And I keep on telling myself: “Okay, Jing, gather your shits. You have a midterm tomorrow.” Yet, I cannot find the strength to go back to Los Banos, knowing that it is no longer the same.
A certain presence is missing and it makes everything incomplete. Truly, when people take off they never really disappear. Behind them, they leave holes, a nagging vacuity, that no one – absolutely no one – can fill. Their absence will grow robust over time, and you will begin to see it everywhere – in places you used to occupy, in tea flavours, highlighted book pages, in chipped cups, even half eaten plates.
But I’ll survive this. I’ll nurse this sadness and write fucking poetry and I guarantee to all the gods that I will survive this existence. Hear that, Life. You can’t beat me. I WILL stay alive.