Showing posts with label Gravity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gravity. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Still
I stopped writing because you left. You. You, the one I called gravity, the one I called love. The dragons went silent when you left. There were no more lightnings, no more storms. Nameless creatures that travel through folds of shadow took wing and disappeared into unknowable dimensions. You left, you took everything, I place all blame on you.
I am ruined--as grief ruins spirit, as wind wears away stone--yet it is still you who I want. I want only to write stories of you. I want only to write stories for you. Everything else is hollow, without depth, and terribly, utterly grey.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Four Years Ago
... I fell in love. I have never faltered since. If anything, this relentless pounding of fists at my chest has grown even more intense, threatening to break flesh, to draw blood. But like a wildcat caged for far too long, this love eventually realized the futility of its wildness, submitting to a madness that transcended both movement and sound -- a paralyzing burden of knowing.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Persistence of Memory, Second: Clouds and Cobwebs
I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I turned around just in time to see a metal door closing. What I thought were voices turned out to be the shrieking of rusted doors on hinges. Then there was a rattling of gears and chains, and in another second, a thud.
The stillness in the air made me think of walls -- four-sided, all-enclosing, air-constricting -- but looking away from the door, finally taking in the surroundings, I find myself outside. Clouds were within my periphery, and below, a vastness of empty space. I was afloat -- my flesh pulsing with veins and skin and organs of gossamer.
A memory flickered to life before me -- like a slideshow or a silent film. I was fourteen, the day after I came out to a childhood friend, the first boy I fell in love with. I'd just woken up, the cobwebs of a distant dream disentangling from my eyes. I was feeling the same thing then as I am feeling now -- the inertia of a body floating in mid-air, free from any push or pull, when nothing and everything is wrong at the same time.
"What am I supposed to feel?" my fourteen-year old self said, to no one in particular. "What am I supposed to feel?" my present self echoed. The clouds never answered, nor did the cobwebs, as clouds and cobwebs are wont to do.
The stillness in the air made me think of walls -- four-sided, all-enclosing, air-constricting -- but looking away from the door, finally taking in the surroundings, I find myself outside. Clouds were within my periphery, and below, a vastness of empty space. I was afloat -- my flesh pulsing with veins and skin and organs of gossamer.
A memory flickered to life before me -- like a slideshow or a silent film. I was fourteen, the day after I came out to a childhood friend, the first boy I fell in love with. I'd just woken up, the cobwebs of a distant dream disentangling from my eyes. I was feeling the same thing then as I am feeling now -- the inertia of a body floating in mid-air, free from any push or pull, when nothing and everything is wrong at the same time.
"What am I supposed to feel?" my fourteen-year old self said, to no one in particular. "What am I supposed to feel?" my present self echoed. The clouds never answered, nor did the cobwebs, as clouds and cobwebs are wont to do.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Persistence of Memory, First: Thorn
It was about this time when it happened, when I felt something cold snake through my veins. Fever, blue-fingered and mist-eyed, she sidled herself beside me and gave my neck a lingering kiss. I pulled my jacket closer, zipped it three-quarters up, and tried to sleep. The twilight wind was gentle as a mother's touch, whispering sweet nothings as a lover would, but sleep did not happen. The shivering in my body danced with the vibration of air on my skin, and it calmed a storm foreign and further in my mind.
I opened my senses partly, only for a second, and I saw my hand pale and cold and trembling. My vision fell to my wrist, and it glowed white and silken in the moonlight, tainted by a vein with beautiful hues of super-saturated green. "Strange," I whispered to the atoms of dark and shadow. "It looks like a thorn."
And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I heard a voice not unlike mine and thousands of planets away, "Get me away from here," but it did not happen. Then I heard a scream.
I opened my senses partly, only for a second, and I saw my hand pale and cold and trembling. My vision fell to my wrist, and it glowed white and silken in the moonlight, tainted by a vein with beautiful hues of super-saturated green. "Strange," I whispered to the atoms of dark and shadow. "It looks like a thorn."
And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I heard a voice not unlike mine and thousands of planets away, "Get me away from here," but it did not happen. Then I heard a scream.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
An Exercise In Passive Aggression
I have been more aggressive than passive this week more than any other week in my whole life -- channeled at the wrong people, unfortunately -- and I suppose I have you to thank for that. I love you fiercely, the Universe knows that, but sometimes it gets terribly frustrating the way you think of me as less of a person because of what I am and how I feel for you. This might sound like a foot in the mouth now, but from the way you've spoken to me the past few days, I can't help but feel offended and completely unjustified.
For instance, it really didn't sound fair when you told me the other day you can't "waste your time trying to help me anymore." First of all, I wasn't asking for your help. I never did, ever since we met. Not that I'm ungrateful -- the Universe knows how much I appreciate your choice to stay within the swirl and swivel of absolute fuck-up that is my life -- but to point that out and slap me in the face with it? That was thoughtless, rude, and almost mean. It made me feel like a clueless, pathetic charity case whose worker suddenly decided to verbalize how ridiculous and pretentious and unoriginal his life was and that he should get back to dealing with his own issues instead of working with sad and hopeless little people who did not ask for his "guidance" -- but thank him -- anyway.
Also, I don't think you understand nor acknowledge the fact that I am a person capable of reason and coherent thought just because I am one of the legions of guys who have fallen in love with you. Sure you tell me I'm smart, but see, I don't think you believe that because in your mind, I belong to that exclusive little box you have for people like me. Now, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, I know -- I understand -- I can't make you reciprocate how I feel for you. I'm owning it, and it's completely my fault that I've made it out to be such a long and painful process, but finally after almost three years I got it to my head that You Do Not Like Me.
And it wasn't some lovelorn 16-year old plea for you to like me back when I told you the other night that I liked you -- especially when it was in response to a question that you asked. If in case you don't remember, you were asking me why I don't bother fixing my life anymore -- again, another attempt at "guiding" me I supposed, but I took the bait and answered you nevertheless. I told you in response, because I felt there really was no reason for me to fix it then, since you -- my insensitive little raison d'etre -- were not going to be a part of it anyway.
Do you remember your knee-jerk reaction? Do you remember what you said? "I'm not attracted to you, P." I wanted to punch you in the face then and there and shout, "I KNOW THAT, YOU ASSHOLE, HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING? Can't you get over yourself for one second and actually listen to what I'm saying?"
Sigh. You really didn't have to say it again. It hurt everytime you say it. But I suppose it was partly my fault. I could be really patronizing whenever I talk to you. I'd follow you like a stray dog. I can't fully place the blame on you for seeing me as someone not worth wasting your time on -- because I act like I am someone not worth wasting your time on. I hear it over and over again, "You're too nice, P." From you, from the other guys I've dated, "but..." But I don't have to hear anything else anymore. "I'm not attracted to you, P," that's what you said. I wanted to punch you in the face because in my mind, what I heard was, "It's not my fault your life is screwed, P."
We can't really be friends, you said so yourself. That's another thing I have to learn to respect now. No matter how much we talk about music, about books, no matter how many papers I help you with, I guess we can't really pin each other down as friends. With you, there's "Friends," and there's "People Who Fell In Love With Me But I'm Keeping Around Anyway." Knowing where I stand in your life makes me feel a whole lot better.
For instance, it really didn't sound fair when you told me the other day you can't "waste your time trying to help me anymore." First of all, I wasn't asking for your help. I never did, ever since we met. Not that I'm ungrateful -- the Universe knows how much I appreciate your choice to stay within the swirl and swivel of absolute fuck-up that is my life -- but to point that out and slap me in the face with it? That was thoughtless, rude, and almost mean. It made me feel like a clueless, pathetic charity case whose worker suddenly decided to verbalize how ridiculous and pretentious and unoriginal his life was and that he should get back to dealing with his own issues instead of working with sad and hopeless little people who did not ask for his "guidance" -- but thank him -- anyway.
Also, I don't think you understand nor acknowledge the fact that I am a person capable of reason and coherent thought just because I am one of the legions of guys who have fallen in love with you. Sure you tell me I'm smart, but see, I don't think you believe that because in your mind, I belong to that exclusive little box you have for people like me. Now, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, I know -- I understand -- I can't make you reciprocate how I feel for you. I'm owning it, and it's completely my fault that I've made it out to be such a long and painful process, but finally after almost three years I got it to my head that You Do Not Like Me.
And it wasn't some lovelorn 16-year old plea for you to like me back when I told you the other night that I liked you -- especially when it was in response to a question that you asked. If in case you don't remember, you were asking me why I don't bother fixing my life anymore -- again, another attempt at "guiding" me I supposed, but I took the bait and answered you nevertheless. I told you in response, because I felt there really was no reason for me to fix it then, since you -- my insensitive little raison d'etre -- were not going to be a part of it anyway.
Do you remember your knee-jerk reaction? Do you remember what you said? "I'm not attracted to you, P." I wanted to punch you in the face then and there and shout, "I KNOW THAT, YOU ASSHOLE, HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING? Can't you get over yourself for one second and actually listen to what I'm saying?"
Sigh. You really didn't have to say it again. It hurt everytime you say it. But I suppose it was partly my fault. I could be really patronizing whenever I talk to you. I'd follow you like a stray dog. I can't fully place the blame on you for seeing me as someone not worth wasting your time on -- because I act like I am someone not worth wasting your time on. I hear it over and over again, "You're too nice, P." From you, from the other guys I've dated, "but..." But I don't have to hear anything else anymore. "I'm not attracted to you, P," that's what you said. I wanted to punch you in the face because in my mind, what I heard was, "It's not my fault your life is screwed, P."
We can't really be friends, you said so yourself. That's another thing I have to learn to respect now. No matter how much we talk about music, about books, no matter how many papers I help you with, I guess we can't really pin each other down as friends. With you, there's "Friends," and there's "People Who Fell In Love With Me But I'm Keeping Around Anyway." Knowing where I stand in your life makes me feel a whole lot better.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Crossroads & Sliding Doors
A couple of weeks back, you had to spend the night over at the apartment because of the terrible, terrible weather; it would be best, you decided, to just go with me to the MRT station the following morning when I would be on my way to work. You were planning on heading over to Ayala anyway to get some things for school, and I, on the other hand, will be going to Cubao, work-bound. Now, the Boni MRT station is different from the other stations as both the northbound and southbound platforms are shared, so the sunny, electric blue-skied Monday morning found us sitting on the same bench, talking about nothing in particular while waiting for our respective trains.
As what is expected of any self-respecting slacker, I was tossing around the idea of going with you to Ayala in my head instead of reporting for work that day. It was all very simple, really. Call in sick, and I’d have the whole day to myself. I was due for another sick day anyway. I was feeling like a high school student. I told you about it, and, as what is expected of any self-respecting kunsintidor, you said quite casually, “Why not?”
Why not, indeed? Why pass up the chance to be with you a few hours longer, and not have to think about work for the rest of the day?
A rumbling sound and a draft of wind heralded the arrival of your train. We both stood up and walked to a yellow arrow on the floor. “Sige na,” you said with a smirk. I smiled back, bit my lip, but said nothing. The train halted, and the sliding doors opened. You stepped in, looked back at me, and pointed to a space beside you. Two seconds, and I took one step back. I felt a shuddering in my soul, not unlike the feeling when someone walks over your grave. Three seconds, and there was a long beep. The doors closed, and the train jolted back to life again. Behind the transparent glass, you looked like a vagabond memory, recently escaped from my fantasies. You smiled, and waved. I barely noticed my train arriving behind me, wrenching me away from my reverie and sucking me back to where I was -- facing a worn-out yet vaguely familiar path, like a child waking up from a dream.
I felt it, when my life split in two paths. The one where I jumped into the train with you, and the one where I didn't -- the one that actually transpired. Of course I could not help but think of what could have happened, had I gone with you that day. No, not what could have happened immediately after (because I know I would have had a blast), but its long-term consequences. The Butterfly Effect. Would it have been a right -- rather, better -- decision?
A few nights ago we had a conversation online. It was a rather relatively ordinary conversation, really. School, work, nothing too heavy... that is, until about towards the end. You said something about meeting up soon, and proceeded on to list your schedule for the following days. I responded simply by saying I can free up any schedule for you. That must have opened the floodgates though, because all of a sudden, everything was laid out in the open -- everything, namely, my feelings for you, and how you feel about them. As your words started scrolling up line by leadened line, I was feeling... fascinated. Like a psychiatrist who's been told a particularly interesting detail. Although I knew that you knew how I feel for you, I never really thought you would acknowledge it. Eventually you would, of course, but at this stage in our friendship, I didn't think it would be brought up. So I sat there in frozen fascination, reading all you had to say about me and how I feel about you.
You said it made you feel awkward whenever I do sweet things for you -- like surprising you with a copy of Jose Garcia Villa's Collected Poems when we were at the Book Fair for instance, or saying little things, like, "I can free up my schedule for you." You said you were trying to shake it off, that feeling of being awkward, because you wouldn't want to feel weird whenever we're together. You said that sometimes, you wanted to be sweet to me, too, like how you are with your other friends, but you're afraid I might misinterpret your gestures -- which you would not want to happen because (and this you insisted on strongly) you value our friendship a lot. I was taking everything in, in rapt attention.
Margaret Atwood was saying the truth. "If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next -- if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions -- you'd be doomed. You'd be as ruined as God. You'd be a stone. You'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You'd never love anyone, ever again. You'd never dare to." Because although you caught me off-guard, I knew -- I understood everything already. Most people would claim it as arrogance, but I can say it with nary a shred of pretension or assumption. I understand how you feel. I lived with it, slept with it, woke up with it, had dinner with it, walked unfamiliar streets with it, watched fireworks with it, laughed and cried and got mad with it... everything. Completely. I felt such familiarity with it, it became ME.
I understand that even if my life split in different paths, even if the Universe were to lay down all the crossroads and sliding doors it can offer, I can never be with you, R. And no decision, no choice I make from here on out can be better than the other. And that is my truth; and that is my ruin.
As what is expected of any self-respecting slacker, I was tossing around the idea of going with you to Ayala in my head instead of reporting for work that day. It was all very simple, really. Call in sick, and I’d have the whole day to myself. I was due for another sick day anyway. I was feeling like a high school student. I told you about it, and, as what is expected of any self-respecting kunsintidor, you said quite casually, “Why not?”
Why not, indeed? Why pass up the chance to be with you a few hours longer, and not have to think about work for the rest of the day?
A rumbling sound and a draft of wind heralded the arrival of your train. We both stood up and walked to a yellow arrow on the floor. “Sige na,” you said with a smirk. I smiled back, bit my lip, but said nothing. The train halted, and the sliding doors opened. You stepped in, looked back at me, and pointed to a space beside you. Two seconds, and I took one step back. I felt a shuddering in my soul, not unlike the feeling when someone walks over your grave. Three seconds, and there was a long beep. The doors closed, and the train jolted back to life again. Behind the transparent glass, you looked like a vagabond memory, recently escaped from my fantasies. You smiled, and waved. I barely noticed my train arriving behind me, wrenching me away from my reverie and sucking me back to where I was -- facing a worn-out yet vaguely familiar path, like a child waking up from a dream.
I felt it, when my life split in two paths. The one where I jumped into the train with you, and the one where I didn't -- the one that actually transpired. Of course I could not help but think of what could have happened, had I gone with you that day. No, not what could have happened immediately after (because I know I would have had a blast), but its long-term consequences. The Butterfly Effect. Would it have been a right -- rather, better -- decision?
A few nights ago we had a conversation online. It was a rather relatively ordinary conversation, really. School, work, nothing too heavy... that is, until about towards the end. You said something about meeting up soon, and proceeded on to list your schedule for the following days. I responded simply by saying I can free up any schedule for you. That must have opened the floodgates though, because all of a sudden, everything was laid out in the open -- everything, namely, my feelings for you, and how you feel about them. As your words started scrolling up line by leadened line, I was feeling... fascinated. Like a psychiatrist who's been told a particularly interesting detail. Although I knew that you knew how I feel for you, I never really thought you would acknowledge it. Eventually you would, of course, but at this stage in our friendship, I didn't think it would be brought up. So I sat there in frozen fascination, reading all you had to say about me and how I feel about you.
You said it made you feel awkward whenever I do sweet things for you -- like surprising you with a copy of Jose Garcia Villa's Collected Poems when we were at the Book Fair for instance, or saying little things, like, "I can free up my schedule for you." You said you were trying to shake it off, that feeling of being awkward, because you wouldn't want to feel weird whenever we're together. You said that sometimes, you wanted to be sweet to me, too, like how you are with your other friends, but you're afraid I might misinterpret your gestures -- which you would not want to happen because (and this you insisted on strongly) you value our friendship a lot. I was taking everything in, in rapt attention.
Margaret Atwood was saying the truth. "If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next -- if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions -- you'd be doomed. You'd be as ruined as God. You'd be a stone. You'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You'd never love anyone, ever again. You'd never dare to." Because although you caught me off-guard, I knew -- I understood everything already. Most people would claim it as arrogance, but I can say it with nary a shred of pretension or assumption. I understand how you feel. I lived with it, slept with it, woke up with it, had dinner with it, walked unfamiliar streets with it, watched fireworks with it, laughed and cried and got mad with it... everything. Completely. I felt such familiarity with it, it became ME.
I understand that even if my life split in different paths, even if the Universe were to lay down all the crossroads and sliding doors it can offer, I can never be with you, R. And no decision, no choice I make from here on out can be better than the other. And that is my truth; and that is my ruin.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
An Anti-Affirmation
Hey,
I'm sure you know, but I'm not quite sure if you understand. Since I met you two and a half years ago, I have loved no one else. And there may have been a point when I was willing to pick myself up from the insane drudgery I have gotten myself into, but ever since you made it clear that there will be nothing else between us except friendship, all color from this sick, twisted world has drained away and I was left with nothing but a mechanical, metallic aftertaste of what the rest of my life would be.
I suppose I should be grateful for this chance I have been accorded; at least somehow you're still part of my life. I am grateful that you would want to be friends with me. Why should anyone ever refuse an offer of friendship? Of course, it's the selfsame thing that's been rotting away at my insides, but still. In principle, it shouldn't be refused. In the same vein, however, my friends are telling me how selfish you revealed yourself to be, knowing how I feel for you, yet still allowing yourself to draw strength from me even if the only thing I can draw from you is the cold, stale air of a dead-end relationship. And this is where the barbed stem of irony kicks in -- I give whatever it is you need, without expecting anything in return, because it is you who need it. Hilarious.
Another thing. I know that you mean well, pushing me to go back to school to pursue art once again, but what I can't tell you is that I've gone past all of that. Apart from not knowing what it is I really want to do, I have no desire to even find out anymore. Everything I do, I do just to pass the time. I'm not sure if you can understand how lonely that is.
I made a decision two years ago, and it is something I hold on to until now:
I'm sure you know, but I'm not quite sure if you understand. Since I met you two and a half years ago, I have loved no one else. And there may have been a point when I was willing to pick myself up from the insane drudgery I have gotten myself into, but ever since you made it clear that there will be nothing else between us except friendship, all color from this sick, twisted world has drained away and I was left with nothing but a mechanical, metallic aftertaste of what the rest of my life would be.
I suppose I should be grateful for this chance I have been accorded; at least somehow you're still part of my life. I am grateful that you would want to be friends with me. Why should anyone ever refuse an offer of friendship? Of course, it's the selfsame thing that's been rotting away at my insides, but still. In principle, it shouldn't be refused. In the same vein, however, my friends are telling me how selfish you revealed yourself to be, knowing how I feel for you, yet still allowing yourself to draw strength from me even if the only thing I can draw from you is the cold, stale air of a dead-end relationship. And this is where the barbed stem of irony kicks in -- I give whatever it is you need, without expecting anything in return, because it is you who need it. Hilarious.
Another thing. I know that you mean well, pushing me to go back to school to pursue art once again, but what I can't tell you is that I've gone past all of that. Apart from not knowing what it is I really want to do, I have no desire to even find out anymore. Everything I do, I do just to pass the time. I'm not sure if you can understand how lonely that is.
I made a decision two years ago, and it is something I hold on to until now:
A Decision One Makes
Friday, October 6, 2006
All week, I've been thinking if love is a decision one makes, or if one finds oneself in it without knowing? Is there a moment when one stops and breathes, "I am in love?" Or is one already in love, and simply decides whether to continue swimming in that pool of emotion or walk away? Because a week ago I made a decision, and it felt like a seal on me, a firebrand. And on my tongue I could have sworn it tasted a little like dying, when "your life flashes before your eyes." Which it did, my life. Or what's left of it, I suppose.
Margaret Atwood was right. If we knew in advance the consequences of our decisions, we would be doomed and ruined. The irony is that there is triumph in ignorance, and there is tragedy in wisdom. And that tragedy, that hopelessness is maybe what gave me the courage, the stupidity to admit such a truth to myself. I figured I didn't have enough of a life left to lose, so I threw all caution to the wind and gave in. After all, I have always said that I prefer a love like forest fires, like runaway trains. Let me tell you, it doesn't get any more devastating than this. "The more tragic, the better," the song says. Well I'm raising my red flag, and zeroing in for the kill.
This is my decision and my word, whether you accept it or not, whether it sustains me or kills me. You are loved -- by me, by my entire being, and by a force within me so great and terrible I can't even name it. You will never be alone, and you don't ever need to be afraid. I will protect you. And my name, and the rest of my stupid, sad, sorry little life I give you, for all it's worth.
I ask nothing in return. Not your love, for it is yours to give to whomever you choose. Not understanding, when nobody else would -- or rather, is able to. Just maybe... an acceptance. An acknowledgment. A thank you, or a nod my way. Letting me know that you see me, and that you are glad to be living your life happily. If I believe in nothing else, then please let me believe in that.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Gift, 2
Lost in the sea's
unforgiving blue,
I seek you.
Before me
the day unscrolls
its naked scripture:
sun, vision's burning field,
islands, faint presences
crumbling in the distance,
water, the fickle immensities
life is made
constant by.
And it strikes me
I love the sea
because it borders
this suffering world
and the next:
the soul, it is said,
travels in a boat
from a winding inland river,
homing clear-eyed
toward the ocean --
which is the bottomless
beyond.
And I know:
here, upon this beach,
wash the crushed remains
of what was once mortal:
bone and kelp,
driftwood and tentacle,
porous red coral --
keepsakes
life leaves behind
before
dissolving
back to brine.
I am home here, then,
whom the world
never loved,
and from its torn edges
I can almost see
it all end:
an onrushing tide,
a radiant sea swell
sweeping away all appearance,
gentle eddies
whittling the self
till it is no longer
even sand.
I think of you
landlocked and lost
in another element --
your body.
The sea teaches me
love is a wish
not for safety
but for destruction.
I am not ashamed
to admit it:
I love you
the way water loves.
Which is to say
I wish the world
were through with you,
so you could return to me
ravaged, upon this shore:
a shell
held tight
inside my palm.
J. Neil Garcia, from Ladlad 3
unforgiving blue,
I seek you.
Before me
the day unscrolls
its naked scripture:
sun, vision's burning field,
islands, faint presences
crumbling in the distance,
water, the fickle immensities
life is made
constant by.
And it strikes me
I love the sea
because it borders
this suffering world
and the next:
the soul, it is said,
travels in a boat
from a winding inland river,
homing clear-eyed
toward the ocean --
which is the bottomless
beyond.
And I know:
here, upon this beach,
wash the crushed remains
of what was once mortal:
bone and kelp,
driftwood and tentacle,
porous red coral --
keepsakes
life leaves behind
before
dissolving
back to brine.
I am home here, then,
whom the world
never loved,
and from its torn edges
I can almost see
it all end:
an onrushing tide,
a radiant sea swell
sweeping away all appearance,
gentle eddies
whittling the self
till it is no longer
even sand.
I think of you
landlocked and lost
in another element --
your body.
The sea teaches me
love is a wish
not for safety
but for destruction.
I am not ashamed
to admit it:
I love you
the way water loves.
Which is to say
I wish the world
were through with you,
so you could return to me
ravaged, upon this shore:
a shell
held tight
inside my palm.
J. Neil Garcia, from Ladlad 3
That one was for you, R. Happy Birthday.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
There's A Fine, Fine Line
The Philippine production of Avenue Q is holding its second run this month. I checked the show dates the other day and apparently, the only possible time I will be able to watch is tonight. And guess who first popped into my mind to invite? Right -- R. So after much trepidation, I finally asked him yesterday if he wanted to go -- to which he hasn't replied up until now.
I guess it's what I should have expected, all things considered. But I can't be blamed for hoping, nor for holding on. After all, I made the decision myself. And although I have been nothing but wounded since, I cherish these scars as if it were him I was touching, as if it were his skin on my skin. If this is going to stretch on to forever, then, gladly, I accept.
I guess it's what I should have expected, all things considered. But I can't be blamed for hoping, nor for holding on. After all, I made the decision myself. And although I have been nothing but wounded since, I cherish these scars as if it were him I was touching, as if it were his skin on my skin. If this is going to stretch on to forever, then, gladly, I accept.
There's a fine, fine line between together and not
And there's a fine, fine line between what you wanted and what you got.
Kate Monster, Avenue Q
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Limot
sa mga pagkakataong
nalilimutan kong huminga
o nalilimutan
ng puso kong tumibok
sa mga pagkakataong
malamig ang hangin sa hapon
o nawawalan
ng ilaw ang poste sa umaga
sa mga pagkakataong
tumatahimik ang sansinukob
o dumidilim
ang langit at ulan
alam kong nakalimot ka na
at ako
ako'y hindi pa
(para kay R)
nalilimutan kong huminga
o nalilimutan
ng puso kong tumibok
sa mga pagkakataong
malamig ang hangin sa hapon
o nawawalan
ng ilaw ang poste sa umaga
sa mga pagkakataong
tumatahimik ang sansinukob
o dumidilim
ang langit at ulan
alam kong nakalimot ka na
at ako
ako'y hindi pa
(para kay R)
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Tenacity of Feeling
luego de tu adiós sentà todo mi dolor
sola y llorando,
llorando
no es fácil de entender
que al verte otra vez
yo seguiré llorando
(Rebekah Del Rio, Llorando)
I think I saw you in a dream. It was this afternoon, when I told myself I was only going to rest my eyes until our system's back up. I reclined my seat and leaned my head against the cubicle wall. Gathering the warm folds of my sweater about my form, I barely noticed my mind slipping into the narrow path of unconsciousness.
I’d been walking, thoughtlessly, when I heard a Hi from somewhere beside me. Not a cheery one -- not something that would have been followed with, I’m happy to see you. It was a rather flat Hi. More an acknowledgment of my presence than anything else. You’re here.
We couldn’t stay in one place, you and I. Or, to be more precise, the place was constantly changing. Whether we were the ones moving, or the place was shifting from under our feet didn’t matter.
You were talking; I was listening, occasionally responding. About what, I couldn’t hear. You were talking the way people talk in dreams -- echoes of ideas shaped into sounds. Ghostly and unreal. Unless I close my eyes and let the words form themselves into letters discernible before me, it would have been just another dream. How are you? I’ve been doing fine since we’ve met last. I hope we could hang out without having something pressing down on us. I’m seeing someone now. I’d like to meet you one of these days, but you know how it is when you’re in a relationship.
It was strange, because all the while, my eyes were never open and I could see you bright as day. Your words were marching into my vision, crowding behind you, and you were smiling. I’ll be seeing you around. The glow seemed to nova when you smiled. I couldn’t look away. I heard my voice say something, but you were already gone.
All at once I heard someone say, "System's back up." From where I was, it sounded like someone shouted it from the entrance of a cave. I mouthed the words back to myself. It was only a dream, I breathed. As immaterial as smoke. As cold as death.
Stretching my legs and rubbing the weariness from my eyes, I fired up my workstation and let the monitor flicker back to life. Once again, words marched before my eyes. Black on white. Dark on light. Beautiful, beautiful words.
You do not know this right now, and I am not about to tell you -- but I miss you. In terrible, violent, silent ways.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
In Transit
It was his birthday when I saw him last. I didn't know it at that time -- walking towards the MRT station on my way home from Cubao. I had my headphones on as per usual, oblivious to the world moving around, when this tall, well-dressed, familiar form walked past me. It seemed a blur when his face crossed my vision, but in that precise second I knew it was him. He smelled the same. I let a few more heartbeats pass before I decided to stop and look back. When I did, he was already looking at me. "Hey," he said. "Hey," I said. It was unmistakable. The smell of rain on hair, of crushed grass -- it was really him.
Walk, I willed my legs to do. "It's been a long time," he smiled as he reached for a handshake. I could see in his eyes he was trying to remember the last time we saw each other. To be quite honest I couldn't remember either. "Yeah," was all I could come up with. He seemed relieved at the fact we both couldn't remember.
He said he got off work early and was on his way home. I offered to walk him to the other station. "I got a better idea," he said. "Let's eat. It's on me." Of course I refused, but I did a poor job of protesting it was quite obvious I really wanted to be with him longer. He gave me his cut-the-crap smile and said, "Come on. It's my birthday." That shut me up. So me and my sheepish smile ended up going with him to the mall food court to eat.
We ended up at this Mongolian food stand ordering big rice bowls -- our usual fare when we used to see each other more often. "It's been a long time since I've eaten here," I said as I watched with childlike wonder the girl behind the counter mixing vegetables in a deep, crimson bowl.
"Me too," he said with the same quiet awe. "Come to think of it, the last time I ate here was when I was with you."
"Hmm. You're right." We stayed silent until our orders were cooked. My head was reeling with questions, I had to hold on to something solid to steady myself. I looked at him again. He had his usual deadpan expression on, neutral and unreadable. The scent of his hair lingering like smoke, which my mind remembers so well. He tapped my shoulder to wake me from my reverie; our orders were done.
When we were seated, we talked about the usual small things. Where he was working, where I was working, complaints about officemates, of cranky relatives and moving out. I told him I was thinking of getting a haircut.
"O, why not? It's time for a change, don't you think?"
"Maybe," I said, picking through the vegetables in my rice bowl.
It took us about an hour to wade through each others' lives. I asked him about the book he was planning on writing, but he said it was on the shelf for now. I told him I'd still help if he needed it. He gave me a sad smile. "I need to be heading home," he said finally.
We got up and started walking. Both of us were quiet, but the hands in my pocket were fidgeting and restless. "Listen," I said, crackling my fingers, "I know you're a little averse to the topic, and I didn't want to bring it up... but I have to ask..." He glanced at me without a change in his stride, eyes black, without light, and waiting. "... are you seeing someone?"
There was that sad smile again. "I am. It's been a while now..." And I was sure he said other things, but at that moment, my mind retreated to its dark little corner without sound and time, leaving my physical body to fend for itself. I was giving the appropriate responses, sure. Smiling at the right moments, saying "Really" or "I see" without causing a break in the conversation, but that was it. The strings stretched taut in my mind were snapping and my ships were slowly sinking.
A little window to reality opened when he grabbed my hand again and waved. "I'll see you soon, alright?"
"Sure," I waved back. "Happy birthday." Turning around, I ran my fingers through my then long hair. I think I'll be having that haircut.
Walk, I willed my legs to do. "It's been a long time," he smiled as he reached for a handshake. I could see in his eyes he was trying to remember the last time we saw each other. To be quite honest I couldn't remember either. "Yeah," was all I could come up with. He seemed relieved at the fact we both couldn't remember.
He said he got off work early and was on his way home. I offered to walk him to the other station. "I got a better idea," he said. "Let's eat. It's on me." Of course I refused, but I did a poor job of protesting it was quite obvious I really wanted to be with him longer. He gave me his cut-the-crap smile and said, "Come on. It's my birthday." That shut me up. So me and my sheepish smile ended up going with him to the mall food court to eat.
We ended up at this Mongolian food stand ordering big rice bowls -- our usual fare when we used to see each other more often. "It's been a long time since I've eaten here," I said as I watched with childlike wonder the girl behind the counter mixing vegetables in a deep, crimson bowl.
"Me too," he said with the same quiet awe. "Come to think of it, the last time I ate here was when I was with you."
"Hmm. You're right." We stayed silent until our orders were cooked. My head was reeling with questions, I had to hold on to something solid to steady myself. I looked at him again. He had his usual deadpan expression on, neutral and unreadable. The scent of his hair lingering like smoke, which my mind remembers so well. He tapped my shoulder to wake me from my reverie; our orders were done.
When we were seated, we talked about the usual small things. Where he was working, where I was working, complaints about officemates, of cranky relatives and moving out. I told him I was thinking of getting a haircut.
"O, why not? It's time for a change, don't you think?"
"Maybe," I said, picking through the vegetables in my rice bowl.
It took us about an hour to wade through each others' lives. I asked him about the book he was planning on writing, but he said it was on the shelf for now. I told him I'd still help if he needed it. He gave me a sad smile. "I need to be heading home," he said finally.
We got up and started walking. Both of us were quiet, but the hands in my pocket were fidgeting and restless. "Listen," I said, crackling my fingers, "I know you're a little averse to the topic, and I didn't want to bring it up... but I have to ask..." He glanced at me without a change in his stride, eyes black, without light, and waiting. "... are you seeing someone?"
There was that sad smile again. "I am. It's been a while now..." And I was sure he said other things, but at that moment, my mind retreated to its dark little corner without sound and time, leaving my physical body to fend for itself. I was giving the appropriate responses, sure. Smiling at the right moments, saying "Really" or "I see" without causing a break in the conversation, but that was it. The strings stretched taut in my mind were snapping and my ships were slowly sinking.
A little window to reality opened when he grabbed my hand again and waved. "I'll see you soon, alright?"
"Sure," I waved back. "Happy birthday." Turning around, I ran my fingers through my then long hair. I think I'll be having that haircut.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Late Night Letter
by: Sasha Soldatow
from: Private - Do Not Open
My dear you. Hi and all that.
I am writing you fleetingly after having seen you strangely for a moment. And probably it's all too foolish, but what the hell. So I hesitate to write, yet I feel like doing so. I've wanted to write for a couple of days. I sat down one afternoon and composed a partial letter. And oh how nice and gentle and wise I wished to appear. How much I wanted to set down words that would move you. Of course I ended up feeling sorry for myself. And then feeling stupid in the morning. Like a lost shark.
I wrote, 'I don't know whether I'm going to see you again, which makes it safe to write this letter to say some of the things I want to, and it's hard...' Of course I never got past that line. Then I saw you again tonight.
You! This is a bit of a dither and a mumble. And there is a danger that I will lie back and write this out in my head, never to send it.
What am I saying? Superficial things. Like, I like you and I don't quite know why or how it came about. But I do. And then everything gets confused with sex and friendship and love and sleeping together. It's uncertainty. Yet there's the feeling of warmth somewhere in there.
You know, there are many feelings I can put words to. Like, I want to feel important to people. People I like. Flattered by their attention. Of course I hide this. Then there's the protective me who announces, 'I have survived, so I know how to be good for others.' You've seen through this. Everyone knows this strength and this kind of survival. Then there's the sex game. I protect myself here also when it comes too close, preferring the hidden comfort of my own fantasies with someone I don't care for at all. You know that too. And then there are all those things of friendship that seem to involve so many years of time, which is too long. Because I want to go through it all so instantly. I once wrote, 'I want lovers like a family. I want friends like I once had god.' I think that's still true, though I wonder if I understand what I meant.
You! Relationships are accidental. That I know. But I've been too hung up on these accidents.
Hey, it's late, and I have a heavy day tomorrow. And I feel as if I haven't said all that much. And then, I don't know what more there is to say. Except everything. Which may be nothing specific. Maybe just hi. Talking slower. Feeling more comfortable. Not pretending. Not being heavy either. Not demanding -- something. I don't know. But there is also you. And I think about you. Which is saying what I want to say.
from: Private - Do Not Open
My dear you. Hi and all that.
I am writing you fleetingly after having seen you strangely for a moment. And probably it's all too foolish, but what the hell. So I hesitate to write, yet I feel like doing so. I've wanted to write for a couple of days. I sat down one afternoon and composed a partial letter. And oh how nice and gentle and wise I wished to appear. How much I wanted to set down words that would move you. Of course I ended up feeling sorry for myself. And then feeling stupid in the morning. Like a lost shark.
I wrote, 'I don't know whether I'm going to see you again, which makes it safe to write this letter to say some of the things I want to, and it's hard...' Of course I never got past that line. Then I saw you again tonight.
You! This is a bit of a dither and a mumble. And there is a danger that I will lie back and write this out in my head, never to send it.
What am I saying? Superficial things. Like, I like you and I don't quite know why or how it came about. But I do. And then everything gets confused with sex and friendship and love and sleeping together. It's uncertainty. Yet there's the feeling of warmth somewhere in there.
You know, there are many feelings I can put words to. Like, I want to feel important to people. People I like. Flattered by their attention. Of course I hide this. Then there's the protective me who announces, 'I have survived, so I know how to be good for others.' You've seen through this. Everyone knows this strength and this kind of survival. Then there's the sex game. I protect myself here also when it comes too close, preferring the hidden comfort of my own fantasies with someone I don't care for at all. You know that too. And then there are all those things of friendship that seem to involve so many years of time, which is too long. Because I want to go through it all so instantly. I once wrote, 'I want lovers like a family. I want friends like I once had god.' I think that's still true, though I wonder if I understand what I meant.
You! Relationships are accidental. That I know. But I've been too hung up on these accidents.
Hey, it's late, and I have a heavy day tomorrow. And I feel as if I haven't said all that much. And then, I don't know what more there is to say. Except everything. Which may be nothing specific. Maybe just hi. Talking slower. Feeling more comfortable. Not pretending. Not being heavy either. Not demanding -- something. I don't know. But there is also you. And I think about you. Which is saying what I want to say.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
And Miles To Go Before I Sleep, Deux
Boom. That’s what it must have sounded like, the fireworks on the other side of the bay. Only he didn’t hear it because he had headphones on. Not that it made any difference. The point of a fireworks display was in the seeing rather than the hearing after all. He watched the riot of colors bursting and illuminating the starless February evening sky. To his surprise it did lift his spirits some, considering when he left the house he felt dejected as a half-eaten week-old apple. He even began to wish for the fireworks display not to end.
It did end however, the same time the song on his player ended. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again as the first few bars of the next song started to strum through his head. He scanned the seascape for some other vision he could focus his eyes on. Ah, he breathed as he spotted a cruise ship from a fair distance. He was nearsighted, but the lights adorning the sides of the ship were detailed enough for him to appreciate it from where he was. More than that, it was the ship’s reflection on the water which caught the best part of his attention. It looked like a wall of fire turned upside down, crawling slowly, eerily on liquid blackness. The image made him shiver, although he thought it was very beautiful. He watched it for a while until it disappeared into the darkening horizon.
He felt a rush of excitement all of a sudden. He wanted to text the one person on his mind, Hey, I’m by the bay right now. I wish you could see what I’m seeing. I miss you. And he almost did as a matter of fact, but he decided against it as soon as he finished typing up the message.
He closed his eyes once more, almost convincing himself there would be another spectacle for him to waste his time on when he opens them again. There wasn’t, and he felt genuinely disappointed. He looked at his watch. It had only been thirty minutes since he sat down, and he felt the disappointment rising. He rubbed his eyes and thought of shutting off his mp3 player, but decided against it. He’d rather be listening to two songs on repeat instead of the steady drone of the couple to his right, or the group of old ladies to his left.
He doesn’t feel like going home yet, but he doesn’t feel like staying either, so he stood up and started walking again. To where, he doesn’t know, and he’s not really thinking much about it. He’d turn wherever there’s a corner, sometimes he’d go straight. When his intuition tells him to go back, he would, and turn a different corner. Eventually he reached an uphill street. Normally he’d avoid it, but another swelling of memory urged him on.
“Do you know what a fog of war is?” his voice again, asking the person walking beside him. It was such a cold, cold morning when they were headed out to explore Baguio during the first day of their stay. Not that it was unusual for a place situated high above the mountains. The winds in that altitude were almost alive, like little kids careening through the atmosphere, playing before the whole world completely wakes up. “No, what is it?” the other person said, voice hinting a slight shiver as he buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his windbreaker.
He glanced at his companion as they were trudging along the constantly ascending and descending streets of Session Road, looking for a quiet place where they could have breakfast. “If you’ve played a role-playing game on a PC before, it’s the uncharted section on the map covered in black ‘fog.’ It clears up as you travel through the area, discovering different territories, letting the rest of the story unfold.”
“I see,” the other person whispered. He wanted to hold his hand. Walking the fringes of such a vast landscape of uncharted territory looming over him was, in all essence, both scary and exciting. To be here, now, with the one person he wants to be with the most... somehow gives him strength.
But, as it turns out a few days later, he discovered that his initial fear was not unfounded and his excitement might have been an illusion (delusion?) for something else. Within three short days, his original intent to relax and re-evaluate his life was pushed further and further into his mind, as he was instead enshrouded in a false sense of intemperance just by being with him. He became too childish, careless, reckless, and he was caught off guard until he realized it the last day when they were about to go home.
“Are these clouds?” he asked his companion. The bus was cruising down the side of the mountain, and what was supposed to be overlooking the landscape was instead a sea of pure whiteness. It was like a dream. “It's actually fog,” the other person said. “But from down the mountain it might seem like clouds.”
He pressed his head to the cool glass window, and felt something break inside. “I see.”
A week since they’ve arrived in Manila, and gravity has yet to catch up with him. Little pieces of his heart were still floating aimlessly in the clouds. Baguio has left him bereft of warmth, but he would give anything to go back. “I miss Baguio,” the other person txted. It took a while before he was able to send out a reply. “I think about it a lot,” he txted back.
“I see.”
It did end however, the same time the song on his player ended. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again as the first few bars of the next song started to strum through his head. He scanned the seascape for some other vision he could focus his eyes on. Ah, he breathed as he spotted a cruise ship from a fair distance. He was nearsighted, but the lights adorning the sides of the ship were detailed enough for him to appreciate it from where he was. More than that, it was the ship’s reflection on the water which caught the best part of his attention. It looked like a wall of fire turned upside down, crawling slowly, eerily on liquid blackness. The image made him shiver, although he thought it was very beautiful. He watched it for a while until it disappeared into the darkening horizon.
He felt a rush of excitement all of a sudden. He wanted to text the one person on his mind, Hey, I’m by the bay right now. I wish you could see what I’m seeing. I miss you. And he almost did as a matter of fact, but he decided against it as soon as he finished typing up the message.
He closed his eyes once more, almost convincing himself there would be another spectacle for him to waste his time on when he opens them again. There wasn’t, and he felt genuinely disappointed. He looked at his watch. It had only been thirty minutes since he sat down, and he felt the disappointment rising. He rubbed his eyes and thought of shutting off his mp3 player, but decided against it. He’d rather be listening to two songs on repeat instead of the steady drone of the couple to his right, or the group of old ladies to his left.
He doesn’t feel like going home yet, but he doesn’t feel like staying either, so he stood up and started walking again. To where, he doesn’t know, and he’s not really thinking much about it. He’d turn wherever there’s a corner, sometimes he’d go straight. When his intuition tells him to go back, he would, and turn a different corner. Eventually he reached an uphill street. Normally he’d avoid it, but another swelling of memory urged him on.
“Do you know what a fog of war is?” his voice again, asking the person walking beside him. It was such a cold, cold morning when they were headed out to explore Baguio during the first day of their stay. Not that it was unusual for a place situated high above the mountains. The winds in that altitude were almost alive, like little kids careening through the atmosphere, playing before the whole world completely wakes up. “No, what is it?” the other person said, voice hinting a slight shiver as he buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his windbreaker.
He glanced at his companion as they were trudging along the constantly ascending and descending streets of Session Road, looking for a quiet place where they could have breakfast. “If you’ve played a role-playing game on a PC before, it’s the uncharted section on the map covered in black ‘fog.’ It clears up as you travel through the area, discovering different territories, letting the rest of the story unfold.”
“I see,” the other person whispered. He wanted to hold his hand. Walking the fringes of such a vast landscape of uncharted territory looming over him was, in all essence, both scary and exciting. To be here, now, with the one person he wants to be with the most... somehow gives him strength.
But, as it turns out a few days later, he discovered that his initial fear was not unfounded and his excitement might have been an illusion (delusion?) for something else. Within three short days, his original intent to relax and re-evaluate his life was pushed further and further into his mind, as he was instead enshrouded in a false sense of intemperance just by being with him. He became too childish, careless, reckless, and he was caught off guard until he realized it the last day when they were about to go home.
“Are these clouds?” he asked his companion. The bus was cruising down the side of the mountain, and what was supposed to be overlooking the landscape was instead a sea of pure whiteness. It was like a dream. “It's actually fog,” the other person said. “But from down the mountain it might seem like clouds.”
He pressed his head to the cool glass window, and felt something break inside. “I see.”
A week since they’ve arrived in Manila, and gravity has yet to catch up with him. Little pieces of his heart were still floating aimlessly in the clouds. Baguio has left him bereft of warmth, but he would give anything to go back. “I miss Baguio,” the other person txted. It took a while before he was able to send out a reply. “I think about it a lot,” he txted back.
“I see.”
Thursday, February 22, 2007
And Miles To Go Before I Sleep, Un
He woke up. He was lying on his side, eyes half-open, mind racing through a blurry maze of what was and what was not. Twenty four years of experience waking up and still he can’t get the hang of it. He closed his eyes again so his mind can stop running. Maybe he can focus better in the dark. He conjured up an image of his name. That’s who I am. He felt sick. Oh, right. I remember.
His hands crawled to where his mobile phone might be. He flipped it to life and opened an eye to check the time. 10:59 PM. No messages. Not that he was expecting any. He let out his first sigh for the evening and started to heave himself up. His body felt heavy, like a moving mass of rocks and cannonballs. On the edge of the bed he sat and rubbed what was left of -- he counts in his head -- four hours of sleep from his eyes. He felt the last wisps of whatever his dream was floating away. Whatever it was he dreamt of, he doesn’t remember now. There was a moment of regret and, an instant after, a spark of thankfulness. He wouldn’t want to remember anything going on in his head while he was asleep in this world. A mosaic of memories unreal, conjured up from regurgitated pieces of reality, like shards of several broken glasses trying to piece themselves back together, but always finding the wrong piece. Even the metaphor is too painful to think about.
He reached over the bedside table to where his comb was and started to rake through the gnarls and tangles his hair managed to twist itself over the hours. A couple of minutes and his breathing became less of an effort. His fingers deftly gathered the longer strands away from his face as he tied the lot back. He checked himself in the mirror, rubbed his eyes awake a little more, and smiled out of habit. He looked more or less alive now -- not a mist of dream from his pale, sun-deprived skin. You’ll do, whispered an echo from a passing, fading memory.
He sat on his small, beaten up swivel chair in front of the computer and pulled his knees up to his chin. While waiting for the programs he left the previous afternoon to fire up from hibernation, he started to think about the speech he needed to finish for his mother. Every year he writes the speeches his mother delivers during graduations and recognition ceremonies in her school and after a while, it’s become a sort of yearly tradition between the two of them. The idea of being able to convey his thoughts to young minds gives him a sense of purpose, even a perverse thrill. He was sure there was at least one or two in the audience listening who would somehow get what it is he really wanted to say -- a warning, that it’s not going to get any easier -- behind the glossy words and generalities lining the whole 5-minute tirade. That is, if his mother doesn’t change much of what he writes -- which he was almost sure she did.
Absent-mindedly, he untied his hair again and ran his fingers through it. I wish you’d cut them short, whispered another errant echo. He closed his eyes and let his memory drift towards the direction of the sound.
“Why?” he heard his own voice ask.
“You’d look better with shorter hair.”
“Will you like me better if I had shorter hair?” he answered, almost immediately, barely hiding the sharpness of each word behind a low, guarded voice. The other person smiled and looked at his food. He silently chided himself, feeling bad for saying something without thinking -- again. “Anyway it’s sort of a promise.”
“To someone?”
“No, to myself. I figured I was so bad at keeping promises, I felt I had to promise something I intend to keep, no matter what. So I promised myself I’d grow my hair long.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
“I see.”
When he opened his eyes, the programs were already running. The cursor was blinking on one corner of the blank document, awaiting orders. It looked like a little black imp, filled with contempt and disdain at being trapped inside an electronic device. He concentrated on it for a while, thinking of what to write. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but what he remembered was his eyes closing on their own, as if in a trance, while his mind tried to run after the recently exhumed dregs of memory.
No matter what, the voice kept on saying. He heard laughter. Soft guitar playing. A woman’s voice singing. Baguio, he shivered. Happy birthday, murmured a sleepy voice lying beside him.
Again, he woke up, the shock of white light in front of him came in waves through his brain. He saw the cursor blinking. Damn, he cursed under his breath. This is not healthy anymore. Get a grip. Glancing at the clock, he must have dozed off for ten minutes or so. He sat up straight and poised his fingers on the keyboard, ready to type what he needed to say, but his brain comes up with nothing. After several weak attempts at a first sentence, he gave up. He stood and rubbed his temples, chanting Get a grip, get a grip. Eight months is a long enough time, get a grip. He needed a long walk.
His hands crawled to where his mobile phone might be. He flipped it to life and opened an eye to check the time. 10:59 PM. No messages. Not that he was expecting any. He let out his first sigh for the evening and started to heave himself up. His body felt heavy, like a moving mass of rocks and cannonballs. On the edge of the bed he sat and rubbed what was left of -- he counts in his head -- four hours of sleep from his eyes. He felt the last wisps of whatever his dream was floating away. Whatever it was he dreamt of, he doesn’t remember now. There was a moment of regret and, an instant after, a spark of thankfulness. He wouldn’t want to remember anything going on in his head while he was asleep in this world. A mosaic of memories unreal, conjured up from regurgitated pieces of reality, like shards of several broken glasses trying to piece themselves back together, but always finding the wrong piece. Even the metaphor is too painful to think about.
He reached over the bedside table to where his comb was and started to rake through the gnarls and tangles his hair managed to twist itself over the hours. A couple of minutes and his breathing became less of an effort. His fingers deftly gathered the longer strands away from his face as he tied the lot back. He checked himself in the mirror, rubbed his eyes awake a little more, and smiled out of habit. He looked more or less alive now -- not a mist of dream from his pale, sun-deprived skin. You’ll do, whispered an echo from a passing, fading memory.
He sat on his small, beaten up swivel chair in front of the computer and pulled his knees up to his chin. While waiting for the programs he left the previous afternoon to fire up from hibernation, he started to think about the speech he needed to finish for his mother. Every year he writes the speeches his mother delivers during graduations and recognition ceremonies in her school and after a while, it’s become a sort of yearly tradition between the two of them. The idea of being able to convey his thoughts to young minds gives him a sense of purpose, even a perverse thrill. He was sure there was at least one or two in the audience listening who would somehow get what it is he really wanted to say -- a warning, that it’s not going to get any easier -- behind the glossy words and generalities lining the whole 5-minute tirade. That is, if his mother doesn’t change much of what he writes -- which he was almost sure she did.
Absent-mindedly, he untied his hair again and ran his fingers through it. I wish you’d cut them short, whispered another errant echo. He closed his eyes and let his memory drift towards the direction of the sound.
“Why?” he heard his own voice ask.
“You’d look better with shorter hair.”
“Will you like me better if I had shorter hair?” he answered, almost immediately, barely hiding the sharpness of each word behind a low, guarded voice. The other person smiled and looked at his food. He silently chided himself, feeling bad for saying something without thinking -- again. “Anyway it’s sort of a promise.”
“To someone?”
“No, to myself. I figured I was so bad at keeping promises, I felt I had to promise something I intend to keep, no matter what. So I promised myself I’d grow my hair long.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
“I see.”
When he opened his eyes, the programs were already running. The cursor was blinking on one corner of the blank document, awaiting orders. It looked like a little black imp, filled with contempt and disdain at being trapped inside an electronic device. He concentrated on it for a while, thinking of what to write. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but what he remembered was his eyes closing on their own, as if in a trance, while his mind tried to run after the recently exhumed dregs of memory.
No matter what, the voice kept on saying. He heard laughter. Soft guitar playing. A woman’s voice singing. Baguio, he shivered. Happy birthday, murmured a sleepy voice lying beside him.
Again, he woke up, the shock of white light in front of him came in waves through his brain. He saw the cursor blinking. Damn, he cursed under his breath. This is not healthy anymore. Get a grip. Glancing at the clock, he must have dozed off for ten minutes or so. He sat up straight and poised his fingers on the keyboard, ready to type what he needed to say, but his brain comes up with nothing. After several weak attempts at a first sentence, he gave up. He stood and rubbed his temples, chanting Get a grip, get a grip. Eight months is a long enough time, get a grip. He needed a long walk.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Memory Is My Pill
I have to commit what happened tonight to memory, and that is why I'm doing this now -- getting into the room -- before anything else.
No, nothing majorly major happened. As a matter of fact, I shouldn't really be making a big deal out of this. But for my sake, I WANT to make a big deal out of it, because I need to learn something from it. That's why here I am, now, writing about it before doing anything else.
OK. So, after going to the rather uneventful Komikon in UP Diliman (except of course seeing Carl again), a friend, whom we shall refer to as L, and I decided to have dinner at Katipunan while waiting for another friend of mine, V, whom I asked to accompany me to a friend's girlfriend's birthday party in Acropolis in Libis.
After much deliberation on how we can effectively budget our dwindling funds to buy us a filling yet inexpensive meal (bless the Greenwich counter girl who put up with our fickle-mindedness), we both decided on getting something light since I will be eating at the party, and L will be eating at home. Shortly after receiving our orders, V arrived and joined us for dinner as well. The party thing was supposed to start at 8:00 PM and it was already 7:30, but since I wanted to be as late as possible, I asked L to read my cards for me once again.
At first I promised myself not to ask anything about R, so I didn't. Instead I asked about work, and the cards said nothing conclusive about it. Oh, just that my life is currently very boring. (Like I needed a bunch of mean and stupid cards to tell it to my face, right. But anyway...) I also asked if I'll be dating someone soon and the cards said no (big surprise there). Upside is I'll be having sex with someone in the near future (about damn time).
And, after the inevitable fall of my already crumbling resolve into so much useless emotional gravel, I ended up asking about R. Suffice it to say, L was quite annoyed (because I have been talking about nothing else everytime we're together) and amused (because he enjoys seeing me suffer), but he read the cards anyway. Alas, once again, the cards told me what I already knew. That the things making me suffer are of my own creation.
With the usual groan of disappointment which I had been quite used to doing of late, I dismissed it as wise but nothing really new. It had no new help for my conviction to build something stronger on to aid my eternal battle against the cruel machinations of love and relationships.
After that short episode of me affirming my misery to the world once again, L and V moved on to more important and socially-relevant topics such as achieving that supermodel glamour through glutathione and diamond peel. I listened cluelessly but attentively, amusing myself with how excited the two were getting. It appeared the night will continue to be uneventful, but we all settled into a nice and complacent fine-we're-not-complaining mood for the rest of dinner.
But a-HA. The plot is yet to thicken. The universe wasn't quite through with me yet after all. At around 8:30-something, I told the guys it was already time for V and I to head for the party. The three of us stepped out of Greenwich into the cooling October evening air, with minimal hopes of the night getting any better -- or worse, for that matter. L said he needed to buy smokes before going home so we walked the short distance to a small sidewalk vendor, and there, in front of National Bookstore, I saw R walking towards the direction opposite us.
At first I thought it wasn't him. But second after leadened second, it slowly sunk into me that yes, the person several feet away from me was indeed R. He saw me. I was almost absolutely and positively sure that he saw me, but it only took an eighth of a second for him to avert his eyes and look as if he didn't see me, so it's still possible that he didn't.
But oh, how I felt the air in the distance between us tense so vividly as he inadvertently turned and headed inside National Bookstore for sanctuary. It was like stones dropping onto my hands, the way each of his footsteps fell -- so controlled and deliberate, from casual and nonchalant moments ago. And it paralysed me out of my wits.
My brain was trying to register something V said. "Oh God," I think it was. "Podi, it's R."
"I know," said a voice that was mine, only coming from a distant planet inside me. I gripped at V's shoulders and hid my face in shame.
L's tarot readings poured over my memory slowly like old wine, medicinal and intoxicating at the same time. The things making me suffer are of my own creation. And, hard as it was for me to swallow the simple and seemingly trivial statement, I had to accept the bitter truth in it.
Why is it true?
Alright Podi, listen up. You need to remember this, that's why you're writing down what happened tonight.
One: in Baguio, it was already made clear by R for you not to take him seriously because he cannot -- repeat, CANNOT -- be in a relationship. True, you were not able to accept this from him before, dismissing it as complete crap, but after talking with him about it -- yes, you TALKED, and don't deny it for the sake of drama -- you said you understood him and you accepted the cannot-ness of it all.
Two: he accepts you as a friend, and he says he cares for you, even going to the extent of saying he "loves" you (with the complementary "but not in that way" add-on), and once again, you ACCEPTED it. You admitted to yourself this is better than losing him completely. You said you cannot ever abandon him just because your, well, love for him is incongruent with his love for you. AND it is your firm belief that it is completely and utterly selfish of someone to abandon someone they love, whatever kind it may be.
Three: he is moving on with his life. AND it is entirely possible that he is seeing other people too. As a matter of fact he is! He told you so himself, right? Of course, with his usual disclaimer being that he doesn't see the person "in that way," or he "cannot be in a relationship." Still you get jealous, sure, but by what cosmic right do you have to harbor such a destructive, dark emotion? Because you love him? Fine. F I N E. We're past that. You love him. You made the decision to do so, and everything was right with the world.
HOWEVER, while the universe agrees that it is in perfect harmony with nature to love someone as fiercely as you do, it does not mean you will stagnantly burn yourself with the intensity of such love for the rest of your sorry, sad life. MOVE ON, PARE. It is still possible to love someone completely, and yourself at the same time! Despite its endless complexities, pure love is undoubtedly boundless!
Look, if you don't believe me, then believe in Sailor Moon. Remember that episode in PGSM when Usagi saw Mamoru and his then girlfriend, whatserface, lying unconscious because of another youma attack? It nearly broke your heart when you saw Mamoru's hands gripping whatserface's own! Poor Usagi-chan, she must be dying inside! BUT NO. Instead, Usagi... smiled. A gentle smile. And I'm not bullshitting here, but it really was the kind of smile that would wrap itself around your little heart like a warm, little blanket, and you never ever want to leave. It was that kind of smile. Anyway, she knelt before them and said, "Loving someone... that's something good isn't it?" And she, with her own as yet unawakened power, healed the two completely.
And it killed you. The concept of a love so limitless, so boundless as someone only Usagi could have afforded to feel crushed you to a million little pieces. No, she did not telekinetically smash a hundred wooden chairs into Mamo-chan's body. And no, she did not impale whatserface endlessly with an array of iron spikes and jam the Moon Sceptre up her ass for good measure, all in a torrent of rage and jealousy. But because she is Sailor Moon, she accepted the love the two felt for each other and used that love to heal them both. That is her power -- limitless, boundless love.
Now the point of the whole story is this. You love R, Podi. But please, for the sake of all that is good on this Earth, do not burn because of it. ACCEPT IT. Be happy that you have achieved the victory of falling in love with someone. In this sick, sad, crazy world we live in, love has been mutated and mutilated an infinite number of times, it's hard to tell what is true and what is not anymore. But you -- YOU know this is love. Draw strength from it, and live your life knowing that you have achieved this victory.
As for R not loving you back, well, in the end, does it really matter? It could hurt, yes, but before being reactive about it, try to understand where the hurt is really coming from. Once you understand it, you will realize that the point is you're happy when he's happy. And when he's happy, nothing else really matters much, right?
So be happy for R, and go on living your life. After all, despite all the things you've gone through, and despite the situation you are in now, you, of all people, deserve to be happy too.
No, nothing majorly major happened. As a matter of fact, I shouldn't really be making a big deal out of this. But for my sake, I WANT to make a big deal out of it, because I need to learn something from it. That's why here I am, now, writing about it before doing anything else.
OK. So, after going to the rather uneventful Komikon in UP Diliman (except of course seeing Carl again), a friend, whom we shall refer to as L, and I decided to have dinner at Katipunan while waiting for another friend of mine, V, whom I asked to accompany me to a friend's girlfriend's birthday party in Acropolis in Libis.
After much deliberation on how we can effectively budget our dwindling funds to buy us a filling yet inexpensive meal (bless the Greenwich counter girl who put up with our fickle-mindedness), we both decided on getting something light since I will be eating at the party, and L will be eating at home. Shortly after receiving our orders, V arrived and joined us for dinner as well. The party thing was supposed to start at 8:00 PM and it was already 7:30, but since I wanted to be as late as possible, I asked L to read my cards for me once again.
At first I promised myself not to ask anything about R, so I didn't. Instead I asked about work, and the cards said nothing conclusive about it. Oh, just that my life is currently very boring. (Like I needed a bunch of mean and stupid cards to tell it to my face, right. But anyway...) I also asked if I'll be dating someone soon and the cards said no (big surprise there). Upside is I'll be having sex with someone in the near future (about damn time).
And, after the inevitable fall of my already crumbling resolve into so much useless emotional gravel, I ended up asking about R. Suffice it to say, L was quite annoyed (because I have been talking about nothing else everytime we're together) and amused (because he enjoys seeing me suffer), but he read the cards anyway. Alas, once again, the cards told me what I already knew. That the things making me suffer are of my own creation.
With the usual groan of disappointment which I had been quite used to doing of late, I dismissed it as wise but nothing really new. It had no new help for my conviction to build something stronger on to aid my eternal battle against the cruel machinations of love and relationships.
After that short episode of me affirming my misery to the world once again, L and V moved on to more important and socially-relevant topics such as achieving that supermodel glamour through glutathione and diamond peel. I listened cluelessly but attentively, amusing myself with how excited the two were getting. It appeared the night will continue to be uneventful, but we all settled into a nice and complacent fine-we're-not-complaining mood for the rest of dinner.
But a-HA. The plot is yet to thicken. The universe wasn't quite through with me yet after all. At around 8:30-something, I told the guys it was already time for V and I to head for the party. The three of us stepped out of Greenwich into the cooling October evening air, with minimal hopes of the night getting any better -- or worse, for that matter. L said he needed to buy smokes before going home so we walked the short distance to a small sidewalk vendor, and there, in front of National Bookstore, I saw R walking towards the direction opposite us.
At first I thought it wasn't him. But second after leadened second, it slowly sunk into me that yes, the person several feet away from me was indeed R. He saw me. I was almost absolutely and positively sure that he saw me, but it only took an eighth of a second for him to avert his eyes and look as if he didn't see me, so it's still possible that he didn't.
But oh, how I felt the air in the distance between us tense so vividly as he inadvertently turned and headed inside National Bookstore for sanctuary. It was like stones dropping onto my hands, the way each of his footsteps fell -- so controlled and deliberate, from casual and nonchalant moments ago. And it paralysed me out of my wits.
My brain was trying to register something V said. "Oh God," I think it was. "Podi, it's R."
"I know," said a voice that was mine, only coming from a distant planet inside me. I gripped at V's shoulders and hid my face in shame.
L's tarot readings poured over my memory slowly like old wine, medicinal and intoxicating at the same time. The things making me suffer are of my own creation. And, hard as it was for me to swallow the simple and seemingly trivial statement, I had to accept the bitter truth in it.
Why is it true?
Alright Podi, listen up. You need to remember this, that's why you're writing down what happened tonight.
One: in Baguio, it was already made clear by R for you not to take him seriously because he cannot -- repeat, CANNOT -- be in a relationship. True, you were not able to accept this from him before, dismissing it as complete crap, but after talking with him about it -- yes, you TALKED, and don't deny it for the sake of drama -- you said you understood him and you accepted the cannot-ness of it all.
Two: he accepts you as a friend, and he says he cares for you, even going to the extent of saying he "loves" you (with the complementary "but not in that way" add-on), and once again, you ACCEPTED it. You admitted to yourself this is better than losing him completely. You said you cannot ever abandon him just because your, well, love for him is incongruent with his love for you. AND it is your firm belief that it is completely and utterly selfish of someone to abandon someone they love, whatever kind it may be.
Three: he is moving on with his life. AND it is entirely possible that he is seeing other people too. As a matter of fact he is! He told you so himself, right? Of course, with his usual disclaimer being that he doesn't see the person "in that way," or he "cannot be in a relationship." Still you get jealous, sure, but by what cosmic right do you have to harbor such a destructive, dark emotion? Because you love him? Fine. F I N E. We're past that. You love him. You made the decision to do so, and everything was right with the world.
HOWEVER, while the universe agrees that it is in perfect harmony with nature to love someone as fiercely as you do, it does not mean you will stagnantly burn yourself with the intensity of such love for the rest of your sorry, sad life. MOVE ON, PARE. It is still possible to love someone completely, and yourself at the same time! Despite its endless complexities, pure love is undoubtedly boundless!
Look, if you don't believe me, then believe in Sailor Moon. Remember that episode in PGSM when Usagi saw Mamoru and his then girlfriend, whatserface, lying unconscious because of another youma attack? It nearly broke your heart when you saw Mamoru's hands gripping whatserface's own! Poor Usagi-chan, she must be dying inside! BUT NO. Instead, Usagi... smiled. A gentle smile. And I'm not bullshitting here, but it really was the kind of smile that would wrap itself around your little heart like a warm, little blanket, and you never ever want to leave. It was that kind of smile. Anyway, she knelt before them and said, "Loving someone... that's something good isn't it?" And she, with her own as yet unawakened power, healed the two completely.
And it killed you. The concept of a love so limitless, so boundless as someone only Usagi could have afforded to feel crushed you to a million little pieces. No, she did not telekinetically smash a hundred wooden chairs into Mamo-chan's body. And no, she did not impale whatserface endlessly with an array of iron spikes and jam the Moon Sceptre up her ass for good measure, all in a torrent of rage and jealousy. But because she is Sailor Moon, she accepted the love the two felt for each other and used that love to heal them both. That is her power -- limitless, boundless love.
Now the point of the whole story is this. You love R, Podi. But please, for the sake of all that is good on this Earth, do not burn because of it. ACCEPT IT. Be happy that you have achieved the victory of falling in love with someone. In this sick, sad, crazy world we live in, love has been mutated and mutilated an infinite number of times, it's hard to tell what is true and what is not anymore. But you -- YOU know this is love. Draw strength from it, and live your life knowing that you have achieved this victory.
As for R not loving you back, well, in the end, does it really matter? It could hurt, yes, but before being reactive about it, try to understand where the hurt is really coming from. Once you understand it, you will realize that the point is you're happy when he's happy. And when he's happy, nothing else really matters much, right?
So be happy for R, and go on living your life. After all, despite all the things you've gone through, and despite the situation you are in now, you, of all people, deserve to be happy too.
Friday, October 06, 2006
A Decision One Makes
All week, I've been thinking if love is a decision one makes, or if one finds oneself in it without knowing? Is there a moment when one stops and breathes, "I am in love?" Or is one already in love, and simply decides whether to continue swimming in that pool of emotion or walk away? Because a week ago I made a decision, and it felt like a seal on me, a firebrand. And on my tongue I could have sworn it tasted a little like dying, when "your life flashes before your eyes." Which it did, my life. Or what's left of it, I suppose.
Margaret Atwood was right. If we knew in advance the consequences of our decisions, we would be doomed and ruined. The irony is that there is triumph in ignorance, and there is tragedy in wisdom. And that tragedy, that hopelessness is maybe what gave me the courage, the stupidity to admit such a truth to myself. I figured I didn't have enough of a life left to lose, so I threw all caution to the wind and gave in. After all, I have always said that I prefer a love like forest fires, like runaway trains. Let me tell you, it doesn't get any more devastating than this. "The more tragic, the better," the song says. Well I'm raising my red flag, and zeroing in for the kill.
This is my decision and my word, whether you accept it or not, whether it sustains me or kills me. You are loved -- by me, by my entire being, and by a force within me so great and terrible I can't even name it. You will never be alone, and you don't ever need to be afraid. I will protect you. And my name, and the rest of my stupid, sad, sorry little life I give you, for all it's worth.
I ask nothing in return. Not your love, for it is yours to give to whomever you choose. Not understanding, when nobody else would -- or rather, is able to. Just maybe... an acceptance. An acknowledgment. A thank you, or a nod my way. Letting me know that you see me, and that you are glad to be living your life happily. If I believe in nothing else, then please let me believe in that.
Margaret Atwood was right. If we knew in advance the consequences of our decisions, we would be doomed and ruined. The irony is that there is triumph in ignorance, and there is tragedy in wisdom. And that tragedy, that hopelessness is maybe what gave me the courage, the stupidity to admit such a truth to myself. I figured I didn't have enough of a life left to lose, so I threw all caution to the wind and gave in. After all, I have always said that I prefer a love like forest fires, like runaway trains. Let me tell you, it doesn't get any more devastating than this. "The more tragic, the better," the song says. Well I'm raising my red flag, and zeroing in for the kill.
This is my decision and my word, whether you accept it or not, whether it sustains me or kills me. You are loved -- by me, by my entire being, and by a force within me so great and terrible I can't even name it. You will never be alone, and you don't ever need to be afraid. I will protect you. And my name, and the rest of my stupid, sad, sorry little life I give you, for all it's worth.
I ask nothing in return. Not your love, for it is yours to give to whomever you choose. Not understanding, when nobody else would -- or rather, is able to. Just maybe... an acceptance. An acknowledgment. A thank you, or a nod my way. Letting me know that you see me, and that you are glad to be living your life happily. If I believe in nothing else, then please let me believe in that.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
The Tragedy of Recursion
there was a time, not long ago
i believed with resolute conviction
whenever i said, "enough."
there was a time
i believed each drop of rain had a name
and yours, the one hardest to forget,
carved itself through me.
(i wear the scar within the folds of my skin
like a silver cross on a chain, secretly.)
then there was the time i stopped blaming you
because it was not your fault --
never your fault --
that the wall of lies i'd built
started crumbling down on me,
deluding myself every inch of it was true.
perhaps now is the time to stop clinging
and time to stop fooling myself
time to stop living in a pipe dream
that i am strong enough, mad enough to stay
time to stop believing when i say,
"it's not enough,"
when,
as a matter of fact,
it is.
•••
It amazed me how easily you seemed to have said it. "I had the perfectest date." Simple, innocent, noncommittal. Much similar to when someone would say, "I had puttanesca for dinner," or "I see your point." And for a minute, I actually believed 'perfectest' was a real word. One never knows what you will say next.
I, for one, never knew how being hit by a sledgehammer felt like until you've finished saying what you just said. And you carried on too, chronicling how he went to your place first and then going to the mall together afterwards, and how you had a spectacular time, agreeing to meet again the following night.
To my credit, I found myself uttering complete nonsense such as, "Wow," or "That's great," or "Really," successfully keeping to my fingers what I really wanted to say, which, I think was to the effect of, "Could you please not tell me about it anymore? Ever?"
However, no sooner than I thunk it did I discover my fingers betraying my thoughts, sending the exact same message to your IM window. It was immediately followed by, "I'm sorry I didn't imagine it would be this painful." And finally, "I'll let you know when I'm OK." And then a smiley :-) for good measure. Then I disconnected.
I didn't die, as I'd hoped I would. What did happen, what it did feel, was like being launched into space, without warning. Alien abductors crashed through the windows of the 21st floor office, carrying me up past the exosphere without so much as a bubble helmet, and leaving me there to suffocate in cosmic dust.
I was beaten. Defeated by my own delusions. And once again I am here, orbiting in the dark expanse of space. Waiting for gravity to pull me, hoping this time around, my feet will stick firmly to the ground.
i believed with resolute conviction
whenever i said, "enough."
there was a time
i believed each drop of rain had a name
and yours, the one hardest to forget,
carved itself through me.
(i wear the scar within the folds of my skin
like a silver cross on a chain, secretly.)
then there was the time i stopped blaming you
because it was not your fault --
never your fault --
that the wall of lies i'd built
started crumbling down on me,
deluding myself every inch of it was true.
perhaps now is the time to stop clinging
and time to stop fooling myself
time to stop living in a pipe dream
that i am strong enough, mad enough to stay
time to stop believing when i say,
"it's not enough,"
when,
as a matter of fact,
it is.
It amazed me how easily you seemed to have said it. "I had the perfectest date." Simple, innocent, noncommittal. Much similar to when someone would say, "I had puttanesca for dinner," or "I see your point." And for a minute, I actually believed 'perfectest' was a real word. One never knows what you will say next.
I, for one, never knew how being hit by a sledgehammer felt like until you've finished saying what you just said. And you carried on too, chronicling how he went to your place first and then going to the mall together afterwards, and how you had a spectacular time, agreeing to meet again the following night.
To my credit, I found myself uttering complete nonsense such as, "Wow," or "That's great," or "Really," successfully keeping to my fingers what I really wanted to say, which, I think was to the effect of, "Could you please not tell me about it anymore? Ever?"
However, no sooner than I thunk it did I discover my fingers betraying my thoughts, sending the exact same message to your IM window. It was immediately followed by, "I'm sorry I didn't imagine it would be this painful." And finally, "I'll let you know when I'm OK." And then a smiley :-) for good measure. Then I disconnected.
I didn't die, as I'd hoped I would. What did happen, what it did feel, was like being launched into space, without warning. Alien abductors crashed through the windows of the 21st floor office, carrying me up past the exosphere without so much as a bubble helmet, and leaving me there to suffocate in cosmic dust.
I was beaten. Defeated by my own delusions. And once again I am here, orbiting in the dark expanse of space. Waiting for gravity to pull me, hoping this time around, my feet will stick firmly to the ground.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Could be Worse. Could be Raining.
Mercury Retrograde is in full force, and it won't be stopping for breath until the end of July it seems. Just some of the weird things that have been happening:
(1) The cosmos has been doing its darned best to keep me from buying a new mp3 player, specifically, an iRiver T10. After a series of failed attempts at making the purchase, I decided not to push it anymore lest I be struck down by lightning or something similar for being so thick-headed.
(2) I've been getting weary of playing Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. Loading times are a bitch, and the plot is drowning from too many side quests. Might uninstall it later or tomorrow.
(3) Things have never looked bleaker at work. I've been feeling the crunch for weeks now, but this time I think something might happen that could compromise my future in this company. While I do prefer doing something else -- something I like doing, for starters -- it's undeniable that this job still pays the bills and it's going to be difficult for me if I let go of this for now. Three words: KEEP YOUR COOL.
(4) To affirm all of these, I just had my cards read by a friend earlier this evening and he said that right now more so than ever, negative things have been coming at me from all directions, whether or not it's because of Mercury Retrograde.
And in the middle of this emotional wasteland is You. I suppose I should be grateful, if anything, You've been teaching me to be really patient -- regardless of the fact that You're not even aware of it, or my feelings for You for that matter.
Sigh. I suppose I could wait (like I had any choice). Let's just hope by the time things start looking up for me, You'd still be there. If not with me, then at least somewhere near me.
(1) The cosmos has been doing its darned best to keep me from buying a new mp3 player, specifically, an iRiver T10. After a series of failed attempts at making the purchase, I decided not to push it anymore lest I be struck down by lightning or something similar for being so thick-headed.
(2) I've been getting weary of playing Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. Loading times are a bitch, and the plot is drowning from too many side quests. Might uninstall it later or tomorrow.
(3) Things have never looked bleaker at work. I've been feeling the crunch for weeks now, but this time I think something might happen that could compromise my future in this company. While I do prefer doing something else -- something I like doing, for starters -- it's undeniable that this job still pays the bills and it's going to be difficult for me if I let go of this for now. Three words: KEEP YOUR COOL.
(4) To affirm all of these, I just had my cards read by a friend earlier this evening and he said that right now more so than ever, negative things have been coming at me from all directions, whether or not it's because of Mercury Retrograde.
And in the middle of this emotional wasteland is You. I suppose I should be grateful, if anything, You've been teaching me to be really patient -- regardless of the fact that You're not even aware of it, or my feelings for You for that matter.
Sigh. I suppose I could wait (like I had any choice). Let's just hope by the time things start looking up for me, You'd still be there. If not with me, then at least somewhere near me.