I think we have silently harbored our reservations and contempt towards one another. I have heard yours, and in a way or another you have heard mine but completely missed my point in most cases.
Lately I find you inauthentic actually. Too pretentious in the social media; too pathetic almost, overtly craving the approbation of the online folks at the expense of integrity.
What I’m trying to say is it’s not just you alone who wants to walk away from this — I do too. I no longer want you in my life.
Sometimes I want to take back everything I have said, every idea that I’ve articulated, my words and phrases that you’ve mimicked and taken as your own. I wish you would stop doing that. It’s annoying as hell, this sheer absence of originality.
I silently rue ever introducing to you the people I know, those closest to me, unknowingly lining them on the road filled with your opportunism. I wish you would just leave them, really. You are rude beyond reason, beyond belief.
Take heart on this: more than anything, I want you out of my life and out of everything — and most especially out of every one — that I hold dear.
Went to the beach again today. In my better state, I would have jumped straight into the ocean and reveled in the current and folds of the undulating waves. I would have screamed in pure delight.
Ruefully, I am in no better state — I have not been for a while now. So I walked and walked and walked under the scorching sun.
I wanted to see the pine woods, and I did. It was brimming with people, hundreds of them, drinking and gawking and submerging everyone in sheer noise. Their tents were scattered randomly, everywhere.
The tranquility I’ve expected was crushed by morbid disappointment.
I feel so disconnected and isolated, and often, when I mingle with others, I find my body exhausted; my thoughts drifting in a far, misty place.
But I do — I do — crave the company of those I can be open and raw and honest with, without inhibitions and walls and rehearsals.
I’ve been reading the journal of Sylvia Plath and the letters of Vincent Van Gogh, and I find comfort in each entry.
I can almost hear the raspy voice of Vincent, his gasps and spaces in between words; I can almost feel the strain in the hands of Sylvia Plath. I can almost see the English countryside, the symmetry of French architecture, the wheatfields and downbridge of Provence and Antwerp.
Suffice it to say I feel less lonely — and less alone. This is the beauty of arts, I suppose, and it’s magic too. It burns, after all these years, from generations to generations, in all space and in all time, and it accompanies us in moments when we feel so isolated.
So, in the hour of our heartbreaks, we stubbornly defy the dastardly acts of this world with all the love that we can master. We refuse to surrender hope and insist in painting our candid portraits of merry yells and growing souls.
I almost accepted defeat, almost, but I realized that the brave thing and the right thing is to struggle, especially in moment like this.
So I will write and write and write — not for me but for anyone out there who may be bleeding and close to giving up and in dire need of a company, of a friend, who understands.
I no longer know how to go on with life. On one end, I feel like I am forced to live an existence I no longer want. I want to check out and be done with it. I just want to be dead, somehow.
Dying, in my phenomenological standpoint, is an obligation I owe to myself. And I refuse to surrender its execution to diseases or years; I have resolved, years ago, that I will die in my hands, in my method.
No, I’m not going to hang myself. Goddess that is boring. Since I will die only once, I want the conclusion of my existence to be… legendary. On a darker note, there are suicides that I admire. I liked Charlotte Gilman’s method with chloroform. I find it ingenious.
Perhaps my personal favorite is Maningning Miclat. She climbed the highest building in FEU and jumped on her back, so the last thing she saw was the sky. It was tragic but beautiful in its way.
I have always imagined my death to happen in a forest. The last thing that I want to see are leaves suspended in mid-air.
But there are so many things that I want to do, so many books that I want to read, so many places that I want to see. For instance, I have not had my share of rhum cake yet. And I am yet to meet an actual gypsie in a wagon.
And what is life without having those?
I guess I will just make a list of those things and begin accomplishing them. Then I will cross them out, one by one. When my list runs out, I will take it as the time to find my forest and go home —
where coffee awaits on the table
where pinewoods burn in the hearth
where a hundred leaves fly in mid-air
where trees are no longer lonely.
I looked out the window and I saw a person in a street faraway.
Trees and vintage cars filled the stretch of that long lane. Sunbeams passed through the gaps between the leaves and broke on his hair. Dusts made their small explosion at every crunch of his footsteps, and it echoed and it mingled in the crisp, vanilla scent of summer air.
Without warning he stooped down and placed a chess board on the pavement. The took a tether out of his pocket and tied its handle at the end of the rope. He tilted his head, looked at the blank distance far away, and inhaled and sighed. Then, he placed his palm on his knee and pulled himself upward and stood up and walked.
And he walked and walked and dragged the chess board and it rattled and bounced, as if complaining from the pain brought by the hard flints of the asphalt.
He passed through the window, under the blue summer sky, the man and his screaming baggage, and all colors wrinkled and fell like dead leaves on that summer pavement, and I am the chess board.
My desire for temporary death and eternal dreaming intensified as I clunk clunk clunk on that sidewalk, my pain displaced and drowning somewhere in the song of this merry world.
And he walked on, oblivious to my splintered shell, to the sound of my rattling bones against the sour, empty space. Summer is a crisp, vanilla scent, he said.
And he whistled and nodded and hummed and smiled at the passersby.