Let this page be all about you; know that I will not demand nor beg nor ask; know that I will love you in silence and in silence my pain will be; know that I wish you well; know that I will be fine, not now, but I will be but this page is all about you so I'll skip to that part.
You painted me. You melted my heart's iron cage. You made your way through me. You danced inside my storm. I knew you'll just pass by but I wished you'd stay.
But you are a free spirit. You always are. So, go, fly. Wherever the winds take you.
I will always be looking up.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
This is the first of the last I write about you
If some time in the future I will be asked the question of whether I met my one great true love and what happened, I will answer with this: Yes but I am the sea and she is the mountains. While she cannot fathom me, I cannot reach her.
And I may have an alternative answer, too: I stopped believing in the idea of a one great true love. Six days ago, I stopped. Though maybe not yet completely.
So here I am in this messed up situation that every time I hear her sing I already know that the songs are not for me; that every time she does hugot she is thinking of him—because I brought upon myself to confess to her six days ago (and was rejected, as expected) and here I am, tormented by the unseen consequences of my stupidity. My assumptions are gone. My illusions are gone. I am left to deal with the reality that she really is way, way out of my league. But I am a little lighter now. I was happy when I told her that I love her because I was resolved to speak whatever I feel from now on. There’s this rush inside me; that everything’s going too fast and I have to catch up; that time’s running out; that I have to move. So I moved and confessed. It was a messed up confession but she got the point. Maybe she’s used to guys confessing their love for her because she did not act strange when I said it. As I said, way, way out of my league.
But I forgot to tell her one thing. I was preoccupied with the whole “selfless, undemanding love” that I forgot to tell her that I will stop proving myself. I will not do any more efforts to make her at least like me (aside from the fact that I can’t really afford all the chocolates and flowers and expensive dinner dates because as I said, I am the sea and the sea is impoverished.) So I’ll stop proving myself to her because what’s the point? No matter how hard I try to meet up with her expectations, a guy will walk into her life, already built-up and has already met her expectations, so she will choose him. So I’ll stop reaching. My arms are weary and my heart is sick. I am belittling myself, I know. But, really, I’m so tired of proving myself to people so that they could love me; that I need to climb up so they could give back the love that I selflessly give to them. So I’ll stop proving myself to anyone, really. I will only prove things to myself. The only approval I need is mine. I will be selfish. I’m tired so I will be selfish.
But I love her. I always will. And when I said my love does not demand I meant it. I will not beg. Although I’ll stop proving myself, it does not mean that I’ll stop loving her. I am at the point of my life where there are only two things that sustain me: this love and that dream. Let me keep them at least. Let me write verses about her. Let me write stories about her. Let me create characters formed from the scion of her soul because they sustain me. They keep me going. There’s still pain but they keep me going.
She is the mountains and from the sea I will still write about her, though my words will be washed away. It does not matter. She does not know either way.
And I may have an alternative answer, too: I stopped believing in the idea of a one great true love. Six days ago, I stopped. Though maybe not yet completely.
So here I am in this messed up situation that every time I hear her sing I already know that the songs are not for me; that every time she does hugot she is thinking of him—because I brought upon myself to confess to her six days ago (and was rejected, as expected) and here I am, tormented by the unseen consequences of my stupidity. My assumptions are gone. My illusions are gone. I am left to deal with the reality that she really is way, way out of my league. But I am a little lighter now. I was happy when I told her that I love her because I was resolved to speak whatever I feel from now on. There’s this rush inside me; that everything’s going too fast and I have to catch up; that time’s running out; that I have to move. So I moved and confessed. It was a messed up confession but she got the point. Maybe she’s used to guys confessing their love for her because she did not act strange when I said it. As I said, way, way out of my league.
But I forgot to tell her one thing. I was preoccupied with the whole “selfless, undemanding love” that I forgot to tell her that I will stop proving myself. I will not do any more efforts to make her at least like me (aside from the fact that I can’t really afford all the chocolates and flowers and expensive dinner dates because as I said, I am the sea and the sea is impoverished.) So I’ll stop proving myself to her because what’s the point? No matter how hard I try to meet up with her expectations, a guy will walk into her life, already built-up and has already met her expectations, so she will choose him. So I’ll stop reaching. My arms are weary and my heart is sick. I am belittling myself, I know. But, really, I’m so tired of proving myself to people so that they could love me; that I need to climb up so they could give back the love that I selflessly give to them. So I’ll stop proving myself to anyone, really. I will only prove things to myself. The only approval I need is mine. I will be selfish. I’m tired so I will be selfish.
But I love her. I always will. And when I said my love does not demand I meant it. I will not beg. Although I’ll stop proving myself, it does not mean that I’ll stop loving her. I am at the point of my life where there are only two things that sustain me: this love and that dream. Let me keep them at least. Let me write verses about her. Let me write stories about her. Let me create characters formed from the scion of her soul because they sustain me. They keep me going. There’s still pain but they keep me going.
She is the mountains and from the sea I will still write about her, though my words will be washed away. It does not matter. She does not know either way.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Let me fucking sleep
Dear Reader,
I'm thinking if I should start with "I can't sleep" but I think it's not gonna make sense to you and why should I tell you that, right? But, really, I can't fucking sleep. My mind is both flying away in the vacuum that is space and twisting with all the random stuff that comes up. I need to sleep but I can't. But, wait. Maybe you're wondering why I'm talking about all this, right? I'm wondering, too.
Maybe because it's 3 AM and I'm wide awake and I turned off my Facebook chat since there is literally no one who would be interested in chatting with me. Maybe because I thought of you, fairly in all randomness, and that I should talk about all the things that comes to mind. Maybe because I need time to pass by quickly. Maybe because I'm sad.
That's it. I'm sad.
I don't know what or why or when or how, but I'm sad. I can't sleep and I'm sad. I'm thinking of many things that make me sad. I'm thinking of many things that stop me from sleeping. I'm thinking of the time when I was happy and I'm thinking of the time when I was sound asleep. I'm thinking of all the memories that I can't touch and I'm thinking of her.
I'm thinking of her.
Why am I thinking of her?
Why am I still thinking of her?
It makes me sad. She makes me sad.
I gave her up. I gave up that fight a long time ago but I'm still thinking of her, staring at the what-ifs displayed in front of me like sunshine; the eternal sunshine that melts me every single day of unsleepiness. I still see her everyday. She smiles. I smile. I smile like that smile washes away all the hurt that her smile causes me. Why, I ask. Why am I still fucking smiling? I gave her up and I'm devastated. Why, I ask. Why did I give up?
Yes, yes. She was too far back then. Even now, really. She is soaring high like an eagle with a valid dream. Her dreams outshadow what desire I have for her. She is too far. She flies. She flies like a dreamer. I tried to catch up. Believe me I tried. I ran. She flew and I ran, my head watching her in the skies. But I stopped. I stopped running. I stopped catching up. She didn't even notice me. She is too fixated on her dreams up, up there. I was below, running, trying to catch up but she didn't see me. So I stopped running. I watched her fly as high as the eyes can see. Then I lost her.
I lost that beautiful eagle with a valid dream.
Now I can't sleep.
Now I'm sad.
I've been thinking, too. Why didn't I fly? It would be easy, right?
You see, I can't. Her dreams gave her wings. Those were really big dreams. Big, big dreams. I didn't dream big enough.
Yes, I'm a loser. I can't sleep and I'm sad and I'm a fucking loser. It's 3 AM and I can't sleep and I'm sad and I'm a fucking loser.
So I let her fly, goddamnit.
Let me sleep.
Let her fly.
Let me weep.
Please, let me. I just want to sleep.
And I just want to be fucking happy again.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
A letter from a guy in the friendzone
It's cool, actually, you know, being a friend. It makes a lot of things easier. Way easier. Most guys would have a hard time just getting her to talk to you. You have to do all the stupid shit just to get her attention and when you do it gets even harder. You have to keep talking to maintain that attention. You have to be interesting.
Well, me, I don't. By the second she sees me, my day will be like listening to an audio book of a girl's diary. I don't need to do all the stupid shit just to get her attention. I don't have to maintain the attention she gives me because, well, she is always there.
And I'm always here.
This is what you get being in the zone. You'll be a sponge. She grows confident on the fact that you are always there and your ears will always listen to her stories (mostly about other people) and that she thinks you are happy (with the constant laughing on her jokes) and that's it. The friendzone is where bullets hit you the most in a crossfire. And here I am, happy being hit.
I am hit with the fact that this is the peak. There's no developing story. There's no sequel. I am just a steady happy story of a guy with a girl friend. Funny how that space (girl_friend) sums it all up. Funny, and sad.
I am also hit with the fact that anytime, any fucking time, I will become disposable. She will meet a guy and she will be in love with him. He doesn't even have to pass through this zone and that is just fucking sad. They go to date(s), assuming that he's an amazing guy than I am. She will talk about him more often, assuming that he's more interesting than I am. And the sad part is that she will talk about him to me. I'll be one battered sponge.
But this is what I do best. This is what guys in the friendzone do best: being a good friend. She will have her ups and downs and you have to be there flying and falling with her. The flights will be amazing and the falls will be hard. Though it's not true all the time.
You see, there are times when she's happy and you just can't feel it more than she does: like being in love with someone else. That will hurt. Her smiles will be like needles in your heart and you will hate your heart for feeling that way because you know that you have to be happy for her. But you will still feel hurt.
There are also times when she's sad and you feel twice as much pain as she does because you don't even want to see her frown for a second and there she is, crying on your shoulder while you plead for Cupid to just fucking transfer all her pain to you because you are just so good handling all of it.
I know. It is sad. No matter how much you want to burst out the feeling of being broken for too long, you have to suck it all up. You are a sponge. Your job is to listen to her stories and suck all the pain all by yourself.
But you are a friend. You have to be a good one. You love her. I know you do and every single day of your life you wish for her to love you back but you know, as I know, that that part of your story is not written.
Yet.
I don't know.
And that's a good thing.
Right?
Well, me, I don't. By the second she sees me, my day will be like listening to an audio book of a girl's diary. I don't need to do all the stupid shit just to get her attention. I don't have to maintain the attention she gives me because, well, she is always there.
And I'm always here.
This is what you get being in the zone. You'll be a sponge. She grows confident on the fact that you are always there and your ears will always listen to her stories (mostly about other people) and that she thinks you are happy (with the constant laughing on her jokes) and that's it. The friendzone is where bullets hit you the most in a crossfire. And here I am, happy being hit.
I am hit with the fact that this is the peak. There's no developing story. There's no sequel. I am just a steady happy story of a guy with a girl friend. Funny how that space (girl_friend) sums it all up. Funny, and sad.
I am also hit with the fact that anytime, any fucking time, I will become disposable. She will meet a guy and she will be in love with him. He doesn't even have to pass through this zone and that is just fucking sad. They go to date(s), assuming that he's an amazing guy than I am. She will talk about him more often, assuming that he's more interesting than I am. And the sad part is that she will talk about him to me. I'll be one battered sponge.
But this is what I do best. This is what guys in the friendzone do best: being a good friend. She will have her ups and downs and you have to be there flying and falling with her. The flights will be amazing and the falls will be hard. Though it's not true all the time.
You see, there are times when she's happy and you just can't feel it more than she does: like being in love with someone else. That will hurt. Her smiles will be like needles in your heart and you will hate your heart for feeling that way because you know that you have to be happy for her. But you will still feel hurt.
There are also times when she's sad and you feel twice as much pain as she does because you don't even want to see her frown for a second and there she is, crying on your shoulder while you plead for Cupid to just fucking transfer all her pain to you because you are just so good handling all of it.
I know. It is sad. No matter how much you want to burst out the feeling of being broken for too long, you have to suck it all up. You are a sponge. Your job is to listen to her stories and suck all the pain all by yourself.
But you are a friend. You have to be a good one. You love her. I know you do and every single day of your life you wish for her to love you back but you know, as I know, that that part of your story is not written.
Yet.
I don't know.
And that's a good thing.
Right?
Friday, January 16, 2015
On The Imitation Game
The Imitation Game. Benedict Cumberbatch. Self-proclaimed film critics rant about the movie being historically incorrect. Alan Turing was a homosexual, yes. The producers used liberty to bend a good amount of details to let the story be more compelling. Now let's not shove that it was based on a true story. Yes, it was based on a true story, but that alone isn't quite the valid reason.
"Based on a true story" is not "A true story." The film's screenplay flashed "Based on a true story" because, funny, it is BASED on a true story. If it flashed "A true story" then you can rant all you want about Alan Turing being a Soviet spy. If that does not make sense to you then watch The Interview instead.
Heck, Legolas and Tauriel aren't even on The Hobbit book and you are so convinced that they are.
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