I was Eve, mythical first woman, first sex object ("It is not good for man to be alone…"), first temptress, first mother. If not for me, mankind remains in eternal dreamlike yesterday, never waking up and moving to an eventful tomorrow, never experiencing the agony and the ecstacy of freedom and redemption.
I would have wanted to be the greatest woman who ever lived, Mary, the mother of God-made-flesh who dwelt amongst men. For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, so that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.
I have come to assume many faces, many names, many lives. Am always evolving, forever becoming.
I was Katherine Mansfield who risked everything when I journeyed to the war zone for a tryst with my lover.
I was Connie Chatterley who had an affair with the gamekeeper, breaking free from the phillistine mold of the bourgeoisie.
I was Anais Nin on fire with poetry.
I was Sylvia Plath… suicide is painless.
I was Constance Sumners on an excavation journey into the beautiful sensuality yet fatal power of sex.
Yet I was also Alicia, the faithful and courageous wife of John Nash whose power of love sustained a husband's 25 long years of struggle with his demons.
I was the relentless beloved who would not take away the engagement ring on my finger for as long as I live, asking the count of Monte Cristo for just a moment with him to be free of him as he was free of me, and I would become forever.
I was Gracia Burnham in the midst of horrible Mindanao jungle controlled by the rebels and in the merciless presence of my enemies, I came to know my heart and the heart of God. And instead of desperately asking God, "Oh, why me, Lord?!", I had come to ask, "Indeed, why not?"
I am Kareeza Viloria, Kerima Lopez, Kim, Katherine-- nom de plumes and aliases on the Internet to project my many selves. But I am Cymbeline Refalda-Villamin, Baby, Lynn-- now blessed with inspiration, still searching for salvation. Discontented mother. Regimented wife. A Monica praying for an Augustine of a son to be still and know God, for he is restless until his heart rests in God.
Pink lip color gives life to my lips that have killed many truths and shade of brown earth provides a backdrop to my eyes that were often blind to pure passions. My hair is turning silver and twice a month I apply black dye to suspend the reality of aging. I paint my nails bloody red. For it is my duty to be pleasant-looking until my lifeless body is sealed in a coffin and lowered down to earth or perhaps cremated-- ashes to ashes, dusts to dusts, to journey into the next world.
I am openly lyrical about death because secretly I am afraid to journey into the dark unknown.