We all enter movie theatres with expectations. Most of us have seen enough films to have a favourite genre that we’d be least likely to regret being $17 poorer for. The truth behind it all is that a genre only exists if people respond to it, and hardly anyone can doubt the existence of the science fiction film and the romantic comedy. Both genres take aspects of life and wrap them up in fantasy, whether that involves journeying to the ends of the universe or diving into the depths of the human heart. The question is: which version of unreality should we validate with our patronage?

Movie tickets and DVDs have standard prices, so there’s no point arguing about which genre is cheaper to watch, right? Not necessarily. Sci fi films often have sequels, which means we pay to complete these trilogies and quadrillogies. They’re also much more likely to have merchandise. Think Star Wars Lego, drinks, music CDs, what-have-you. While the basic costs are the same, romantic comedies don’t have associated costs, so we end up spending more money if we get into sci fi. (And that’s not even counting the cost of being labelled as a geek.)

Still, there’s a reason why we’re willing to pay so much. The appeal of sci fi lies in its special effects, so its appearance has improved with the improvement of technology. By contrast, romantic comedies haven’t changed in appearance much at all over time. These movies hardly ever construct their own worlds, contain extraterrestrial creatures or have widespread destruction in them, so they don’t dazzle anyone with effects. What they lack in effects, however, they make up for in eye candy. They have attractive actors and actresses who smile a lot, and I guess that’s more than enough to dazzle some people.

When it comes to plot structure, romantic comedies thrive on the familiar. We turn up to the rom com knowing that in spite of the circumstances and people that threaten to keep them apart, the man and the woman on that glossy movie poster will live happily ever after. That might just be the peak of cliché, but cliché is precisely the backbone of this genre. Countless Hollywood romantic comedies just depict variations of two classic love stories: falling for someone completely unlikely, often someone you once despised, as in Ten Things I Hate About You and The Proposal, and falling for the “friend” who’s always been there, as in When Harry Met Sally and Win a Date With Tad Hamilton.

That being said, sci fi doesn’t escape conventions either. Technology gets out of hand in films such as 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Matrix and evil aliens are defeated in Alien and MIB. There is often an attempt to find The Chosen One, whether that is Neo, a certain Skywalker or John Connor. In stretching our definitions of time and space, though, sci fi films are much more capable of twists and surprises along the way, making for a more complex and less predictable plot.

Nevertheless, plot isn’t everything. A movie must be watchable. In line with their themes, sci fi films are bound to be more violent or disgusting or both. For instance, no one can forget the baby alien breaking out of the man’s chest cavity in Alien. Sci fi can force us to close our eyes or at least squirm in our seats, whether we’re predisposed to enjoy it or not. Then again, romantic comedy films are known for their mawkish lines, some of which are just as good at making people cringe. A case in point is Win a Date With Tad Hamilton’s Pete knowing that Rosalie has six different smiles. There’s sweet, and then there’s overdoing it. It just depends on whether someone can appreciate blood and guts more than corny lines and sappy background music, or vice versa.

But for all its entertainment value and all our varied reactions to sci fi, its function is hard to pin down. These films do amaze, but that’s not all. The genre uses fantasy to comment on reality and hint at where humanity might be headed. 2001 warns against our reliance on technology, and Minority Report alerts us to the amount of power we surrender to the government and police. What really sets this genre apart is that it is not only loved by its target audience, it is also thought about a fair bit, and once you start thinking too much about what you consume, you become a geek, removed from pop culture. In a way, that makes sense; you’d have to be somewhat removed from society to understand the bigger picture, which sci fi tackles. Besides, aren’t geeks also stereotypically the ones who know more than most others?

On the other hand, romantic comedies have a clear target audience and a simple function. Let’s face it; the only substance a rom com can hope to have is some insight into human nature. They’re out there to make us laugh if they can, but there is always a sense that it is a love story first and only a comedy second. Rom coms try to make people feel good. They’re cheesy enough for giddy 14-year-old girls and hopeless romantics who at least want to believe in love as these films define it, but the said cheesiness can, and does, backfire. The relationships in most rom coms are actually contradictory: they clump the infatuation and grand gestures that characterise early relationships with the emotional depth that is typical only of relationships that have lasted much longer. These idealistic representations of love seem realistic because of the believable setting. Even He’s Just Not That Into You, the movie in which a man, Alex, attempts to tell a friend, Gigi, that flowery love stories are merely exceptions to the norm, reverts to this mentality in the end when Alex declares that Gigi is his exception. Thanks to rom coms, many viewers, especially teenagers, get the wrong idea about love and feel disappointed when their lives don’t match the wonderful things they see on screen. Girls today, to borrow a line from Sleepless in Seattle, “don’t want to fall in love. [They] want to fall in love in a movie.”

It’s clear that a lot goes into our enjoyment of science fiction and romantic comedies. It can be granted that both genres make claims that probably aren’t all that realistic or sound, and it might also be granted that it is this fantasy factor that draws us most to them. It all comes down to taste and there’s certainly no law against appreciating both, but rom coms definitely need at least one thing that sci fi has: a “Part of this is fiction” disclaimer.

The main problem with aeroplane food is, above everything else, you can always taste the air pressure. It’s as if every bite is telling you, "you’re not on land."

And I’m not.

I’m eighteen years old. I’m going somewhere I’ve never been before. No, I don’t really consider myself a man yet; yes, I can drink legally now, except in America, which is why it’s convenient that I’m not going there.

So, I’m on this plane. My legs are numb. I’ve consumed more in-flight orange juice than is advisable. I’ve grown tired of watching clouds. I haven’t taken a piss in six hours. I’m a little queasy. I’m going to Australia. My mother lives there.

She left when I was three. She wasn’t ready when she had me. She wasn’t ready three years down the track. Dad always says that she had left him not me. I think that not taking me with her is saying something, but I act like I believe him because I know he’s just trying to be a good parent.

She was distant in all senses of the word. I haven’t seen her or heard from her apart from the cards she’d send on my birthday, every year, without fail. I could never write back. I relied on her understanding that I had no way of knowing what to say. Each year, as the card became slightly less colourful, the personalised message became slightly longer. She only started acknowledging her leaving the year I turned fifteen; even still, the most she’d say about it was that it was her fault and not mine. But before then, she’d only talk of love and missing me. I think I believed her roughly every other year.

This year, it came with a ticket. "I want to explain in person," the postscript read.

Everyone who finds out about this pen-pal relationship—if you can call it that—with my mother has been entirely dumbfounded by it. My ex-girlfriend, Alana, would get particularly incensed. "'Love, Mum'?" she said once, "Writing as if nothing’s happened! Who does she think she is?" My mother? I thought to myself, and shrugged it off.

I see where they’re coming from. Personally, I can’t believe myself either. I know society’s expectations of me. If I were an average case, I would’ve grown up with a lot of anger, insecurity, music with lyrics that are screamed instead of sung, too much red and black, and the word "angst" thrown in wherever possible. But I didn’t; I mean, I like the Beatles. I haven’t shed a tear for her since I was about eight. I stopped seeing myself as a pitiful child when I was old enough to understand statistics. This is the twenty-first century. If it didn’t happen when I was three and chubby, the odds are, it would have happened when I was thirteen and pimply. At least she didn’t leave to be replaced by hair in various new places.

Dad and I didn’t speak a word driving to the airport. It was one of those chilly mornings when I’d give anything just to stay in bed while my bedroom window fogs up and the rest of the town begins the day. It had started to drizzle when Dad parked the car. He took my carelessly packed suitcase and walked me to the entrance. I knew he wanted to say something because he was looking around at nothing, the way he always does when he’s formulating sentences that he believes to be significant. He’d already given me a briefing last night because it’s the first time I’m flying without him, so I had a hunch it concerned her.

"James, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to," he finally said. I looked at him straight in the eye so he’d know I took him seriously, picked up my suitcase and told him the truth.

"I don’t know if I want to. But I don’t not want to, and it’s now or never—at least now it’s for free." I smiled at him and he reciprocated. I’m not sure who was reassuring whom.

Then, I was on my way.

When I think about all the places my mum could’ve gone, I always think sunny Australia is perfect, and only because of that solitary memory of the day at the pool. It was the middle of winter, I remember, because I remember being covered up on the way, only to be stripped down to my kiddie speedos on arrival. It could’ve been the heaters in the complex, or it could’ve been that yellow summer dress she was wearing that tricked me, but I felt so warm that day. And when we got into the water, she held me like she’d never let me go.

She must’ve left soon after that.

The plane lands. Dad told me not to bring any food or anything wooden because Australian Quarantine is a bitch—I may have paraphrased that slightly. He was right, though. I make it through immigration and customs in one piece.

I approach the gate. From a distance, I spot big blue eyes that seem to also have spotted me. I can hardly believe it. I used to think I looked a lot like Dad….

Without warning, my throat starts to tighten in the way, I was surprised to realise, it always did when I used to have to fight back tears as a kid.

How could she pick today, of all days, to wear bright yellow?

Buildings border the sunset view;
I watch as the train whizzes past.
I haven't felt this new since freshman year;
I think to myself, "Will it last?"

Shall I write your name on a gravel path?
Perhaps wish upon a traffic light?
Your warmth has broken through my shell.
Even as I take steps, I take flight.

So I walk to your house with a heart-laden sleeve,
Through that familiar autumn air;
Forever becomes these four blocks of anticipation,
Yet I arrive with time to spare.

I ring the bell.

The night "was really fun," you say,
And I agree it "went by too fast,"
The date went well, I'm convincing myself...
But that walk is left unsurpassed.

When I was forced to leave home, I felt like my world was ending.

I had to say goodbye to everyone and everything I had known and loved. It was a change that nothing could prepare me for and that nothing could make me feel better about. It was the end of the world as I knew it.

Four years later, I can't say I have no trace of bitterness left. I can't say I don't feel a pang somewhere inside me whenever I see that life there has gone on without me. I can't say I feel like my relationships with people back home are the same or easy to maintain.

But I have realised a couple of things.

The first is: I can't idealise home. Whenever I have problems here, I can't blame it on the fact that I moved. Whenever I'm sad, I can't just equate it to homesickness. I shouldn't see Manila as the solution to all my problems. It's a wonderful place and it will always be home to me, but realistically, I had problems back there too. Making comparisons between my life now and the life I had in the Philippines (or rather, the version of the life I had there as I have built it up in my head) will always be an injustice to Australia and all that it has given me. I'm actually thankful for all the relationships I've formed here, all the opportunities I've been able to take, and all the things I can do here that I couldn't have done in Manila.

The second (and perhaps more fundamental) is: I don't even have two lives; I have one. I can't keep splitting it in two for the sake of some pretense that I can run to the other when one hasn't been treating me well. I can't keep worrying about all the things I would've experienced had I stayed, because that's not where my life chose to go, and I know I haven't been left empty-handed.

It is still hard and uncomfortable having to put two meanings to the word "home." But at least now I can say that when I left, my world wasn't ending.

My world wasn't ending. It was expanding.

I'm doing this for you. I want to finally do it right by you. I don't think I ever really deserved you, but I'm so thankful that you stuck around for as long as you did. I never knew I could get as close to another human being as I did to you. Sometimes I felt like you knew me even better than I knew myself, yet you loved all of it. You made me feel accepted, worthy of love, and as cheesy as it sounds, whole. So when I no longer had you, I felt incomplete. I'm just sorry that, although I didn't do so consciously, I let someone else fill that gap, when I never should have.

So I realised...

I'm also doing this for myself. After being in a serious and seemingly perfect relationship for so long, I had forgotten how to stand on my own two feet. I found security in someone else, and that made me reliant on him. What I want is to feel like I'm good enough on my own, in my own skin, regardless of where I am or what I'm doing or who I'm with. I want to work on my relationship with myself because that relationship suffered when I attempted to love another person without first loving myself.

So I realised...

I'm also doing this for you. I know you put your heart on the line. You went about it wrong, and I don't for a moment excuse what you did, but I know you genuinely cared about me too. And that's why I know you also got hurt, and I don't like it because I care. Now you need to let it heal because you deserve to be with someone who's as ready as you are -- whoever that is -- not someone who gives you a chance because she's vulnerable. We've gotten closer, and I could never bring myself to say I regret that. But rushing it was a mistake because I'm broken and there's no way anyone other than myself can fix me.

That answers why.

Today I received a string of compliments. They were some of the biggest I could ever conceive, for two reasons. Firstly, they were to do with something that I will always have a soft spot for: writing. And secondly, they came from someone who really knows her stuff. One of these compliments was:

Dear Miguelle,
Thank you for this enjoyable essay, excellent work...I believe you are a highly talented writer with sensitive insights and the ability to argue your points well, and I think you should cultivate your gift. If I remember correctly, you are training to be a teacher; but perhaps it would be wise to also consider study at Honours level (with a view to getting a PhD) if research is something that interests you. (Besides, being an academic teacher would be a good way of honouring both your talents...)
dks

What this suggests is that I take my English major further with the aim of getting a PhD in this discipline. What this entails, however, is that I spend a few more years at uni and quite possibly abandon my plans of becoming a highschool teacher in order to become a published thesis writer, a university lecturer, a doctor, an academic.

Immediate questions. What is gained? What is lost?

I remember going on prac at a primary school and feeling so fulfilled upon teaching a kid how to subtract. I recall feeling, on many occasions, that teaching is something I could do for the rest of my life. I know how much I wanted to teach so that I could positively influence not only the present but the future. I have always believed in the infinite potential of the individual, and the ability of teachers to assist students in identifying and developing their talents. I even liked the idea of having a not-so-highly paid job because then at least I knew, I knew that parents would be putting their children in the hands of someone who was doing it all out of pure passion.

But then I think about my penchant for intellectual, particularly literary, pursuits. I consider how I enjoy editing, being critical and writing professionally. I see how having my own office at a university and having "Dr" precede my name could be appealing. I also remember my big dream of running practical summer courses for free to help impoverished Filipinos become employable. I'm realistic enough to acknowledge that an ordinary teacher's salary couldn't possibly finance that and maybe academic writing could.

I always thought I could do my writing "on the side." I believed I could work and concentrate on my love for teaching and simply leave writing to leisure. I always doubted that I could ever get published, let alone paid for just my words. In short, I didn't -- I don't -- think I actually have the talent. But the comments of my lecturer, who is herself such an intelligent and established writer, made me realise that maybe a part of me won't allow myself to ignore writing or even render it secondary.

Her praises and suggestions overwhelmed me -- not only because they were unexpected, but also because they made me discover that although the number of books I've read and the quantity of pieces I've written are not astronomical, I cannot seem to deny my desire to become a writer. I don't know if it makes sense, but somehow it feels like it does, and that suffices. So once I reflected and asked myself all these questions, you know what my instinct was, you know what I did. I didn't find the answers.

I wrote.

There are times when you find yourself doing things you know you shouldn't. These are the times you feel you have to tell yourself, I'm better than that, as you search for reasons.

Sometimes, you find them. These are the times you feel that you are justified.

Other times, what you find is that your reasons are merely excuses. These are the times you feel regret creeping in. (But these, these are also the times you learn to forgive yourself.)

A few months ago, a male friend of mine claimed that Disney is to blame for the unrealistic expectations women have about romance in relationships. I laughed when I heard this, but it was funny partly because it wasn't entirely preposterous.

Just how plausible it was, however, didn't occur to me until recently, as I was watching the "Across the Universe" DVD late one night in Manila. About half an hour into the movie, way too early to be even close to the ending, the two lead characters got together. To Kieran's surprise, and in fact my own, I said without thinking, "Well, what are they gonna do now? They're together. There's nowhere else the movie could go from here." The words didn't register until they were out. We both laughed at the slip of my subconscious. I didn't even seem to consider the possibility of other conflicts or subplots, nor did I acknowledge the deliberate presence of socio-political unrest as anything more than mere backdrop for a love story.

It was then that I realized that I am a victim of the movies I had loved as a kid and continue to love to this day.

I began thinking about how right my friend was. It's not even just that I envision a kind of Prince Charming who'll say all the right things, sweep me off my feet, own a white -- always white -- horse, and just be altogether dashing. It's not even that, because I've long been conscious of the fact that chivalry is not dead but has certainly changed, and I have stopped looking for the "perfect" boy. I've grown up and I know better than that.

But where Disney got me was that tantalizing concept of Happily Ever After. In every princess movie, the princess is always wanting more, and that "more" is always achieved in or through the prince. And once all the obstacles to be together (Read: villains) have been overcome, that's it. Everything falls into place. People are happy. The characters are in love. Insert a magical ending scene. Roll credits.

It's only now that I feel cheated. I want to know who decided that the beginning of relationships meant the ending of stories. I want to know who thought little girls should be shown the same tale with the same false conclusion, just with different setting and characters. I mean, what if Cinderella and the Prince just don't fit as well as the shoe does? What if Ariel starts to miss the sea enough to think about leaving Prince Eric? What if...?

That ending scene -- there is always the day after it. And the year after.

The giddy feelings -- they go away. And you have to decide what to do when they do.

The "happily ever after" -- you have to work to keep it that way. And it always gets harder to do so.

Disney taught me that love could be perfect and stay perfect. I could condemn Disney all I want, but I won't because I know it'd be halfhearted and pointless. Although I can never have the same faith as my four-year-old self, I can still say there is some truth to their depictions of bliss. And even though the story never ends at that point, and there are bound to be mistakes, doubts and broken hearts along the way, I know that not all hope is lost.

Because I know what the movies don't tell you. There is -- also, still, more, truly -- beauty in the imperfect.

How do you know oh-oh?

What's bad is that I think I treat life as if there is some universal benchmark that I have to reach, and that then -- and only then -- will I feel like I have done enough.

What's worse is that I think I've defined that benchmark as perfection.

I've blurred conceptual boundaries: "good" and "great" mean "best." I have made it so that there are no levels or degrees, only a goal.

Riddle me this. What do you do when what seems to be your life goal doesn't exist?

On one hand, I'm down with the infamous combination of colds and dysmenorrhoea. On the other, I have a mother who gives me cheesecake and strawberries with condensed milk.

On one hand, next week, I'll have to take exams which require that I exhaust all my (real or otherwise) knowledge in all my subjects under time constraints. On the other, I have learned A LOT this semester; successfully demonstrating it, although ideal, by comparison to learning, is immaterial.

On one hand, I miss my relatives and friends in the Philippines. On the other, I was able to visit them recently, bringing back a lot of photos to remind me, and can look forward to seeing them again at the end of this year / at the beginning of the next.

On one hand, it's hard to keep in touch with high school friends. On the other, simple gestures like "How are you?" mean so much more than they used to.

As usual, it seems, it's all about perspective.

When I was ten years old, I believed that I was the fastest runner in a relay race. I may not have been, but I believed it and you could not have told me otherwise.

I had confidence, once.

It is this firmness that I miss the most about my childhood. Now that I'm older, I'm less sure. I get affected, shaken, even moulded, by outside forces. There seems to be nothing inside me that can battle it; no weight, no heart, no self.

Everyone believes in something.

I want to believe in me.

Religion is faith. A belief in what cannot be proven by anyone alive. The strength of this faith varies from person to person, but all believers in the faith are brought together under this single banner.

Religion is an opinion. As there is no way to count these beliefs as facts, everyone who practices a religion is exercising their right to form opinions.

Religion is a choice. The decision to follow a religion, fully or partially, or to be agnostic or atheist, is made by every thinking human being.

Religion is a guess. It is a means by which the world is explained; not only the physical world, but other possible dimensions of it as well, including the spiritual world, which most religions assume. Because the human mind is limited, religion helps people understand what otherwise cannot be made sense of.

Religion is substance. It is sought and subscribed to by people who do not wish to live empty lives.

Religion is a guide. For those who feel that there must be a way to live 'right,' religion becomes a kind of moral framework. Basically, it is the formation of a conscience according to a set of regulations already laid out for you.

Religion is a creation. Whether or not it is asserted that 'revelation' is a better word for it, religion has not always existed. It is a made thing.

Religion is an institution. Still very much human-operated; still very much prone to human error.

Religion is a culture. A way of life that is easier to accept if internalised from birth rather than taught at adulthood.

Religion is a community. Humans are highly social beings, and as such, beliefs become more 'valid' if shared by other humans. Similarly...

Religion is a safety net. People are comforted if beliefs can be in the form of previously established doctrines rather than their own raw ideas. That way, if they are unsure, they are not alone in uncertainty. Generally, people are more likely to doubt themselves than an organisation that has stood the test of time.

I'll be the first to admit that writing this all down has not pointed me in the right direction. But at least I know that I'm dealing with something multi-facetted and complex. And then I don't feel so bad that it confuses the hell out of me...

I don't know if it's always been there; or when it started, if it hasn't. Either way, it seems to have dragged on for so long now.

I wonder how I learned to expect so much from my life -- more than it can possibly give me at any one time. I just know I've been dissatisfied, bitter and angry about things that, for the most part, are beyond my control anyway. I've resented what cannot be changed. I've mourned inevitable losses. I've pined for what I can't realistically possess. I've never accepted trade-offs gracefully. I've focused far too much on having more and not enough on what I presently have.

I've wanted everything, all the time.

Part of it, I guess, I can put down to being a dreamer, but I know that most of it can't be justified. It's unhealthy. It's pointless. It can drive someone to misery. And for what?

The problem with me is that I am perpetually wanting.

It's well into the first month, but I think that this year, for my sake and for the sake of those around me, I'm going to resolve to be content. It may still be a choice right now, but maybe someday (hopefully soon), when I'm used to it, it can come a little more naturally. And then I'll know that I'll have become a possibly better, definitely happier person.

What is it with me and journals?

I've written in a journal since I was seven. I remember, because I remember the Pocahontas diary. I know what I used to write about, and it makes me laugh now, the misspelt words, the self-centred (and fairly narcissistic) mindset and the petty complaints that one can readily associate with childhood. It felt almost like I had a friend who didn't talk back, who always agreed with me and who didn't mind when he / she was forgotten for a while.

Two lost journals and two abandoned blogs later, here I am, with yet another one. I've taken to typing instead of writing, which I don't particularly like because I'm putting timeless memories, so human, into this unthinking machine. But it's easier, and more convenient, and I can't help it.

I no longer write the same. Not as much, and not the same. I soon realised that "Dear Diary" was for suckers, and I trialled poems, essays, unsent letters, all the while focusing less on events and more on thoughts and feelings. I took that as a sign that I was maturing, the way many changes easily are.

Writing is a part of me, in a way that, ironically, I've always failed to find the words to explain. I just feel like my journals, whether they're still in my possession or not, have been a witness to my life.

Within my journals is my life, expressed wrongly or rightly, but in a way that I at least know is mine.

I remember a time when Christmas meant nothing but gifts.

I remember a time when Christmas meant nothing but family.

I'll remember a time when Christmas meant nothing.

I hate that I feel compelled to compare myself with everyone. I hate that when I do that, I always magnify my imperfections.

I hate that I always have to measure up and be not good enough. I hate feeling like I have to change to be accepted.

I hate knowing that I can't please everyone, but trying to anyway. I hate how people's expectations somehow become my own.

I hate that I don't know what I believe in anymore. I hate that I'm losing a lot of my conviction.

I hate that so much of my past is consumed in regret. I hate that I no longer know where I'm going.

I hate that I can't seem to figure out the place where I belong, or if that place exists, or if it is even a place to begin with. I hate that I know it's too important to be that simple.

I hate that I don't know what I want, so I don't know how to work for it. I hate that what interests me doesn't convert into a set job.

I hate being 'foreign' because it means I'm different. I hate resenting my difference because it means I'm just like everyone else.

I hate that I've used the word "hate" more than "love." I love...

I hate that I've wasted my time writing this. I hate that I never write anymore.

I never thought I could be so hopelessly unhappy for reasons so ridiculously unclear.