Final Output: Psychoanalysis on Window and Personal Reflection
Literature 21 – Section F
Submitted by:
Tepacia, Maedy R.
Submitted to:
Asst. Prof. J Marie Maxino
March 16, 2020
Summary
Catherine Regina Borlaza’s Window was a lighthearted poem about the main character’s
observation with how our hands have specific tasks and capabilities which were narrated on a
regular Sunday morning just right before breakfast. The sister has a knack for stitching, the
father was proficient in drawing, and the mother appeared to be meticulously excellent in the
kitchen while the speaker could only do so much by doodling on the window after the mother
took over the cooking. The atmosphere of the poem then took a darker and deeper turn at the
application of blackout poetry, where selected words conveyed how the cessation of our
existence could be as inevitable and normal as fear.
Context-Based Analysis: Carl Jung’s Psychoanalysis
Carl Jung’s theory on the Collective Unconscious emphasized three components of the
human psyche which have been identified as the Immediate Consciousness, Personal
Unconscious, and Collective Unconscious. Moreover, Archetypes have emerged to establish a
representation of an original type where other similar things have been patterned to. This
method of analysis shall be used on the poem Window that can be apparently compared to a
diary entry of observations made by the speaker as a usual day went on in their household
which had underlying implications.
As simple as it was stated when initially reading the whole poem, it can be related as the
character’s Immediate Consciousness as deliberately being obvious descriptions of what was
going around and how she or he saw them. Basically, it entailed a personal account of being a
child in such a family where everyone seems to know and use what their hands were good at.
The straightforward depiction gives the readers imagery on what the speaker wants them to
see, that can likewise be considered as the Persona archetype at the same time. It could be
inferred that these string of thoughts were the outward projection of insights that are presentable
enough for others to know, in relation as well not just to the context of the poem but also with
the structure and mode of presentation where there was no elimination of words yet compared
to the latter portrayal of the poem which shall be discussed later. The full text was shown where
the content was blatantly expressed as a typical moment that can regularly happen and it was
articulated in a manner where it did not seem to require much thought nor disclose malicious
opinions.
On the other hand, the second manner of presenting the poem was restricted only to
chosen words that have formed an entirely different thought from the former context with the full
text. This shows a different side to what was thought of as a lighthearted poem of observations
where this second projection forces a darker contemplation on that moment of scrutiny. The
Personal Unconscious can be reflected with how the character might have this internal gratitude
for the time being spent with the whole family while they can, while the speaker mindlessly just
pictures out a moment that soon shall be turned into a memory. With regards to the
construction, it is as if the whole contemplation had concealed reflections that the speaker was
unaware of thinking as it was snuggly embedded in what was supposed to be a random entry
for the day, as related to how the second set of words fit right in a trivial context and conversed
another message when extracted completely.
Additionally, the assembly of particular words can be associated with the Shadow
persona where the speaker now presents the deeper thoughts of the darker portion of the
psyche. It entailed calculated elimination of words which were considerably chosen to reveal an
acceptance to death and how all things shall cease to exist soon, which was not suggested as
openly as the former narrative of a mainstream household. This is an indication to the usual
repression of thoughts and other untoward insights which is characteristically established to
belong to the suppressed Shadow. Meanwhile, the Anima was imperatively suggested by the
mother and sister, and not much can be said about the father representing the Animus for all
that was said about him was his forte in terms of making a blueprint instead of other masculine
implications. The Self Persona is embodied by the two forms of the poem wherein the presence
of both compositions symbolize a unified psyche where the conscious and unconscious are
being acknowledge to encompass the configuration of thoughts as a whole, which consequently
leads to denoting the whole poem as figuratively implying the archetypes that consist the
Collective Unconscious.
Personal Reflection: Fogged Up
“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!”
Of course, everybody would have wanted their fair share of magic and fairy godmothers
for assured happily-ever-after’s, but the magic that these fairytales brought would only stretch to
as far as our imagination could bring. The believers in us have been shoved aside as we grew
up only to see that the lessons they wish us to catch were faulty with the loopholes of how they
were at most times too idealistic in the reality of our world. We do not belong in fancy books with
golden embellishments of charming plotlines that the lead roles take since the villains’ seem
more pragmatic these days. The only applicable moral now is the cliché of how the essential
things are not seen by the eyes but felt by the heart—either because magic does not really
come in tangible things and it’s the most realistic among them, or we still ache to hold on to the
ideals spelled in sparkly glitters.
Deadlines. Bills. Responsibilities. Putting those three on repeat is a loop that has worn
us down and no cheery soundtracks with shiny prince charmings could make us tap-dance our
way out of it. Our musical fashion of spending our days have been cast away by the real-time
curses of what we have to accomplish in order to survive the demands brought by entering the
realm of adulthood and there’s no turning back to wearing those pretty pink dresses after fitting
grown-up shoes instead of the infamous glass slippers. Wearing that odd match is not apt for
the real-life adventure of struggling to stay alive since it takes more than a pretty face to function
well and be a vital part of the workforce. Everybody has already taken on their individual paths
for more probable identified goals where the childish wishes of becoming a beautiful mermaid or
riding a glowing unicorn will now remain as an uncolored sheet of their imagination since we
need more financially practical goals than those that feed only the mind. Wishes only materialize
when you do something in order to make them come true, since dreaming alone is not enough
to live the fantasy you crave for. This is then where life enters the supposedly radiant picture of
childhood to teach us the hard way this whole image of innocence is two dimensional after all,
and we’ve been looking only from one angle. You’d need to wake up and strive to at least get a
glimpse of the visions you’d actually want to see, before they turn into dusty fragments of regret
when you’ve lost the chance of doing so.
This speaks to another level of maturity since the more we have been in tuned with the
fundamentals of life, the less connected we have turned out to be with the genuine desires of
our hearts. We stopped casting wishes on shooting stars not because we’ve let go of the magic
we once believed they had—it’s just that adulting now made us doubtful if we even deserve to
be granted any of them, also because of the inability, that we think of ourselves, of reaching the
paradigms of what is justifiably allowable for us to enjoy. The children in us didn’t die; they just
grew up and realized that fairytales end at a single momentous event without letting us know
what happens next once a tragic incident decides to turn up again. Their finales have been
articulated so for a closure that would satisfy the readers which are never the case for the real
world upon recognizing how this resembles a dystopic arena more than it ever mimicked the
Garden of Eden. And oh, even the latter had its indecent plot twist we did not see coming.
We can’t even decide whether we are heroes or villains ourselves: we have untoward
characteristics that make us doubt almost every decision we make, double standards we can’t
live up to nor even correct, unstable mentalities that manipulate our perceptions on a dynamic
scale, and fragile self-esteems that have listened to more distant voices than our own shaky
ones. We got too excited with growing up without even preparing ourselves how it is actually not
just getting the liberty of experiencing more things and attaining control, for being so does not
necessarily mean we automatically become finer individuals. It takes more than ageing to
culture the self and they forgot to tell us about that when they tolerated our indulgence in the
enchanting madness of our naivety.
However, as much as the glitters have swarmed our eyes and distorted our vision, it is
all reversible by properly cleansing the fragments that have tainted the way we see the world.
This addresses both absurdities of falling in love with the allure of make-believe ideals and
being heartbroken over the crudeness of reality by presenting us with the more wholesome
principle of change—not everything is bound to last whether they be good or bad. It all entails
the balance of being able to appreciate things as they are and what we currently have as we
cannot be so sure if they are there to last or to only let us have a free trial of what was never
bound to be ours in the end. As pretty as a transient doodle on the window, we can certainly not
leave our marks forever since all things are inevitably going to pass no matter how we force
ourselves to run against the mortality of entities we don’t have control of. The way we have
beaten ourselves to the brink of dejection because of petty things we have expected to ensue;
pointed fingers at hazy targets just to put the blame on anything other than ourselves to
maintain a sense of sanity; broken bridges we still needed to cross due to impulsive emotions
that needed validation; ruined our health in more ways than we now all for the greater cause of
sacrificing for better outcomes; harmed not just other people but as well as Mother Earth to be
able to satiate a personal gain; and lost ourselves in the process of supposedly discovering who
we want to be, have all contributed to defeating the purpose of growing up. We have
unknowingly failed in nurturing ourselves for the best by letting the route to greatness destroy us
piece by piece before we could even reap what the destination had to offer.
Being said so, the materialistic aspect of living in this world is too tangible to the point
where it makes them easier to be misplaced and carried away by the tide of volatile instability.
Once we lose what used to anchor us to safer grounds, drowning in all its weight’s glory would
just be the second nature of forgetting where and what we actually stand for. We’ll need more
than what magic wands could grant yet miracles aren’t an everyday thing we could just simply
ask for. Sometimes, what we find in the little mundane things could be sources of strength and
solace that we had the tendency to overlook simply because we were too pacified with the
thought that they will always be there: underrated, unnoticed, and unappreciated but will be
longed for once missing. We have been forced to forego some aspects of our humanity just to
persist in a world where struggle has been normalized as a gauging factor for progress even if it
did not lead to productive effects at all. People definitely swerved away from fairytales to
counter reality with concrete measures, yet it drove them right into a murky trail of ambiguity that
pays the taxing disengagement of their holistic welfare.
If our fairy godmothers did exist, they would probably be frowning down on us for not
asking for enough help from whatever swish swoosh was at their disposal and believing in the
magic from within that has gone into deep slumber during the dormancy urged by growing up.
The disappointment that we’ve served them might run deep but would not be as abysmal as
compared to how we’re supposed to put our faith in the highest Being that mortifies even the
greatest fairies you could summon—His Almighty’s grace. People have romanticized
extravagance as a trophy everybody seemed to vie for while omitting the part that these can’t
nearly placate the heart’s needs; it just acted as a cover up excuse to the loneliness and void
deep inside that we can’t even admit to ourselves. As much as we have taken for granted the
real things that should have mattered most, it is not yet too late to look back and realize what a
beautiful picture it was, especially if we belonged in it. The farther we stray from the true roots of
what keeps us at peace makes the image of sheer bliss more hazy by the unnecessary misting
of unbecoming influences. Let’s unclutter for a clearer view without the obstruction of pink
fantasies or dark oblivion to fathom how wonderful are things as they are when the fog
dissipates.
Pixie dust may allow us to fly but there’s a reason why it doesn’t last long—it reminds us
how both our feet still need the steady ground for us to stand on our own, and that breathtaking
moments should be valued until the last sparkle evaporates into thin air. And no, it’s not a
fucked up life, just a really fogged up one.
Reference:
Borlaza, C. R. (2016). “Window”. Retrieved on February 28, 2020 from Asst. Prof. J Marie
Maxino.