Of Turning Tables, Eleven Minutes and Breakfast at Tiffany's

Keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it – which of these two attitudes is the least destructive? I don’t know.

-Eleven Minutes

Let me talk about that thin line between being insensitive and careful. When I was younger, I must say that I did not have restraint. I will assume wholeheartedly, fall in love fully, and get my heart broken carelessly. But that’s just it, right? In the end, I realized that you break your heart when you’re careless, when you do not protect yourself above all, and when you allow yourself to freefall, not knowing what lies beneath.

What do they expect? Having chosen adventure, shouldn’t they be prepared to go the whole way? Or do they think that the intelligent thing to do would be to avoid the ups and downs and spend all their time on a carousel, going round and round on the spot?

-Eleven Minutes

Through the years, I have learned the art of being suspicious, of finding the security of friendship and companionship more logical to seek over wild and no holds barred love, and have mastered the game of not giving meaning to things that in the past might happily make me jump into the conclusion that someone is into me. I have, at present, acquired the label of being insensitive, or more appropriately, of being “manhid.” I don’t mind, really. It’s more peaceful this way. Yet, there is a catch. Look where it got me. It may be summed up with one statement that has been a constant running joke in our wee hour conversations, and drinking sprees, “Sinong mag-isa ngayon?”

You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.  -Breakfast at Tiffany’s

So now, I am at a crossroad. I don’t think I can ever go back to being careless, especially since at this point in my life, I cannot commit as many mistakes as I could when what was at stake was at a minimum. On the other hand, it sometimes makes me wonder if this path of “kamanhidan” (insensitivity) suits me well, or has just created more problems instead of resolving past issues. The only wonderful thing is that I don’t get hurt anymore.

Everything tells me that I am about to make a wrong decision, but making mistakes is just a part of life. What does the world want of me? Does it want me to take no risks, to go back where I came from because I didn’t have the courage to say “yes” to life?

-Eleven Minutes

It could be why I like Adele’s Turning Tables, the first time I heard it. I can relate. I don’t let anyone close enough to hurt me anymore. And in the process, I don’t let anyone close enough to love me too. So, the questions remain…

Is it really time to say goodbye to turning tables? Or should we just go ahead and make the most out of them?

Really important meetings are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other. Generally speaking, these meetings occur when we reach a limit, when we need to die and be reborn emotionally. These meetings are waiting for us, but more often than not, we avoid them happening. If we are desperate, though, if we have nothing to lose, or if we are full of enthusiasm for life, then the unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes direction.

-Eleven Minutes

Confessions of a Love Drunk (Fool)

Last night, a friend of mine drunk-texted me and said, “Hindi ko na kaya. Mahal na mahal ko pala sya. Parang wala lang sa kanya.”, and I got into thinking of how life can be one helluva stage. You get by your day to day activities, doing your part and not minding that annoying voice in your head that repeatedly tells you to feel. When you finally welcome this semblance of freedom from all your fears and uncertainties, you wake up one morning and realize… I cannot do this alone. Then it hits you. You are mad… mad at that stupid sunset that sugarcoats your pain, mad at that stick of cigarette that tricks you into believing that you’re calm. A series of questions pop up, notwithstanding the yoga pose that you are desperately trying to hold. It only takes one trigger to make you feel again.

Then you start to blame, because really, how can he pretend that he doesn’t know? How can he bare looking at you in the eye, holding your hand and hugging you despite that ugly white elephant between you that refuses to be ignored? How can he not fucking give you a break? If I could count the number of times that I thought I’ve already resolved the predicament that is not being with that person, it will surpass the number of times that I’ve accepted that inevitable fate that is loving him, with or without anything in return. AND THAT SHOULD COUNT.

But there will be times that it just doesn’t. The fact remains, no matter how perfect you think your love story should and could have been, it isn’t one.  No amount of alcohol, nicotine or caffeine can numb your already tired heart from that persistent pain. And what stings the most is the sadistic truth that even if a tsunami of feelings attack you daily, to him, it was and still is nothing.

So, the trick really is to create an emotional black hole that will zap out all the galaxies of emotion that you currently feel. I guess one has to wait for the big bang before he/she is able to create a void that will naturally result to moving on. After all, it is quite logical to assume that a void will leave you unscathed right? Yet, when you feel empty, you generally feel unhappy… which kind of defeats the purpose of this whole idea of fighting loneliness with emptiness.

Holy week makes a lot of people reflective of their lives at present, along with the issues that come with it. I say, let’s just fasten our seatbelts and try, with all our hearts and minds to survive. 

The Limit

I'm sorry. But sometimes, it still hurts.

The Cycle

“I am absolutely certain that despite the odds, I love her.”

She looks at him, with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow while signaling to the obviously eavesdropping waiter to give them an ashtray. “Well, I know exactly how you feel. Although, I still cannot grasp your brilliant idea of ‘fessing up to me when you cannot even find it in your heart to reveal the identity of this muse of yours. You suck.” She opens her little purse that houses her pack of Marlboro Lights and gets a stick.

He lights her cigarette up, and pushes the ashtray to her side of the table. “Her identity is immaterial, mainly because you don’t know her and you cannot, in even the slightest way, contribute to how I can lure her into looking my way.”

“First, you should really stop hanging out with me when you are in love, it’s annoying, YOU ARE ANNOYING. Second, didn’t I just say that I know how you feel?”

“You have no idea.”

“Of course I do. I know the drill. There is a non-guy in my life too. I will give everything, and I mean everything, including my last stick of cigarette on a really stressful day, for him to look my way. But all he sees in me is this girl SPACE friend that he can smoke with and confide to. I mean, you’ve seen him with me, right? We are perfect for each other. He’d hold my hand and I’d hold his, and what do I get? Nothing. I listen to him rant on and on and on about this girl whom he claims to be the one, and I just sit there, nodding while I study his face, his lips, his eyes. I know him, more than anyone can and ever will know him. I know that he shuts up when he’s mad, I know that he does that knee-jerking action when he feels stressed or that he is never ever confrontational. I also know that he purposely never replies so he won’t appear too needy. I know that sometimes, he concocts feelings for other women to conceal that he is head over heels in love with this woman that he indirectly tells me stories about. He pretends to like going out, just so it won’t seem like he is lonely. But I know that he is. He’s not the partying type. He loves to write poetry, to read good books, to have coffee on a perfectly peaceful day. He loves conversations, not the drunken ones, his eyes light up when he is an intellectually stimulating discussion about life. He likes to drink, not to get drunk but to appear as drunk and be free from other people’s expectations of him. I know that when he’s judged, he gets hurt and never forgets. And I am absolutely certain that despite the odds, I love him.”

“You are such a drama queen.” He puts his arm around her, “But believe me, inspite of your monologue reminiscent of an asthma attack, you clearly have no idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

She allows her weight to fall towards him and her body to be enveloped in his arm. “Maybe.” She looks up, her expression softened by his post-ranting evaluation of her. “I’m sure, whoever she is… she’ll come around.”

           

“I hope she does.” He slowly pulls away, “I want her to get what she wants.”

On the other side of the room, the eavesdropping waiter told his peers, “Bill daw nun dalawang pa-fall.”