Versus our Youth

001 CTRL

"I don't get it, Miss. Nakaka-five revised drafts na ako na sinasubmit. Are my ideas really that bad?"

RJ, a multimedia arts student majoring in Graphics Design and Animation, was already at the very last strand of his patience but he still tried his best to keep his anger from leaking through the sound of his voice. He failed. His Film Thesis advisor, Professor Adlawan, sighed as she handed him back the folder containing the printed copy of his thesis concept proposal. The fifth one she has rejected in the last eight weeks.

"Your ideas are not bad, Mr. Faulkerson. Your ideas are mediocre."

RJ clenched his fist.

"And you should've heard about my reputation in this university by now. I never give average scores. It's either you excel in my class or you fail the subject completely. There is no in between. "

"Hindi naman po kasi ako writer—"

"I'm not evaluating you as a writer, RJ. I'm evaluating you as an artist."

"Pero Miss.."

"Give me brilliant or give me terrible, Mr. Faulkerson. At least a ridiculously bad concept is easy to remember. But don't give me a half-assed job of the same crap over and over again. I never accept merely acceptable work. And so far, all you've ever done is to re-write the same plain, cliché-ridden, forgettable storyline. You can do better than this. There's no other way to survive in this industry, young man."

"I've already pushed myself beyond my limits, Miss. Ito na po talaga yung best ko eh. Hindi ko na po alam kung ano pang pwede kong gawin."

"You should forget her."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mr. Faulkerson, I pay attention to your works. I read between the lines. Haven't you realized that you just keep writing about the same story again and again? Your hero always becomes a monster because of some secret pain. And then it always ends with someone dying a very gruesome tragic death. And it's always, always about the same girl, isn't it?"

"No...I'm not—I don't..."

"You hate this girl so much because...you're still in love with her."

RJ finally lost it and snatched his thesis proposal folder from the desk. He was about to storm away from the room but before he could even reach the door, the professor shouted one final reminder at him.

"Check your email, Mr. Faulkerson."

Later, while he was driving his way back to his dorm apartment and stuck in the night rush hour traffic, he read through his inbox and found that his professor has sent him the details of a three-day scriptwriting workshop from a filmmaking seminar hosted by one of the best indie directors in the country. Below the invitation attachment was a note that says she has put in a word for him to attend this event in order to hone his skills.

Fuck writing. Fuck writers. Fuck all their pretentious shit.

Fifteen minutes later, he was getting out of his car after parking it in front of the convenience store a block away from his dorm.

He was planning to get some junkfood and beer for another all-nighter, but he absent-mindedly wandered from aisle to aisle, mulling his professor's words inside his head. Without him realizing it, his feet had brought him to the freezer chest loaded with tubs of ice cream.

His eyes zeroed in on the Avocado Macchiato, and just like three years ago, he could still feel his traitorous heartbeats go wild with pain at the memory of her.