Nervous habits

Prickly heat an hour after nine. You were sprawled on the bed, almost half asleep, your left arm trying to pull me close but had given up trying. I sat on a corner not too far from where your vision of me was distorted. There I was, savoring a time I could ponder on what we have here right now— or what we have left.

I unbent my legs and laid down beside you facing the back of your head. “Do you love me?” I muttered. My mind slowly pulled my guts out of shame and anticipation and I swiftly turned around as if I hadn’t said anything. That was the first time I’d asked, and I heard nothing. I slowly sunk on the bed, fully clothed but feeling naked. I felt you squeeze my hand tightly it hurt.

My questions have evolved and have doubled in number. I’d throw them just to watch you shift your eyes or pause or get annoyed. “Love me?” I’d say, like a quick reflex during silent moments that have grown to be uncomfortable. But you would grab me and hug me with one arm and kiss me quick like an empty consolation. Maybe that’s what they really were. 

“Love me,” I whispered. It doesn’t come out much as a question anymore but a mandate, an order, to which you no longer respond. They’ve become apologies dressed in words; a ‘sorry’ for expecting too much, for loving too little. And I sit here wondering— you were happy with me once, what happened? 

Someday, I’ll stop asking.

The beginning of the end of the beginning

I’d like to believe I have a strange closeness with 2012. The way I write it down so effortlessly, always without hesitation, always without any pauses of reassurance that I am here— present in the present, and not anywhere else in the space-time continuum— has always given me a familiar sense of relief. Relief that time has been moving, and that it’s been bringing me along with it all this time.

February 1st marks nothing special— nothing that comes in “second place” or “second best” ever is. But in hopes of making 2012 the year that it should be, I found that not even a month should pass us by no matter how irrelevant; that one month can teach you a lot if you let it, and there’s no telling how much greater it will be. 

Every year as I grew older, new years have evolved to become celebrated reminders of progress— fluid and always keeping track, no longer the endless sheets of clean slates they used to be. New years don’t always bring about as much change as we hope it would, and it doesn’t change much in us either. But that’s the beauty of it, doing better. It’s not just a year-long streak; not anymore. I think people lose sight of what they want to be or who they want to become when they start forgetting what it’s like to snap out of a routine, or when they just stop trying, entirely. And as for me, there’s ten more months lined up waiting for me to make 2012 my year. Here’s to February, another beginning.

To my very own Dexter Mayhew;

I admit that things between us have been quite a blur for the past few months, but I guess it’s not such a bad thing. Not anymore. We’ve learned to live giving only what we can give and getting only what we can get, no matter how little; and we’ve never been better. I’ve destroyed you and I’ve been destroyed too, but look at us, carrying on like nothing happened! It was so easy for us to be us again. But I sometimes wonder— do you also stay up at night thinking of what could go wrong next, or when we would next fall out? Yes? Well I guess that makes two of us.

Maybe it’s because the gaps have never been filled, and we stopped trying. The relationship crap, the chasing, the longing— we outgrew them all. None of it matters, because we’re already here; bruised and battered but inseparable all the same. I don’t know how it happened, but we just are.

There are now far more uncertain abstractions than the possibility of us lasting. There is only now, and we’re happy here, wherever this is, wherever togetherness has brought us. It’s amazing how we come to realize the simplicity that happiness requires. Sometimes I’d think of how much we’ve drifted apart or how fragile we became by being too strong, but you would console me by not laying blame. I know I’ll always be held liable for the worst that we’ve become no matter how hard we try to conceal it— but you never fell short in reminding me that we don’t have the luxury of time. That we can’t keep tiring each other out and involving other people in, because it’s all those roads we took that led us back to this direction.

So why am I writing again? Maybe it’s just to say that I’m not going anywhere, not without you, not without the thought of you. You’ve had my heart all these years. For the first time in my life, I’d want you to keep it far away from where I can see it, from where I can remember that I once had it; because no one else can take care of it the way you do. Not even me. Let it be tucked in between memories of us where all I’ll see is every single day that I’ve woken up happy and ready to take on the world. We’ll always be too early to begin and too late to restore, but we’re here, and I love you. I’ll tell you everyday until I can’t anymore, until I don’t anymore. Maybe that day will come for you, too. But until then, I hope we will never be too late.

On Christmas (the obligatory post)

It’s many things to me and one. It’s Christmas lights and sumptuous meals and get-togethers, family and friends, cool, breezy weather. But today marks the dreaded 24th— it comes and goes every year with the same anticipation, yet every year it’s still the same. Everybody’s still dazed trying to make it some kind of a perfect Christmas. Decorations. Christmas carols. Intimate gift-wrapping sessions with the family. But in Murphy’s words we are always in for little surprises, things going wrong here and there. A string of bad omens paints the message clear: you’re in for a lousy holiday.

Sucky 2010 gadgets? Check. A paper to make for the break? Check (I have that too). Fighting with Mom while Christmas shopping? How unlucky. But nobody said we have to celebrate it every year in a big, festive way. But we do, because we want to; and more than that, it’s because we can. And isn’t that enough to make each of us a little more grateful?

Tonight I’m spending Christmas eve the way I always have, the way I’ll always hope to: with family, taking crazy pictures, pigging out, being silly ‘til 6 in the morning. There are lesser kids now, and I could say I’m part of the older, wiser, and less disheveled bunch, but I know it’s these years I’ll look back to when I’m really old and 40 and bummed about my job. The truth is, it’s okay not to have someplace else to go. I love how Christmas makes you feel delighted that you have nowhere else to be but here, in the comfort of friends and family, and for that I am thankful.

10:10

Bits and Pieces

I’ve had a lot of one-second moments spent wondering where we are. Sometimes I hold my breath to think, and other times I’d try to catch it, as when I prance around what we used to be. Often misplaced and fleeting, you seem to happen consistently, but at random times of the day. I wake up and smell the coffee. I go on rides and take the trains. I pass by my favorite museum, and you grab me by my waist. Funny how I’ve always had you in fragments and nothing more. This is what you’ve become, this is what you’ve been reduced to. You’ve morphed into an idea, a coincidence, a delay. I didn’t know it was even possible to squeeze so much of a person in such a short time, in such abrupt swiftness. Maybe it’s a cosmic thing. Or maybe, it’s because of him.

You’ve met him before, vague as I remember. He’s been spending most of his days around mine. It’s his name I see on my phone early in the morning, and he makes me smile, though not quite like the way you do. Maybe he’s the one that’s got me chasing after the seconds I named after you. It could have been you saying ‘good morning’ and I would have returned it back, if only so I could tell you one last time. I miss you. I miss you the same way anyone would miss a person they thought they knew. And I’m not sure how long you’ll remain a second-lasting memory that shakes me out of sleep, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than having all of you— in minutes, in hours, in years— and always, always losing sleep.

This sadness is benign

No, it’s not going to destroy me;
It’s sadness of the gentle kind.
It’s the kind that seeps through slowly,
you’ll never know it’s there, but it’s there all the time.
When I look in the mirror, or when I see an empty frame
When I remember someone from a song, when someone says your name.
When I have you, but not all of you, or when I don’t feel you at all
My delight in all the plans we have
can make the sadness benign.

Yet I could never look at messed-up beds and wedding dresses
to make the sadness benign;
The thought of going places alone
doesn’t make it benign.
I think of you and the sadness pulsates—
my day is no longer my own.
They all look quite blurred to me
It makes me tired,
but I’m quite sure this sadness is benign.

I wake up with it and sleep with it like it’s a part of me
At night it looks me in the eye and whispers,
and its breath would make me cry.
I couldn’t make much out of what it says;
something about the waiting and uncertainty, and how I shouldn’t even try
I would wash them all away the next morning,
but they don’t happen as much as before.
After all, this sadness is benign.
If it’s bathwater or tears, I wouldn’t know.

What I know is that the rides are worth it, no matter how long.
We’d lie on our backs and not talk about what’s wrong
I was in my safest place, except I didn’t know where yours was.
I didn’t think you’d tell.
I would read to keep myself busy; I would read and think to myself,
“this was how we used to be.” Not anymore.
I stopped reading and started writing.
I wrote apologies and letters that are dated a year away.
I wrote what you couldn’t hear, and what I couldn’t say

The sadness remains benign.
It anchors me to stay in one place,
to not move at all
I don’t run after people anymore.
A thought runs through my head a lot of times, and I believe it—
I am not sad.
I can entertain the possibility of happiness existing
side by side a sadness that is benign.

Word count.

Living in the 21st century made me realize that the days of ‘sorry’ seeming to be the hardest word is long gone. It’s not hard. I’ve heard and said it one too many times; apologies are free at any time of the day and the challenge is to spot the ones drenched in fake sincerity.

Before you turn on your cynicism, consider that not everyone can plan for a well-versed apology. When you spill a drink on someone’s shirt, or when you suddenly step on a friend’s foot, sorry automatically represents you didn’t mean it. Sorry about what happened, but we can’t do anything about it now. ’Sorry’ can redeem you from unfavorable consequences, can unravel shame, guilt, and in most heartbreaking cases, the truth. It’s a saving grace, an accessible option, pride’s last resort; it leaves you with only one option— to forgive.

I’m now starting to think that there is a shortage of words in the English language because not all apologies (and the reasons behind them) are well-represented. But as it is impossible to have a word for each, there’s also a need for humanity to accept mistakes and be able to say it. A ’sorry’ cannot stand on it’s own; Sorry, sorry too, sorry three, but what are you sorry four?

Sorry for knowing that it’s wrong yet still doing it? Sorry I hurt you, but you should stop crying now? or I’m sorry, so stop bringing up my faults everytime? Ahh, the not-so-apologies, Haha. But the winning apology that should be sued for word devaluation is Sorry for I don’t know what. Just ‘Sorry’. Sorry because, uh, nothing— I just felt like saying it, in an attempt to make you feel better. Yeah, it really does the trick. I want some of your crocodile tears, too.

Anyone can say sorry, but only few can admit a mistake and recognize it entirely, including the damage it has caused. The truth is people want you to feel bad that you spilled juice on their shirts, enough for you to offer them a napkin (and help in the wiping process, Lol jk). People want you to be genuinely sorry, enough for you to do things the right way next time (if there is a next time), because they’ve seen you do it right before. Nobody who’s hurt really wants a weak apology, but the sad truth is that it’s better than nothing.

Nevermind.

The coffee was getting cold. 

She prepared it earlier this morning, having woken up at the wee hour of four-thirty. It was strange, especially for her who was never a morning person, much more a coffee-drinker. Yet she managed to get out of bed oblivious of the time. She wanted to shut her thoughts out with routine, but instead she found herself in places she never thought she would be in, doing things she never really did. She stirred her tangled thoughts along with what was supposed to be a cup of morning tranquil. A string of bitter excuses, a dash of cream-filled hope.

There was still an unsure feeling whether she had actually slept or just laid in bed last night, feeling and wanting to be unconscious. The restlessness has crept up and the tossing and turning was a lot worse than yesterday. She had fallen asleep and woken up to the same episodes running in her head, re-runs of the crying and the anger and self-pity she didn’t know how to handle. It was exhausting to be pulled closer every time she wanted to be let loose, but more than that, it was not wanting to be let loose in the first place that had her looking for so much affirmation. She used to feel like the world. Not his world, no, not that kind of crap. Just the kind enough to make her feel so much with so little. Maybe that’s still the trouble now.

The water boiled the same way as her insides churned at the thought of it all. She should have known, right from the start, that it was the destructive kind. Now, she just wasn’t sure how or who destroyed who first, but the fact remains. There is nothing left.

She reached for the jar of sugar and it was empty. There must be some packets lying around, but then again, she never drank coffee outside, too— so the cream would have to do. She poured and flushed out the black and bitter. She might not have been ready; never had been, I suppose. But she sat with her misery and faced it head on. She was done being sorry for everyone, for herself, for him; done being at the mercy of someone else’s time, patience, forgiveness. It didn’t matter anymore. It crossed her mind that she may not have needed it in the first place. Her drink, was bitter all the same.

She stood up as the sun’s first beams seeped through the curtain. She poured the coffee into the sink and watched it flow down the drain.

Travel light

It was the alcohol, fake courage, false hopes. It was the lack of more appropriate words to say. The tip-of-the-tongue, everything said and done, everything lost on a night of decay. And here comes the pang on a Sunday morning, waking up to the loudest sounds in your head. Recurring reminders, you try to restrain. Motionless, emotionless, they say your weakest moment is your best. They say that in that moment you can transform to be your strongest. The trouble is in the bland mornings, the uneventful days; the noble goal is to come out better every time. The only thing you can control is yourself and the rest is no longer in your hands.

The greatest challenge in the world is to change while the world changes with you. The great affair is to move. But the greater affair is to keep, keep moving, breathing and dreaming, to keep believing in the never permanent and never-ending. To keep.

But it is the fear of what comes after, not of what takes place. It is the indifference, the apathy and the mistake. The danger is keeping people when they aren’t yours and they never were, the trouble is believing the impossible but always heard. “I’ll keep you.” The impossible that keeps you together is the impossible that will tear you apart. Walk faster, from one to another, never stay. Think about the next morning when everything is changed. Keep only what you can lose the next day.

Six Summers

One day, you meet this guy, and he lets you copy his Math homework, and he tells you about his day. You keep his secrets, and he keeps you sane. He calms you when you’re mad; boy, you were always mad. But you liked the same things. And you hate the same people. And the truth was never in question. What he told you in gibberish, you answered in code. You both didn’t know love then. You fell asleep on the phone once, and he fell for you every day. Oh, the children you once were. The children you’ll always be. You were inseparable, undeniable, inevitable.

One day, you meet a guy, and he isn’t just any other guy. He changes the way you see the world. He changes the way you see your world. You begin to see the good in everyone, because suddenly, you’re enough for someone, and he tells you everyday.

One day, you push him away. He deserved the explanation you never gave. His world crumbled and you fell apart, because you deserved it. But he was still there, only him. You rebuilt your worlds and it turned and turned until it collided. You said, you were older and better. He said, we’ll do it right this time. He held your hand for the first time. It was the kind of hand you’d keep forever. The sweat and the heat and the hearts that were racing—how could you let it go? He said it’s not forever, but it feels like it is. You said you’d never hurt him again, and he believed. But the more he loved you, the less you loved him. And the less you loved him, the more you loved yourself. You had your reasons, fuck them, I say— and he loved you still. He let you be happy, and he let you be mad. He let you be mad at him for being sad. If his tears were stars he’d offer you a universe of suns and make diamonds out of it—and every sunrise you’d turn him down. He gives you the world. But you broke him. 

One day, you called to see him, and you ran back to his arms. He wipes your tears and hugs you tight. You shared your first bottle of beer with him while cursing a man. Now you have forgotten the name of that man. But you were crying and he cried with you the whole time, and that you wouldn’t forget. He made you remember, and he made you regret. How many more jerks ‘til you realize he’s the one? He holds you and tells you he’ll never let you go again. But the truth is you ruin the things that are good for you. And you’re ruining him too.

One day, you realize you’ve lost yourself to the people you loved. And he had to have you with all your bruised and broken pieces. You kiss him with every fragment, and he holds you, sharp and fragile you. You bruise him all the same. But you love him with the little that is left. And you want him only for yourself. And you miss him, even when he’s there. And now he shuts you out when you’re mad. You were always mad. But you were at peace. You were his.

One day, he said he was tired. And from that day, your walls crumble, and only one remained. You lost whatever’s left of you and he’s not to blame. It hurts when you look at him, and it hurts when you don’t. He scars with warmth and loves but cannot fight the war. The world turned so much faster, and he touches you and it lingers, but it hurts all the same.

One day, you meet this guy and he teaches you how to love, and he teaches you how to hurt. He turns words into years and years into birds that fly unrestrained and fast and free. And yet he turns the coming years into fearful years, and nothing is ever the same. And you miss who you were, and you miss how you are. And it’s too late to wish that it isn’t. And he’s bound to find somebody better, and how you wish it was you. It used to be you.

One day, you look in the mirror, and there’s no one there. You’re only as good as the people who love you, and no one’s there. And you can’t love yourself, because you don’t know who you are. They all had you, but didn’t want you. You wouldn’t want you.

Happiness and rage

One of my cousins witnessed me working on a report that was due last Saturday. Being the talkative people we naturally are, it got to a point where ‘emotions in the workplace’ (our report topic) became something more than just forty slides-worth of boring nothings.

Ever since we were kids he has embodied everything that was against mankind’s emotional nature. Of course, don’t get this wrong- he has lived a pretty normal life, although keeping to himself most of the time. But as much as I’d like to think that I see beyond the walls that people put up, it’s safe to say that I couldn’t read him at all. Everything that came out of his mouth reeked of logic and justice and rationality, which was too ideal to function. For a guy he had always played it safe as if everything can be learned before the experience teaches it to him. His emotions aren’t concealed, but they’re not his thing either. He isn’t spared from wrong choices and bad consequences, but he has more often dealt his cards right- always ending up with an acceptable rationale behind everything and a firm grip on what to do next.

We started laughing about why there is a need to discuss such a topic in class, when there are only two emotions in the world: Happiness and rage. All the others are just by-products of the two. Of course, that’s what he wanted to believe, being the ‘rational’ person he is. “There is only black and white, yes and no.” Yeah, say that to the number one advocate of gray areas and middle grounds. 

But I figured I can work on that. All or nothing, Stop or go. Maybe I can start by choosing between two instead of trying to contain a handful of emotions at once. It must feel great to have to choose among variants of happiness, but varieties of rage? I don’t think so. At one point he had already asked me what it was like, to be harnessing by-products of rage at a given time. “Dalawa lang naman ‘yun eh. Galit ka or malungkot ka.” Well, I had an easy answer to the hard-ass question. I was raging sadness.

What a comfortably awkward moment it was to have answered the latter, and still give a sly smile. That moment wasn’t rage at all; it was happiness.

Hypothetically thinking inside the bus.

You know how people get in and out of relationships, some lasting for years or months or even weeks? There will always be those things or songs or places you associate with a person, even until one or both realizes that they can only do so much or go a certain distance. “New ones come along,” eventually. It’s one blank page after another, and they think they’re starting from scratch, yet do they not go through the same routines? How do you suddenly alter every day with the presence of someone new? We stumble upon the past by accident, and it’s impossible not to remember anything. But how many more blank pages are left for us to paint with the same pictures over and over? Don’t we run out of memories to make? How do you make room for more? If there aren’t any more moves to take, or things to share, can we use up all our memories? Can anything, any place, anyone be really, truly yours and yours alone? Had not those parts of a person been another’s, as well? People say that goodbyes don’t mean memories have to be forgotten, but that we have to make new ones with other people. And yet, what if we don’t run out of things that make us remember, and fall short of making ourselves forget?