Sometimes I read something and I hurt– genuine, excruciating, exquisite pain. I stare at the screen/book/letter/notebook and feel the tears fall, hot and heavy. I sit and think, I savour every moment. Those sharp words that jab through my heart– temporary madness, temporary hurt.
I read about love and love in the time of cholera. Of exotic, beautiful men and awkward ones with golden mongoose saviours. Of lightness of being and being infinite. I've read about secrets and (little) princes and (non sparkly) vampires. Of people deciding to die. Of life and the end of it, and the progression of living through loss and death.
And I weep for all of them.
These things I will never know or touch and I feel for all of them.
That's what happens to me without you,
or socks without a shoe.
(My thoughts before I go to bed)
Well then, now that that rhyme is out of my head, let us proceed to the topic I wanted to write about: dependence.
There are certain types of dependence that are nice, like how my mother insists on sugar with her buttered toast or how ice cream is never that good without a cone. These things, they do not hurt when the other component is gone– and the ice cream will still be good.
But then we have dependency with desperation, with your insides churning with the fear of loss, when the end is not an acceptable option. Dependence where without the other, you know you will break, bleed, burn. And there is no end to the torment this will bring.
(Things and feelings I remembered unearthing all those old photos)
Never fall in love with a young stupid boy. But then again, go. Dependency can be a beautiful thing–– until you're 24 and forced to read about your adolescent loves.
(I really do hate you now, Multiply. Thanks, but no thanks for that trip down memory lane)
But I guess it does happen, doesn't it? Loving, leaving, and losing?
(Because the thoughts in my head are broken now. I am falling asleep.)
I still love. I do not love less, depend less as I grow old. I love differently.
A while back I tried Banapple's cakes and I promised myself to try their food, too. Since then, I've dined in Banapple quite a few times (forgetting my camera therefore being unable to blog about it) and I find their food to be pretty good and affordable.
The other day, I visited the Laguna Pit-bull site.
I was amazed– at the sheer number of the dogs, at what a horrid ordeal they've gone through in the hands of men, and how positively delightful it is when these beautiful dogs look up at you with their bright, hopeful eyes and you know that there is still that capacity to love.
Sometimes you look at people you've known your whole life and realize they're strangers. As if the ground has shifted, as if some part of the cosmic equation is missing: the pieces do not fit.
It seems to me, such a sad phenomenon, this business of drifting apart. How and why do we just let go of those we've fallen in love with– friends and lovers alike? Is it because of time? Circumstance? or maybe growth apart? Whatever it is, this whole matter on the (intercontinental) drift (theory) found in friendship is never gratifying. I find that the saddest meetings are those of chance between old friends who've forgotten what bond was once there.
But then, who could blame them? The world is too fast to keep up with old flames and comrades. There is much to say and much to do; so much so that others are left free falling through the cracks of the grand scheme we call our lives. Loss occurs until there is nothing left but regret.
Which makes it a more precious thing when love remains and friendships are untouched. Time and distance are foes in this game. Ever present, but not impossible to beat.
Be thankful for the people you have in your life. No man is an island, and even Forest Gump had Wilson.
“And I also regret not writing more when I was younger..”, I told my father. And just as those words escaped my mouth, I realized; I had so many regrets.
I used to think that getting older leaves you with less chances, as if time has the power to turn you into a a withered, helpless pulp.
As I struggle to find myself considered as an adult, I realize that there are no missed chances, just the fear of trying. Far too many times the fear of losing to the odds, to life, to circumstance envelope those who dare to take these challenges on, but it seems that those who succeed are ones who are brave enough to try. Remember: Bravery is not the absence of courage, it is saying, with your head held high, that I will try anyway.
I am late. At twenty four, I seemed to have shied away from all the things I could have done, could have been. There are times I find this idea stuck in my head and those are the slowest, lowest days I have. But then, you see, age and time has never let anyone stop those who did not let them. I am learning this now.
It was Og Mandino in his book The Greatest Salesman who said, “Failure will never overtake me if my determination to succeed is strong enough.”
Cheers to all the years to come, and the realization that there is change in everything and everyone. Cheers to friendships and lovers and family. Cheers to hope and second chances, third chances, and maybe even the fourth chances. Cheers to hard work, learning and the possibility of things that can be achieved. Cheers to dreams, without which, none of us would have the need to progress.
Go on. Yes. In this life, you can be certain of only one thing: that it goes on.
Make it a life you'd like to live.
Thank you for all the love and support.
I am blessed, and for the first time, I really do see that.
As I've mentioned so many times before, I do not cook. My boyfriend cooks, my brother cooks, I just fail at the attempt. Far too many times I find myself telling my boyfriend that there is nothing to eat at home when we have a full freezer.
And now, I found myself a solution to my cooking woes.
We usually spend the end of the weekend driving my brother and sister to their dorms. Last weekend, in between that drivem we decided to have dinner in Katipunan. My brother pointed us in the direction of Hanayo for Korean food.
It was a few weeks back when I tweeted about wanting alcoholic cupcakes. After a few replies and retweets (because who wouldn't want an alcoholic cupcake, right?), I stopped thinking about cupcakes to focus on less enjoyable, but more important things.
That was why I was so happy when a few days ago, my friends Bea and Karla dropped these babies over.
The problem is that I think my brain is hard wired to start properly functioning at 2:00 a.m. This week, I am more than happy with my written output, but this week I haven't been sleeping either. (This week, I have also been bursting into song more times than I usually do but I don't think that has to do with me not sleeping.)
So the dilemma continues: my most precious words or sleep?
When I was little, my parents never made me have siesta. This is because on the very rare occasion that I was made to nap, they dealt with a kid who wouldn't, no, couldn't sleep at night. On days that I couldn't sleep even when I did not have siesta, my father would walk me around the village till I grow so tired, I'd want to sleep. He usually came home on nights like those with me sleeping in his arms.
And now, I can't think of anything to write next. It figures since it's just 7 p.m.