Floating world.

I'm starting to feel like everything is a little bit pointless. I've seen 9 of the 11 films in the Cine Europa already, and lining up to watch has become like some form of chore. They are reasons for going out of the house, because I am bored and have nothing else to do. I sink on my seat and stare at the screen, but I'm not really there.

Gio, whom I have not seen in a while, noticed it yesterday. "You seem uneasy." Every few minutes, I'd check my mobile phone for messages. I've been told that one of my episodes will be replayed on Tuesday. People have called up, asking for a copy of the script to use in the re-editing.

I am annoyed that they will expect me to provide it right then and there, and especially after so many things lost in the breakdown and all, I am not not particularly overjoyed to see if the frigging script has survived the virus attack. I unearth boxes to look for a hard copy, then I remembered that I have already given the editor two copies, different versions.

It was written around the time of the impeachment trials, and the primetime tv block took backstage to the news, so we had to make one-hour long scripts. Then came Edsa Dos and it was back to regular programming, so we re-edited things, diluted it, really, to make things last 90 minutes. Rewritten, re-edited, re-programmed. And now it's going to be replayed and they want to edit it some more to fit the one-hour blocktime. This has got to be the most violated episode ever. Had Aristotle been around, he'd definitely say that this is most unrecognizable: Everything has been lost in the translation.

Wonderland's tagline: Everyone is looking for something.

When I get up in the morning, I cannot exactly say that I am truly awake. My eyes are open, but it's like seeing the world through fog-covered spectacles. Things are vague, shrouded in mist. Nothing is really solid. I can extend my hand and it just might go through what I am about to touch. Vapor. Like ghosts and spirits. Hollow.

When people ask me what I'm doing these days, I cannot even muster a proper answer. I am not even sure if I should include myself in the unemployed statistics. Even if our headwriter says that there is still a show, it doesn't feel real because I'm not doing any work. I haven't written anything in months.

I cannot call this having a vacation. It doesn't feel like I'm on holiday. I think I would rather be busy and still find time to do things than have all the time in the world and not be able to do anything. I've given myself all the push in the world and I still cannot come up with anything. I cannot even find the words. It wasn't always like this.