There is nothing like writing at the wee hours of the morning. You are worn-out; you are heavy-eyed—you do not anymore have the energy to make room for downplaying and overplaying. There is nothing like writing at the wee hours of the morning. It is when the truth usually comes out.
2:23 am • 9 December 2013 • 1 note
Have you ever been in a relationship that turned into a lost cause overnight? You know that the most sensible thing to do is raise the white flag and walk away, but the mere thought of losing the person makes you want to hang on just a little bit longer? “Just one more blunder,” you tell to yourself. Subsequently, one becomes two, then three, then four, then five, then six, then seven, and eight. It ends in eight, so you opt for the sets. You opt for the delay even if it means a drier glue, and a stronger possibility of getting irremediable leftovers, and having to live with an undying memento. After a while, you admit that from the very beginning, you already know that there is not going to be a postlude, and the countups are merely for justifying that you tried, but failed—and the countups are merely for trying to sway yourself that you do not have much of a choice.
Have you ever been in a relationship that is a lost cause, yet you know for certain that there really is not a competition between being tormented by the person’s being there, and being tormented by the person’s absence?
2:05 am • 9 December 2013 • 5 notes
When in doubt, read a book—any book. There is almost always going to be a line or two that you could take as a sign that you have to take the plunge.
12:31 am • 9 December 2013 • 1 note
"You know what the problem is? You will never get to me, and I will never come to you—not even if we try," he said.
10:13 pm • 5 December 2013 • 4 notes
The different developmental theories are probably some of my few much-loved concepts in psychology—given the fact that I do not really know too many, for the reason that I did not pay much attention back in college. They were able to crane my neck and draw my second and third glances despite my apathy, and even now that I am already teaching, they were still the ones being cuddled by my bookmarks. However, I cannot remember a time when I tried to apply them to my entirety—not even to a piece. I do not know. It is probably because it was not necessary—for they already laid the groundwork, and all I really had to do was acknowledge it. The thing though is, I did not have the nerve—and we all know that having the nerve is three-quarters the battle. Tonight though, let me try to muster even a fake one.
If I were to put myself into Erik Erikson’s Psychosocial Theory, I am pretty sure that I would be at the receiving end of the existential question: “Can I love?” It is a pretty long stage, so I guess I am allowed to jump from intimacy to isolation and back or whatever whenever I please to for as long as I am in the duration, and for as long as I will be able to embrace just one before I have to face the next existential question. I am allowed to—if I can, of course. You see, these days, I have been leashed to the intimacy post by the state of affairs. I have not had much of a choice, but I guess I am pretty okay with it, because I have been learning a lot anyway—like smiling even if there is nothing to smile about, the art of ruffling someone else’s hair, replying to text messages, and giving a rat’s ass about the whole lot.
I miss the other side badly though—the one that I picked in the first place—the side where planners are not that essential, the side where I did not have to wake at the wee hours of the morning to offer my shoulder to someone, the side where there are not a lot of security blankets that I would have to give up, and stumbling-upons that I would not be able to keep. I miss the side where my relationships could be crammed in hardbound books, and my exchanges could be contented on a pad; I miss the side where the ones that matter could be kept on a shelf or in a drawer; I miss the side where the ones that matter do not have legs—do not have the ability to run, do not have the means to leave.
I miss the other side, and I wish that the permission to jump from one post to another were not a moot point, were not a trick, were not a trap. I wish ending up in one spot—what we need and what we want being the choices, were not always a lost cause.
It has been said that identification is the first step to recovery. Well, no wonder why a lot do not make it.
2:56 am • 2 December 2013 • 1 note
Some days, I wonder if I am merely a product of someone else’s imagination; other times, I think that I am the only one, and everyone and everything else is just a reverberation of my thoughts. Now, tell me, could it possibly be both?
12:08 am • 2 December 2013
"Do you know why this is twice as excruciating as it should be? It is because I have always believed in the legitimacy of pinky promises and cross-my-hearts. Everyone who gives a rat’s ass about me teaches himself to believe in it, too, you know. I guess I just expected that you would also do the same. The thing is: it does not even end here—for I still find myself hoping that you are merely a slow learner," she said.
10:03 pm • 26 November 2013 • 1 note
"I do not want to do this anymore."
"You do not anymore want to do what?"
"This. Leaving out the substantial pieces of me just for you to keep me."
8:00 pm • 24 November 2013 • 3 notes
Apparently, trust neither travels in an elliptical path nor returns to its point of origin.
5:20 pm • 20 November 2013 • 1 note
Is it not startling how some people could still manage to look straight into your eyes even with all the lies that they keep on peppering to all your meals?
9:55 pm • 19 November 2013 • 2 notes