The last thing I have read before I shut down my laptop this afternoon is the Facebook post of some woman who was pathetically ranting about her ex-boyfriend.
Actually, she wrote quite a lot of it — some miserably inarticulate social media posts which house her anger and bitterness, begging and inability to move on. I presume her psychological state reflects a stark similarity.
I closed the lid of my laptop and did not open it until past midnight. In the course of more than 8 hours, I burnt my life by roaming around the park with my suitcase trailing behind me.
I need to leave, to move out, to find a new place, I know that. I have to patch myself, stitch my wreckage until I can function again. However, instead of going, I just lolled and lolled around and think obsessively about the woman until my mind could think no more.
The sun moved past the canopies and the birds eddied everywhere. I sat on a bench and opened my suitcase for the first time in twelve months.
Almost a year ago, after my graduation, I packed my clothes and my books and my determination and prospects of academic spot in that bag. It was not what I found today.
I saw, instead, the wreckage of my entire life — every dust, every broken heart — dead on a flat cardboard.
There stood, on a cardboard, the arch of the university gate. Mighty and tall and excellent. I saw myself standing near the gate, almost a year ago, holding my diploma in scroll and about to move out.
But I have not really moved out — it’s the other way around. I simply stood there, immobile and numb and incapable of letting go, and this I did while everything receded away from me and exploded into intangible memories.
I still visit the university from time to time, yes, and from time to time I deny that feeling. That everything is still the same — the space, the buildings, the trees — but deep within me, in a loud, disturbing voice, it screams that it is not.
I no longer have the same routine I used to live; I no longer see the familiar faces of my old friends in the crowd no matter how hard I look.
There’s a newly established Jollibee near Vega and they’ve transferred Paponei’s to the spot of El Burrito’s, the Mexican restaurant where I used to order coffee and beat my deadlines.
Those incidents only rubbed the truth I have been refusing to recognize: time has moved on and it did not wait for me.
Everything was smeared in a color of by-gone period and bleeding nostalgia. I shut the lid of my suitcase and opened my laptop. The woman was there again, this time with a photo of a river where, according to her, she was baptised and where she had her first kiss.
She announced these as if the world has the time portal to patch our broken hearts.