He tells everyone a story
because he feels his life is boring;
and he fights so you won't ignore him,
because that's his biggest fear.
And he cries, but you'll rarely see him do it.
He loves, but he's scared to use it.
So he hides behind the music
cause he likes it that way.
He knows
he's so much more than worthless,
he needs to find the surface
because he's starting to get nervous.
-- This Is A Call, by Thousand Foot Krutch
I was supposed to meet up with Oscar for the closing of the Pink Filmfest tonight in Gateway, Cubao. I got there around 6:15, out of breath and in the nick of time, but he's not there. I was greeted by one of his friends and he told me Oscar hasn't called in yet. So I called him up from my mobile and asked him what's up. He told me something came up at home, and he couldn't come in for at least an hour more. I said OK, hung up, and told Oscar's friend about it. Then he asked me which movie I wanted to watch and he'd get me in for free but I declined, told him I'd be meeting up a friend instead, and I'll just come back when Oscar gets there. (Besides, he scared me a lot. Ang taray ng itsura nya. His eyebrows were raised and I don't know if it's just me or if it has always been like that.)
I wasn't really meeting up a friend. And I wasn't really coming back. I should have felt angry, but I couldn't bring myself to be. No, it's not about Oscar being late. Well maybe a little but not really. As always I can't pin it down, where my emotions are coming from. I've stopped bothering to anyway, and I just give up to whatever it is I'm feeling and let myself go, quietly, no matter how irrational.
So I went home, took the MRT to Ayala and walked half-consciously the rest of the way. It wasn't until I was clear of the noise and the crowds and the lights of Greenbelt that I realized I was vainly stifling a cry. It was too much, that I had to slow down and stop walking and stop breathing. I inhaled deeply, and exhaled with chants of, "what's wrong with me, what's wrong with me...?"
I felt so ashamed. I have so much more going for me, so much more than what most people could ever want, but here I am in the middle of an empty parking lot on a Sunday night trying to swallow a demon caught in my throat. Each time, it's more painful, more intense. Each time, I would feel I have never felt more alone, more worthless, and more sad. It's still a mystery why I've lived this long.
Maybe it's because when I get home after such an ordeal, I just sleep it off. Which is what I did. And everytime I wake up, like right now, I just crumple the memory like so much paper and throw it in the garbage can that is my journal -- an action which makes me feel somewhat better, if only to get it down in words.
Until the next time I have to deal with it again, that is.
