Moody foody
There is too much going on about love and romance in this blog.
Or rather, the only mood that strikes me to even type anything here nowadays seems to be lovesickness.
Meh.
Today, I shall sleep until I need food.
Right now, I somehow find my Psychology class more interesting than my Creative Writing class. Quite disturbing, considering how I need the passion to get that damn minor.
Though, it is a refreshing change. Been checking out Savants on Youtube. Kinda make me wish I know a Kim Peek myself.
Lullaby
I watched Public Enemies today. It might be a bit of a stretch to say this but the moment Billie Holiday came into the scene, my heart stopped and I was reminded of what I have been missing all along: the kind of stare lovers hold with their lips unmoving to the sound of warm silence which only the heart understands while the mind drifts, sedated with opiate conversations. Wordless; formless; needless. Their world brings them far beyond meanings foretold.
I’ve been rethinking my priorities for the past few weeks. Mainly because the recent past still follows me like my shadow. It’s a bizarre thing, to see how one messes up over and over again regardless of cause and intention. It’s almost like a movie, where you watch someone who acts and looks so much like you doing and being the very last thing you’ve ever wanted to be, and its playback function is on auto-pilot that you just want to rip the tape out of the back of your head.
But I don’t. I just wipe my snot and cook instead. And sleep. Sleep like it all never happened and it’s just a nightmare that ends with your arms wrapped around mine as you made me face the window and said, “Look, the sun is up,” or something like that.
Which reminds me, I really need a chopping board.
I’ve started to go to the gym again, to get that seratonin running since I’m fed up with them changing my meds and work can only drown me so much. I don’t know if you remember the deal about depression but what you did that night made it worse. I hate the ambiguity at the end of our conversation. I hate the hope you gave me because I wanted it so badly after how you shot me down for what you couldn’t handle, or didn’t want to handle. And no, there is no personal trainer.
Because of the way the conversation went, it pains me to call it a resolution. I refuse to believe that you’re that selfish, or in any way manipulative. I refuse to believe that that was what made things worthwhile. After that, for a week or so, I reveled in the lack of finality. Yet as the days went by and what I thought was regular everyday busyness seemed to evolve into something more concrete; this block of silence, a wall of evidence of what you did not want to see or feel between us. It felt like 2006 all over again.
.
I read what you wrote the other day.
.
I’m still surviving. With no one telling me what to do and when to do. I’ve been floating adrift with all these strange, wondrous ideas in the past couple of years and I took your words as a cue to just stop floating and anchor by a port–something I’ve never done because of anyone before.
It’s not for you, mind you, it’s for me. I can’t say I am thriving but I am almost happy sometimes, by myself.
Almost; that part of me is still with you, like how I believe I still hold yours hostage.
.
.
You are no longer a priority. Like you said, there are bigger things in life.
.
But my heart still feels the world for you. It lives in the memories of you.
.
.
..
This is part of what I mean when I say I love you.
.
.
I’m making believe that you’re in my arms
though I know you’re so far away
Making believe I’m talking to you,
wish you could hear what I say
And here in the gloom of my lonely room
we’re dancing like we used to do
Making believe is just another way of dreaming,
so till my dreams come true
I’ll whisper “Good night”,
turn out the light, and kiss my pillow
Making believe it’s you
I’m making believe that you’re in my arms
though I know you’re so far away
Making believe I’m talkin’ to you,
wish you could hear what I say
And here in the gloom of my lonely room
we’re dancing like we used to do
Making believe is just another way of dreamin’,
so till my dreams come true
I’ll whisper “Good night”,
turn out the light, and kiss my pillow
Making believe it’s you
And here in the gloom of my lonely room
we’re dancing like we used to do
Making believe is just another way of dreamin’,
so till my dreams come true
I’ll whisper “Good night”,
turn out the light, and kiss my pillow
Making believe it’s you
Pardon
When an incident jeopardizes a relationship, the one that is associated with the cause of the incident, first goes into denial. Not about the things that happened, nor about the result the incident produces. One somehow has a firm belief that the incident is not entirely their fault; they really did not want it to happen and it happened purely out of misjudgment; carelessness. Ultimately, what they want to believe is that, it is not all that bad; that whatever they have knocked over can somehow be picked up again, be repaired. As guilt chews on their conscience, they decide to purge, to get it out; to tell the partner what happened and how insanely sorry one is, believing that their partner can somehow reason with them, and tell them to just not do it again.
It hurts, a lot, but please let’s get up.
Even though one subconsciously knows the one on the receiving end of something they had never choose to participate in–or think to participate in–would tell them, you have just mindfucked me, thank-fucking-you. Lies, lies, lies.
You. All you can think of is how you understand why it happened, and how you were caught up in the flow of it all, and let it happened without really wanting those terrible, terrible paralyzing events to actually happen. You hope the other person can catch on–you really do–but accountability forever sides on the action done regardless of words and intention.
What if the tables are turned?
You hit a blank. If it is for the same reasons that shit falls, to believe that it was truly, unquestionably a mistake, an error in judgment, maybe you can find the heart to forgive.
What one fails to take into account is the imagination and empathy for the plight of the real victim. To see that all the other person can see is the damage that has been done. That they have no space to fit any kind of hindsight whatsoever in their turbulent mind, the mind that mainly sees what had actually happened, and how that defeats the purpose of everything which meaning is the complete opposite of the disaster. What they see is that no matter what you say in your defense, you are basically the cause; the catalyst lies within you and only you.
Because of what you did. You somehow made that choice. Shit happened. Period.
Distracted by waves and waves of guilt, you are frantic to just calm things down; damage control. You pay little attention to what they are really saying. You want to get rid of those furious, vindictive words. You want to believe that, as long as you are sincere, everything will be okay, no matter what. Because really, you just won’t ever, ever, do it again.
What if he told me the exact same thing I told him?
Imagination is a killer. To really put the other person in your shoes while you wear theirs. To hear the very same words you uttered and to feel the exact same injustice the same scenario would have imposed onto you. To cut out the thoughts of the narrator, the author, and have merely the knowledge of the listener, the audience, the reader about the content; the facts that happened. No speculations, no opinions wanted.
This is when it hits you that it does not matter why it happened anymore. The point is that so long you had a say in the situation, you let, made, allowed it to happen. And you really knew better, somehow. It is not a question of should. Nobody was there to tell you what or what not to do before it happened but the mere fact that you even had an inkling of what could have been the consequences is enough to warrant your responsibility in preventing the chaos that had ensued.
Is the responsibility entirely mine?
It is when what you do destroy the faith and trust of the other.
.
.
There is nothing quite as devastating as the stark realization that your ignorance is the cause of your misery all this while.
.
.
.
.
Let me mend the wound I’ve made. Please.
two souls
.
.
.
.
.
a glass of water
half empty
now full
.
.
.
.
.
two lovers;
in the light of others,
their shadows remain.
.
.
.
.
.
an open diary
with yesterday’s dream
highlighted
.
.
.
.
.
