Detox

For a week, I thought I could never listen to Foster the People and Sell Our Door ever again. I even thought that I would end up getting drunk every night and I would end those nights by crying myself to sleep. I thought I would write a sad poem right after you told me the words that I thought I’m afraid of hearing.

But you see, just last night, I went to the bar where we had our first date, to watch Sell Our Door. And I enjoyed listening to them with my friends. The place brought a little nostalgia, but I was able to shake the thought off my system immediately because I chose to be happy. I do get drunk, but it is because I love getting drunk. It’s not about you and it’s not even like an every night curse. I didn’t cry—I actually haven’t for the past two months, I think. And I haven’t written any poem about you. Although this entry is somehow about you, it wasn’t love and pain conjured through poetry.

I'd like to think that what we had was a mistake. But it was beautiful. It made me happy. It made me forget about the things that truly hurt. You were like a vacation spot. A new flavor of drink. A distraction. A rebound.

Am I being cruel? I hope I’m not. But you know what? I haven’t seen things this clear for the past 70 days because I was high with your presence. Yes, you were the drug I took because I was sad and bored and I have that sad freedom to fool around like an angsty teenage girl. However, after detoxifying myself from the memories I had with you, it occurred to me: I can’t really see myself with you.

I can’t see myself sitting next to you, watching Family Guy or True Blood while eating instant noodles. I can’t see myself lying next to you, sobbing while confiding family problems and other personal issues. I can’t see myself shopping with you in the cheapest corners of a cheap shopping spot. I can’t see myself asking you to edit my essays. I can’t see myself laughing and drinking and eating with you in front of my mother. I can’t be myself with you, I can't see myself falling in love with you and I can't see myself growing in love with you.

Because that self, which I can’t seem to imagine spending those moments with you, stayed with the person I left because I was weak and stupid and destructive. That self chose to stay with that person and the person you were hugging and kissing and talking to for the past 70 days is the embodiment of emptiness, of loneliness, of despair.

I wish I could unite with that self again. I wish I could find my way back. I wish I would stop thinking about the what-could-have-beens because I know you have served your purpose and I thank you for that.

Being with you wasn’t a mistake. But being without that self and without that person who knows and loves me best is.

I loved you Reema Masagca.

Lost answers

Tell me I didn’t just imagine that there’s a spark in between. I've been replaying the memories we had together in my mind just to find out if I did miss something. Maybe, I have misread the past 70 days of warm embraces, wet kisses, morning afters, dinners, and all the talks and laughter. I am reading them again. I am carefully looking at the pieces you left, the pieces that seem to complete the puzzle, which ironically made me puzzled for nights.

I am not seeking for love. I am just seeking for answers. Tell me something real. Tell me something that isn’t covered with fear. I can sense that you’re scared of being responsible for breaking someone’s heart. But let me tell you this: You didn’t break mine because it was I who broke my own heart. Yes, it is possible. It is possible to break your own heart because of the choices you made.

I chose to walk down the road in high heels instead of wearing my comfy, old sneakers. I tripped and broke a joint. I bruised my legs. You weren’t responsible for that. You weren't responsible for anything, really. All I wanted is a proof that I haven’t gone crazy and I just imagined that there was you and me.

Yes, it’s you AND me. Not us. I'm aware and I’m perfectly find with it. And I guess it's not just me, who have misread this hullabaloo. It's clear with me that there is you, me—separate individuals who have found happiness in each other’s arms. It is as simple as that.

Estranged

For a moment, she was lost. She found herself standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thistles and thorns and dusts. And all of a sudden a blue sedan appeared and the stranger behind the stirring wheel wholeheartedly offered her a ride a home. But there was no home. She wasn’t even sure where she was going. Confused and scared of being stuck there for a long time, she decided to hitchhike and told the stranger to bring her wherever he wanted too.

At first, she was dazed because the stranger didn’t even complain. In fact, he happily agreed to give her a ride, even if she told him she have no idea where she was going. But after a while, the fear and confusion vanished. She started to enjoy the ride. She enjoyed the scenic panorama of green meadows, the glistening creeks and plateaus—the surroundings literally showed her that the grass is greener on the other side.

She didn’t want to get off. Not only because she was unsure where to go, but because she adored the sights, the company, the ride. The experience was ecstatic. Although there were instances that the trip became wobbly and the roads became rocky, she remained thrilled and happy. But then, a few miles after, the stranger became uneasy. She saw that look in his face—the look that says I am missing the silence. I want the trip by myself. And yes, she saw it coming. She knew that sooner or later, he would ask her to get off because he wanted to be alone, because the air is getting thinner and he cannot breathe. The space is becoming tapered and it is making him claustrophobic.

True enough. The stranger stopped the car and told her those things. And yes, she was just in for a short ride. 

And then again, she found herself standing and now, aching, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded not only by thistles, thorns and dusts, but with the memories of that euphoric and almost cinematic ride she had with this stranger…

Whom she almost fell in love with.

And once again, yours truly have ran out of words

Thus, I am posting this lovely poem entitled, After a While


After a while you learn
The subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn
That kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman
Not the grief of a child

And you learn
To build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is
Too uncertain for plans
And future have a way
Of falling down in mid flight

After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting
For someone to bring you flowers

And you learn
That you really can endure
That you are really strong
And you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
With every good bye you learn.

-- Originally written by Jorge Borges / Translated by Veronica A. Shoffstall

This, It

How I wish I could determine if THIS—everything that’s happening in between—is an inspiration or just an unnecessary stress. But I’m not even sure what this is called. I’m not even sure what is happening. I have been unsure for the past months and I somehow hope that you bring clarity, assurance and comfort. But I can’t tell you that. I know that I can’t expect anything from what we have (or do we really have something in between?).

I wish we have a term for things like this, because calling it a ‘this’ or an ‘it’ is not fucking enough. In-betweens are more complicated. In-betweens hurt more. In-betweens are more fucked up than they may seem to be. I wish I have the courage to ask you what this really is. But I am not ready to know what this is, where this is heading…