Drunken notes belie my compassion. Or perhaps, the evidence of truth, no matter how fleeting a glance it is that I am afforded, shatters the lofty ideals with which I push through every day.
Love, or not even that, can be quite endearing and capturing. It defeats the theoretical promise of devotion and unrequited steadfastness. It chases away the sun that threatens to rise at 5:18am, in favor of small, unnoticed, stupid smiles at what has been seen, even though it has not been experienced.
Truth be told, I sometimes sit up and I have no idea why I love you.
I often quiet myself by telling myself that to get through one day is to get one step closer to fighting the world and staying true, despite being on the sidelines.
Truth be told, I sometimes have no idea why I love you. What am I holding on to? Who are you, when the sun has risen and I no longer have in my heart the pristine memory of you, whom I left 3 years ago? After all, isn't that why I didn't look back?
Please forgive me, I'm feeling fragile at the moment. I'm feeling fragile, but as of yet unbroken. I find myself writing more often now, and thinking more feverishly. Perhaps it is the closeness of this reality which stirs a certain panic in me. Maybe it's because every time, every single time, I envision myself introducing you.
I'm feeling fragile, yet unbroken at the moment. I'm writing much more often now, and that makes me afraid.
Tomorrow must come sooner, though I fear the sunrise.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Back to the Beginning
It's a Sunday evening that really is a Monday midnight. I'm back home to the familiar winds, the humidity that sticks, the general disorder.
Tonight is the preface of the story that started its narrative 3 years ago.
For the longest time, I've been stuck against this wall, holding my head close, hoping to hear some comforting sound aside from the groan of a desperate ear and constant longing of a heart against what is a solid divide. I've composed my own vows: pledged my promises for your happiness and my quiet -- I've ennobled my devotion and unexplained dedication.
My eyes were set upon stone. I saw you for all I wanted you to be, and I was content. My world had been limited and my options defined. I chose - you know I chose - I chose you. I chose you that day when we were far away, and I realized with more poignancy than ever that all I tried to catch, I did for my own sake, and not for what I had pretended to be the best for us. I chose you the moment I opened my eyes, put my phone in my pocket, and went on with my day. I chose you, because it gave me reason and gave you peace.
My heart was complete, but constructed with a gap. My mind stopped questioning my senses and allowed myself my own truth. The sky was gloomy, then clear, and I slipped to the clouds.
But then, years later, I touched back down. My solace was splintered by two voices, neither of whom was yours, but both of which I wanted to hear. I was afforded a crack in the wall that now I painfully chip and try to break through.
You cried.
The world had been stolen from under your feet, and you looked bitter and you cried. Now they tell me that I was really quite transparent, and that apparently you aren't.
Why now? What of it? Is stupidity worth hurting the both of us again? My perfect wall, as with all of me when it comes to this, presents itself as flawed. I am again plagued by indecisiveness. You again have captured my heart, as you did all those years ago. But this time, my intentions are clouded with malevolence because, as selfish as this sounds, I want to break you and put you back together as mine. I want to be your savior: the only one who saw you in pieces, and remembered you as whole.
The rain patters on my windowsill and I look cautiously at the clock that's about to call the sun. My mind is full of questions, and my heart empty in anticipation. I have a feeling that the storm will pass soon, and the heat of the sun will again beat down as I remember it to. Tomorrow they'll be working to put things back in order; I have something to talk to you about.
Tomorrow, we'll see.
Tonight is the preface of the story that started its narrative 3 years ago.
For the longest time, I've been stuck against this wall, holding my head close, hoping to hear some comforting sound aside from the groan of a desperate ear and constant longing of a heart against what is a solid divide. I've composed my own vows: pledged my promises for your happiness and my quiet -- I've ennobled my devotion and unexplained dedication.
My eyes were set upon stone. I saw you for all I wanted you to be, and I was content. My world had been limited and my options defined. I chose - you know I chose - I chose you. I chose you that day when we were far away, and I realized with more poignancy than ever that all I tried to catch, I did for my own sake, and not for what I had pretended to be the best for us. I chose you the moment I opened my eyes, put my phone in my pocket, and went on with my day. I chose you, because it gave me reason and gave you peace.
My heart was complete, but constructed with a gap. My mind stopped questioning my senses and allowed myself my own truth. The sky was gloomy, then clear, and I slipped to the clouds.
But then, years later, I touched back down. My solace was splintered by two voices, neither of whom was yours, but both of which I wanted to hear. I was afforded a crack in the wall that now I painfully chip and try to break through.
You cried.
The world had been stolen from under your feet, and you looked bitter and you cried. Now they tell me that I was really quite transparent, and that apparently you aren't.
Why now? What of it? Is stupidity worth hurting the both of us again? My perfect wall, as with all of me when it comes to this, presents itself as flawed. I am again plagued by indecisiveness. You again have captured my heart, as you did all those years ago. But this time, my intentions are clouded with malevolence because, as selfish as this sounds, I want to break you and put you back together as mine. I want to be your savior: the only one who saw you in pieces, and remembered you as whole.
The rain patters on my windowsill and I look cautiously at the clock that's about to call the sun. My mind is full of questions, and my heart empty in anticipation. I have a feeling that the storm will pass soon, and the heat of the sun will again beat down as I remember it to. Tomorrow they'll be working to put things back in order; I have something to talk to you about.
Tomorrow, we'll see.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
supposed closure
I want, more than anything, to be caught in that moment when I told you how I felt, and you had not yet answered. I want, more than anything, to hold on to uncertainty, to this vague hope that maybe, just maybe, there is something greater than this pedestrian story.
The cars were zooming past. I did not know where I was, when I would get to where I was going, what you must've been doing. I only knew for certain what I'd known for more than 2 years now. That, and that I was awash with a drunkenness borne not of alcohol, but of an idealistic sweep that made me hope irreverently for the impossible to happen.
I still do not know why I always speak in half-assed poetry. I was going to say it right, this time. Say it straight, say it directly. The cards would be on the table, the ball in your court.
I've loved you. And I still love you.
I knew it since way back then. I also felt what your answer would most likely be. But some deep impetus within myself felt the need, today, to tell you definitively how the world before and behind us lay. I did not want to be fair.
Immediately, from the freeway with zooming cars full of people going where they needed to go, I was transported back to that afternoon on the 23rd of June. I came there to tell you that I was leaving. I had a vague idea where I was going, but I did not know where I was going in my heart. Suddenly, I was back to two years ago, in the driveway of a house with a heat I hadn't experienced since then beating down on my nape, and a dog barking at me to get the hell out. I was standing, not sitting, my left foot methodically going in front of my right, my right in front of my left.
I wish I chose to look back.
I was free, then. The sun was shining, the world lay ahead, I was about to embark on this great journey. So what if I had only accomplished half of what I wanted to tell you? That veiled truth, understood by the both of us, but by no means admitted, gave me permission to act toward you the way I did. You understood what I meant. You did not need anything else. I know that now.
Today, I was stuck in a car, in a gloomy Thursday's atmosphere, telling you all sorts of words and feelings. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to get out, run into the middle of the road, and heave and breathe and hyperventilate. The world no longer lay in front of me. A wall had been placed that I could never pass. I felt smaller, and humbled.
Even the words of my narrative fail me. Nothing was certain in my mind excepting the fact that I loved you. That I've loved you. That I will love you, no matter what.
That damned word, love.
I said it before, that there are times when you know you love when you don't even want to use the word "love" because it cannot nearly mean everything you want it to. I should've listened to my advice.
I love you, I love you, I love you ad infinitum; but I do not merely "love" you.
I am devoted to you. I am filled with pride for you. I am completely in awe of you. I am committed to you. I am a million other things there are no words for for you. I love you, with the urgency of a sunset: that quiet, steady, but inevitable explosion of sentimentality and poetry and pinks and purples and oranges. I love you, with the intensity of the night wind that brushes and caresses, but chills to the bones. I love you enough to imagine a happy ending, but also enough to wish you a happy ending with anyone... even though I'd really like for it to be with me.
My words may have driven you away. Perhaps the selfishness of my needing closure divided us. Perhaps my cowardice and impatience, which drove me to tell you of my heart and soul in the limited and ambiguous medium of words ruined it all. Maybe I scared you with a word that I didn't even want to use, but had complete honesty and meaning in usage.
I love you, damn it. In that crazy rhetoric of laughter and loss of sanity, and unreasonable dedication. In the angry passion of teenage nothingness, and the unwavering sincerity of later love.
I don't need romance. I don't need sex. I don't need titles. I don't need family Christmas cards, nor flowers on valentine's day, nor sweet dinners for two. I just need the silence. The comfortable and meaningful silence of sitting next to each other and watching the world fall down around us and not caring. I need the silence we had. I need the silence that I think I've chased away because of my impulsive need to use words, and titles.
I was stupid ad infinitum. And I realize now that I might've killed something so completely beautiful.
In my heart, it's November, or January, or maybe even August. It will always be one of those quiet, uneventful nights. One of those nights when I sat beside you, and knew that I loved you, and that was good enough for me. My soul will always implode in search of this invisible night, forgotten in the tides of my memory. And I would be your friend. A very dear friend.
It is June 3, the sky is gloomy, and the words of doves and flames cannot resurrect the glorious sunshine of days past. It is cold. My feet are firmly planted on the floor. My eyes are focused and dry. My hands are folded, and painfully empty. There is no last hug. There are no tears.
but still, despite all this, there will be no goodbye's until goodbye.
When the world is mean, and the winds are cold, and there is nobody there. Maybe then I can have a chance.
The cars were zooming past. I did not know where I was, when I would get to where I was going, what you must've been doing. I only knew for certain what I'd known for more than 2 years now. That, and that I was awash with a drunkenness borne not of alcohol, but of an idealistic sweep that made me hope irreverently for the impossible to happen.
I still do not know why I always speak in half-assed poetry. I was going to say it right, this time. Say it straight, say it directly. The cards would be on the table, the ball in your court.
I've loved you. And I still love you.
I knew it since way back then. I also felt what your answer would most likely be. But some deep impetus within myself felt the need, today, to tell you definitively how the world before and behind us lay. I did not want to be fair.
Immediately, from the freeway with zooming cars full of people going where they needed to go, I was transported back to that afternoon on the 23rd of June. I came there to tell you that I was leaving. I had a vague idea where I was going, but I did not know where I was going in my heart. Suddenly, I was back to two years ago, in the driveway of a house with a heat I hadn't experienced since then beating down on my nape, and a dog barking at me to get the hell out. I was standing, not sitting, my left foot methodically going in front of my right, my right in front of my left.
I wish I chose to look back.
I was free, then. The sun was shining, the world lay ahead, I was about to embark on this great journey. So what if I had only accomplished half of what I wanted to tell you? That veiled truth, understood by the both of us, but by no means admitted, gave me permission to act toward you the way I did. You understood what I meant. You did not need anything else. I know that now.
Today, I was stuck in a car, in a gloomy Thursday's atmosphere, telling you all sorts of words and feelings. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to get out, run into the middle of the road, and heave and breathe and hyperventilate. The world no longer lay in front of me. A wall had been placed that I could never pass. I felt smaller, and humbled.
Even the words of my narrative fail me. Nothing was certain in my mind excepting the fact that I loved you. That I've loved you. That I will love you, no matter what.
That damned word, love.
I said it before, that there are times when you know you love when you don't even want to use the word "love" because it cannot nearly mean everything you want it to. I should've listened to my advice.
I love you, I love you, I love you ad infinitum; but I do not merely "love" you.
I am devoted to you. I am filled with pride for you. I am completely in awe of you. I am committed to you. I am a million other things there are no words for for you. I love you, with the urgency of a sunset: that quiet, steady, but inevitable explosion of sentimentality and poetry and pinks and purples and oranges. I love you, with the intensity of the night wind that brushes and caresses, but chills to the bones. I love you enough to imagine a happy ending, but also enough to wish you a happy ending with anyone... even though I'd really like for it to be with me.
My words may have driven you away. Perhaps the selfishness of my needing closure divided us. Perhaps my cowardice and impatience, which drove me to tell you of my heart and soul in the limited and ambiguous medium of words ruined it all. Maybe I scared you with a word that I didn't even want to use, but had complete honesty and meaning in usage.
I love you, damn it. In that crazy rhetoric of laughter and loss of sanity, and unreasonable dedication. In the angry passion of teenage nothingness, and the unwavering sincerity of later love.
I don't need romance. I don't need sex. I don't need titles. I don't need family Christmas cards, nor flowers on valentine's day, nor sweet dinners for two. I just need the silence. The comfortable and meaningful silence of sitting next to each other and watching the world fall down around us and not caring. I need the silence we had. I need the silence that I think I've chased away because of my impulsive need to use words, and titles.
I was stupid ad infinitum. And I realize now that I might've killed something so completely beautiful.
In my heart, it's November, or January, or maybe even August. It will always be one of those quiet, uneventful nights. One of those nights when I sat beside you, and knew that I loved you, and that was good enough for me. My soul will always implode in search of this invisible night, forgotten in the tides of my memory. And I would be your friend. A very dear friend.
It is June 3, the sky is gloomy, and the words of doves and flames cannot resurrect the glorious sunshine of days past. It is cold. My feet are firmly planted on the floor. My eyes are focused and dry. My hands are folded, and painfully empty. There is no last hug. There are no tears.
but still, despite all this, there will be no goodbye's until goodbye.
When the world is mean, and the winds are cold, and there is nobody there. Maybe then I can have a chance.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Social Serial Killer
I often say that I want an Ally McBeal experience so badly. I want to channel my inner Asian dragon lady, or maybe even my inner anorexic (but not really) thin, oddly blonde (like she missed a dye job or two) white woman, and let loose in my head. Except that sometimes, I want to do it in real life, and not just for pretend.
I want to be a social serial killer.
Sometimes, I am 2 steps away from being moved to saying something completely acidic, or painfully blunt. Things such as "raise your kids, woman!" or "shut the 'ef' up and sit the 'ef' down!" or maybe even the "no. you're ugly.". I don't want to do/say these things because I believe that I am above faults myself; nor do I want to do this because I find myself as sitting on some absolutely higher seat to everyone else. Nope I want to do it for 2 reasons.
1.) Catharsis. You have to admit, saying something this impulsively, with this little regard for its social repercussion is bound to be cathartic. The proverbial weight thus gets lifted from my chest, as I say my piece and broadcast it to the world.
2.) Morbid Curiosity. I just want to see the look on your face, damnit, and I want to see if you'll actually react.
Of course, these 2 impetuses (impeti?) are grossly overruled by my fear of ruining the future, and something called "decency". Still, I dream, and dream, and dream, and end up biting my tongue.
In another universe, maybe, I don't have to be as cheerful, respectful, or pacifist. In another universe, maybe, I can say my piece and walk away, before the other party even has a chance to say something back.
I want to be a social serial killer.
Sometimes, I am 2 steps away from being moved to saying something completely acidic, or painfully blunt. Things such as "raise your kids, woman!" or "shut the 'ef' up and sit the 'ef' down!" or maybe even the "no. you're ugly.". I don't want to do/say these things because I believe that I am above faults myself; nor do I want to do this because I find myself as sitting on some absolutely higher seat to everyone else. Nope I want to do it for 2 reasons.
1.) Catharsis. You have to admit, saying something this impulsively, with this little regard for its social repercussion is bound to be cathartic. The proverbial weight thus gets lifted from my chest, as I say my piece and broadcast it to the world.
2.) Morbid Curiosity. I just want to see the look on your face, damnit, and I want to see if you'll actually react.
Of course, these 2 impetuses (impeti?) are grossly overruled by my fear of ruining the future, and something called "decency". Still, I dream, and dream, and dream, and end up biting my tongue.
In another universe, maybe, I don't have to be as cheerful, respectful, or pacifist. In another universe, maybe, I can say my piece and walk away, before the other party even has a chance to say something back.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Personal Accouting
I've been mulling over the idea of personal accounting lately. I don't mean the sort of accounting that you do for purposes of tax-filing, although considering that it's filing season, and financial aid season, such a sentiment is a welcome metaphor.
Or something like that.
What I mean is the sort of accounting one does for one's own self, and for one's own posterity. The kind that's not as easy as the numeric system of currency, because apples, in one's own mind and, dare I say, heart, are not always paid for in apples. (An intuitive thing, really. It's the basis of the simplest form of trade - barter) Still, with the general hectic nature of my life (a big joke, but still. 24 units is no walk in the park), there are invariable things I feel I owe myself, as I'm sure everyone in the world owes themselves something.
I've been reading sincerelyJohn's blog periodically, and have empathized with his being alone or whatever you might want to call it. I guess it's because on some crazy, emotional, totally adolescent level (I only have 4 months to milk it, so milk it I will), I feel alone as well. In my pursuits of higher knowledge (sure.), I've sort of adapted this almost individualistic philosophy. It was, and is, about my growth. Makes sense, right?
Similarly, I've been telling myself that I'm a character. I'm that kind of stereotypical friend (acquaintance, or contact, if you will) that people have to have. That unique blend of crazy, smart and crazy. But still, at the end of the day, the long term goal has always been to achieve a sort of avuncular Nirvana - let me care for others, but be fundamentally unbound. A detached, but loving uncle, if you will.
Now I'm starting to question that philosophy of mine. Hell, in sincerelyJohn's words (and yes, I feel the need to wash my hands of this atrocious comment that's about to come): "If even [ceratin people] can find 'love', why can't we/I?"
happy endings not guaranteed.
I guess I owe it to myself to take the dive and search. I'm not saying it's not going to come my way (I feel it might), nor does it mean that I'm about to go rouge my knees and paint the town red (and all that Jazz). No, what I mean is that if I feel something, then this crazy smart crazy self of mine needs to go out and ask... especially if that other person is a shy, bumbling other.
I mean, c'mon. You did see that I'm two parts crazy to one part smart. Might as well take the stupid dive and "be the one to ask... y'know, have initiative". If it works, then, well, nothing to complain about. And if it doesn't, then I can just continue being crazy and live life still, MAYBE waiting for another chance. I'm not about to get scarred for life because of this one crazy instance. eh. HAHA
After all, I did say some months ago (or has it been a year), that I was gonna change my perspective from the academia to maybe, just maybe, one of actual action. I've MAYBE lived vicariously enough. MAYBE.To be honest, I doubt that I have, but what's there to lose in trying, right?
What's the point of honing your radar (ehem.) if you're not even gonna try it out in the real world.
That's personal accounting for you. Some sort of debit and possible credit. I can't wait until I'm 29 and I have to file non-personal taxes. (that was sarcasm, mind you.) Let me have my lackluster sarcasm and full-blown emo. I have 4 months left as a teenager.
Or something like that.
What I mean is the sort of accounting one does for one's own self, and for one's own posterity. The kind that's not as easy as the numeric system of currency, because apples, in one's own mind and, dare I say, heart, are not always paid for in apples. (An intuitive thing, really. It's the basis of the simplest form of trade - barter) Still, with the general hectic nature of my life (a big joke, but still. 24 units is no walk in the park), there are invariable things I feel I owe myself, as I'm sure everyone in the world owes themselves something.
I've been reading sincerelyJohn's blog periodically, and have empathized with his being alone or whatever you might want to call it. I guess it's because on some crazy, emotional, totally adolescent level (I only have 4 months to milk it, so milk it I will), I feel alone as well. In my pursuits of higher knowledge (sure.), I've sort of adapted this almost individualistic philosophy. It was, and is, about my growth. Makes sense, right?
Similarly, I've been telling myself that I'm a character. I'm that kind of stereotypical friend (acquaintance, or contact, if you will) that people have to have. That unique blend of crazy, smart and crazy. But still, at the end of the day, the long term goal has always been to achieve a sort of avuncular Nirvana - let me care for others, but be fundamentally unbound. A detached, but loving uncle, if you will.
Now I'm starting to question that philosophy of mine. Hell, in sincerelyJohn's words (and yes, I feel the need to wash my hands of this atrocious comment that's about to come): "If even [ceratin people] can find 'love', why can't we/I?"
happy endings not guaranteed.I mean, c'mon. You did see that I'm two parts crazy to one part smart. Might as well take the stupid dive and "be the one to ask... y'know, have initiative". If it works, then, well, nothing to complain about. And if it doesn't, then I can just continue being crazy and live life still, MAYBE waiting for another chance. I'm not about to get scarred for life because of this one crazy instance. eh. HAHA
After all, I did say some months ago (or has it been a year), that I was gonna change my perspective from the academia to maybe, just maybe, one of actual action. I've MAYBE lived vicariously enough. MAYBE.To be honest, I doubt that I have, but what's there to lose in trying, right?
What's the point of honing your radar (ehem.) if you're not even gonna try it out in the real world.
That's personal accounting for you. Some sort of debit and possible credit. I can't wait until I'm 29 and I have to file non-personal taxes. (that was sarcasm, mind you.) Let me have my lackluster sarcasm and full-blown emo. I have 4 months left as a teenager.
Friday, January 8, 2010
With my birthday being a mere 5 months away, I realized it was high time that I start planning what I do. Last year's birthday affairs were eventful (something I will describe in detail in a while), but now that I'm turning 20, or the great for the Japanese (thank God for that class - it was loads of fun, but still difficult), it just seems like I should pay more attention to this birthday party or whathaveyou.
Then it got me thinking, maybe I should keep the money spending for when I turn 21, since I will not be caught dead hosting a party where the only beverages are 2 cans of beer per person and some unsightly red cups. I mean, come on, the least I can do is rent a couple of sleeping bags for the ones who will undoubtedly pass out.
Or, you know, in the spirit of nostalgia and regret (bygones, whatever they mean), maybe I should have spent my energies into my 18 birthday party slash goodbye party despedida slash high school graduation shindig.
Or two years prior, at my sweet sixteen. Or three years prior at my quincinera. (by the way, what the hell is celebrated at the 17th and 19th years? they seem like such bland birth anniversaries, although the 19th does have its own little niche for being "the last teenage year".)
Ugh. Now my head hurts - I think I'd just want to treat myself to a home-spa treatment on my birthday. Y'know, the full shebang - Lipton tea, a nice shower with shampoo AND conditioner AND *gasp* body wash, some fancy shmancy moisturizing lotion (as opposed to drying lotions), and a bottle of Martinelli's sparkling apple cider (The champagne will have to wait).
[hrm. a full semester and a three week break seem to have atrophied whatever writing skills I had. I'm so sorry, blog.]
Then it got me thinking, maybe I should keep the money spending for when I turn 21, since I will not be caught dead hosting a party where the only beverages are 2 cans of beer per person and some unsightly red cups. I mean, come on, the least I can do is rent a couple of sleeping bags for the ones who will undoubtedly pass out.
Or, you know, in the spirit of nostalgia and regret (bygones, whatever they mean), maybe I should have spent my energies into my 18 birthday party slash goodbye party despedida slash high school graduation shindig.
Or two years prior, at my sweet sixteen. Or three years prior at my quincinera. (by the way, what the hell is celebrated at the 17th and 19th years? they seem like such bland birth anniversaries, although the 19th does have its own little niche for being "the last teenage year".)
Ugh. Now my head hurts - I think I'd just want to treat myself to a home-spa treatment on my birthday. Y'know, the full shebang - Lipton tea, a nice shower with shampoo AND conditioner AND *gasp* body wash, some fancy shmancy moisturizing lotion (as opposed to drying lotions), and a bottle of Martinelli's sparkling apple cider (The champagne will have to wait).
[hrm. a full semester and a three week break seem to have atrophied whatever writing skills I had. I'm so sorry, blog.]
Saturday, September 26, 2009
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