A Trip Down Memory Lane.... Eh Not Really

 

Sunday. 10: 07 am. October 4.  I am currently  thinking of how to begin this entry but then,  by the time I’ve finished typing  this sentence  I  have  made my peace that this line is all you’ll ever get. (Hah!)  On a whim I decided to re-read my old entries, and oh boy, the amount of comedic horror awaiting.   It felt  weird and  wrong, like  I was reading an another person's diary.  She flaunts her feelings in romantic abando, with little concern about the world around her.   As much as I would like to deny any form of association with her I can't. At one point, I was her.  A friend once  said  that maybe this is me attempting to distance myself from all the emotions I once held strongly. That got me to pause.  A  proverbial light bulb moment, if you will.  So I thought I'd give this another try in the hopes that  if and when I look back on  this some day, I’d be able to with fondness and pride.  This time, let me try to see every detail without the lens of whimsy. If I'm going to do so,  I will have to  put  out the linchpin of this entire text before I divulge further. 

The guy I’ve liked for so long has finally tied the knot . Let me swallow the cringe that is threatening to spill over. 

Yes . a .fucking. cliche. 

 Let’s do that again.

The guy I’ve liked for a long time has finally tied the knot. Saying it twice certainly helps dull the edge. Anyway,  the truth of the matter is,  past the uneven heart rate when I first heard the news, I am fine. I am not drowning in misery  nor wallowing in a pit of despair. The tears haven't come. There are no lingering feelings of envy either. All things considered, I'm good. There is however a strong impulse to cut off all ties and simply forget.  Call it self preservation. Call me human.

Now,  can I say  "Congratulations!" and genuinely mean it?  I can.  In fact, I will. As to when I cannot say . I am not sure if  everyone is meant to know. He has always been a deeply private person. To date, I can only remember two things he shared that I can consider as personal, tidbits I happily keep in my memory.   To be fair, I didn't share a lot too.  Other than the fact that I'm good with my job and that I love poetry ( I don't think he remembers that detail ), he knows nothing about me either.  Oh ! he thinks I still love the Twilight series. hahahaha.  (My tastes have grown , okaaaaay) 'But you get the idea. 

You get what you give. 

 So. If you're curious about our "story", (Please,  you're not.  You know exactly how all tales of the unrequited end.)  the first thing I'll tell you is , there's no story.  In my native tongue,  “Wala  kaming kwento”. ( Wow. Tagalog hits differently, folks) 

Two subjects without a verb will never make a story.  

 He, I.  A period at the end. 

Picture two points plotted in different graphs. There you go , imagery.

There was never any semblance of  a "we "or  an "us". It has never felt right writing so. And yes,  I would like to keep even my pronouns as honest as possible. 

If you've reached this bit, then know that it has been  a week since  I've started this and I'm still stumped as to how to continue.  The days have certainly been busy but more than that , it just feels pointless   to look back on some of the things that no longer serve their  purpose. More so, if it didn't really serve you any to begin with. It becomes tiring. I'm done asking for an audience to have my feelings heard. I've told and retold friends so many times hoping I'd get a different answer each time.  I hope this didn't come out as aggressively bitter.  This is just me trying to break a bad habit.  Anyway,  Bamboo was right, much has been said. 

Emotions are noisy , messy, nasty tenants. I wish they can just fall in a single line just so I would know which one I would entertain, but they overcrowd and they don't know how to take turns.  Diplomacy isn't one of their stronger traits either .  They would argue and argue and argue.   I'm often at odds with them , but for now, I would like to  take a moment and leave them in peace, in their own space. 

Maybe the entire point of this entry is  that you figure things out when you’re supposed to figure them out .  Maybe that includes realizing how it went from pining for a person to pining for an idea, a wish. Or maybe when do  I see him again , all of this just goes out the window. I really don't know. I can't confidently say  I have figured it all out, and this is probably the one most honest thing I can  share.  So I'm going to stop worrying over future random hellos or future aches . He's happy.  I am too.

Mask

Open the door. Walk slowly. Put on your mask. Hold their hand. A sorry. A lie for what happened 54 minutes ago beyond that white door.  Stop thinking . put on your mask. Hold their hand. Someone is waiting downstairs. Someone you hope will never know. Someone you know will never forgive. Someone . Someone. Same one.  Walk slowly. Put on your mask. hold their hand.  Stop .  Only you could hear the ringing in your ears. The walls have eyes. Pray they remain blind. Talk to them now. Let go of that hand. It stings. You hurt. Say the words . Cover them with sweet powdered lies. They need to hear it. You don't. Nevertheless. Speak. You're not in confession box. Hear their thanks. Say goodbye. Swallow your guilt.  Clear your throat, practice your smile. Rehearse your blame.

White Blank Squares (Happy Anniversary)

On a moonless night, filled with thunderclaps I find myself sitting with my dog and watching the houses outside our windows be lit by threads of lightning. It was oddly comforting to sit still a midst the play of shadows as the heavens rumble.  My mind is quiet for once  and my thoughts become like white blank squares, ready to be smeared with any  color of my own choosing

And so I think about my father with his sanguine eyes, his roughened hands  and his patient heart. I think about how his strength fades by the day as grey hair covers his head in its entirety. He gave me the happiest of childhood. He will give me the saddest days of my womanhood.

I think about my mother with her acid tongue that burns me every now and then and her brow high enough to build a wall between us. Thinking about my mother is not always pleasant but truthfully quite easy to put into words,perhaps because she is a constant presence much like her care. Some days, it is almost a balm to my scars. Almost.

I think about myself as selfishly for as long as  the tempest outside would let me. I think of how I find beauty in my thoughts at each second my fingers connect with the keyboard, how I believe otherwise  the moment my head hits the pillow.  I think about how I am a bedrock for no one except maybe for this four-legged creature who faithfully watches the lightning with me. I think about my sewed-in mouth and my sometimes eloquent hands. I think about my labyrinth of a mind, how I get lost so easily. I think about loneliness too. It is inevitable when it is not others' understanding that is out of reach but your own.

But as the tempest tames, at each tick and tock,  I wonder what will it take to enclose into my palms whatever finite that I seek