ‘things’. These include good health for me, for my nearest and dearest people, for everyone actually; a “purpose-driven” existence (I believe I am where I should be or at least I am heading towards where I should be); love, the capacity of loving and being loved; and of course all the other myriad blessings from Him.

Birthdays, I suppose, are for us to somehow review the route we’ve taken, the trail we are journeying in to see whether — for the extent of our presence here on earth — we have gone nearer to becoming the personas we ought to be or we have just gotten older by age and nothing more. Further, it is “a day to celebrate life, to commemorate the day that set off that indefinable trip”, one of the best people in my life has said. I like having a list of “birthday wishes” though much of them didn’t get granted, for the “mental list” does push me to do further and farther to fulfill these before my next birthday comes.

P.S. I just learned that the great writer Edgar Allan Poe was born on the same month and day as I am. He was just 183 years ahead.

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