a personal anything-under-the-sun journal of a seventeen year old colegiala who finds summer by day and stars by night
"i read him poetry, i don’t feel guilty when he thinks they’re about him, i do feel guilty that they’re always about you"
I remember you in small moments, and cringe at the feeling of the small crevice in my heart. Small—minuscule, even—but a crevice nonetheless.
The spectrum of my emotions are composed only of extremes. With me, in betweens do not exist. In all cases, it never works in favor of me.
Tonight, it’s just melancholy and me. I’m not sure if it’s because of the lifeless words that I revived or because I haven’t heard a single spoken word yet today.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been living in the gray far too long that it has become my comfort zone. Now that I have the chance to step into the black or the white, I find myself clinging to the grayness of the situation only because it’s the only thing familiar and recurring.
Completely admitting to it, I know which color to choose. There’s not a single grain in my body that believes there’s even a contest. But the idea of finally holding on to something concrete when I have built my life, my beliefs, my principles on an abstract concept makes me shudder. It’s almost becoming somebody else.
I have been dragging along this ceremonious good bye for far too long. When someone pulls off the band aid without warning, it’s painful but sudden. When done slow, when every bit of pain is taken in, it’s painful. And it stays that way for too long. You’re heart broken with the pain. And simultaneously heart broken because you’re heart broken. Funny thing is, you can opt not to go through it, but you do anyway.
Good bye to everything familiar—the deep cold abyss, the self loathing, the leaning on an absent pole. Good bye one, good bye all.
Happiness is a choice. This is me finally starting to look for it. I don’t know where to find it, but I finally know where not to.
Welcome back, self. I’m proud of you.
"Delete her number.
Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.
Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.
She loves you.
She has been in love with you for too long.
So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.
Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.
Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.
Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.
What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.
Doggedly loyal to you.
That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reachvout to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?
She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.
But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.”
Crossed out: 23.
Bake a pastry and eat it too
I’m pretty sure no one reads this, but you know, it’s a breezy feeling to feel when you’re updating yourself with what’s happening in your life. Sometimes, we just need to be reminded of the little things in life. (Hah in relation to the post before this.)
Hah yes. Okay. You need to listen to this story. I honestly believe this is a miracle in itself.
I think this is the cue for the backgrounder now. So, I’m not really good with giving gifts. No, scratch that. I am the worst in giving gifts. It’s always the least thought about, nonsensical gifts I give during birthdays and holiday seasons.
I do it so badly, my *close* friends laugh at my pretentious effort to think hard about their gifts. To be quite honest, I’m happy that some people recognize my “lack of talent” for gift giving because, guess what, I’m so proud of myself for making an effort to bake for “someone” on his birthday!
I am quite the person who fusses about herself, but doesn’t on everybody else. So to actually give a *fuss* about someone else—ack you don’t know how proud I am of me…ahhh yet another pretentious remark.
So yes, to cut this overly detailed story and give right out the conclusion: I baked fudge chocolate brownies and yes people actually liked my cooking.
You don’t…ahhhh…this is such a big deal for someone like who burns butter. Yes. I burn butter. I’m that hot. *no*
Anyway, yes that is the story behind the newly crossed out bucket list number! I can’t wait to add more numbers because I’ve crossed them all out. :)
It’s always the same—my blog always witnesses the fast curve ball of my melancholy. To be quite honest, there are many good things attached to my melancholy that I might actually prefer it over being happy now.
Aside from my regular practice in writing, I also get significantly thinner when I’m sad. Unlike most of my relatives, I’ve trained myself to lose appetite instead of finding comfort in food. I realize, if I’m going to feel a regular burst of despondence every now and then, I might as well get something out of it.
There’s never a peaceful month. Aside from the usual and natural week-long craziness of hormones brought about by my femininity (lol) I always find myself despaired over the hurdles thrown at me. Maybe I’m just weak, someone who can’t handle being tested all the time. Or maybe I’m just an emotional wreck, like how much people in my generation depict themselves to be.
I wish I could be strong enough, even just for myself. I want to take away the pain, and be free of the cages that ruffle my feathers. If only it was that easy…
I think, because I’m currently growing up in a world of convenience, that I don’t know what it means to take the hard road. Everything is always easy, accessible. When things turn difficult, when things don’t go the way they’re planned, it’s hard to keep up. I find myself wanting to quit, and go looking for an easier path to take.
I want to get rid of it—the need for convenience. I’m getting used to it that I’m starting to slack off, the irreversible kind.
I think I need something to get me by first.
It creates a void in the pit of my stomach as it turns my vision bright angry red. It’s not a “what you see is what you get” situation; you always see more than that. There’s always going to be something more.
Tainted hearts never work the same way again. Once a seed of doubt has been planted, it grows like grass that embraces your ill, shivering, somewhat broken heart. It can only wither from an intense summer, or an extensive blizzard.
The faults I’ve made has made me doubtful more than ever. It’s not just that I don’t trust myself, but despite the pure integrity of a person, I can’t find the courage to trust him. This is a different kind of illness—the kind that needs a martyr.
I’ve met one actually. Problem is, instead of the martyr killing the dragon like how most beautiful fairy tales end, the martyr ends up charred.
The worst heart breaks are those that translate physically. I wish I could stop the *actual* aching of my chest.
For the past months, I have been begging people to slap me in the face and gag me with a spoon everyday just so I can stop floating. I never realized that the plot twist was: the hardest slap in the face and the strongest gag I could get was from my own doing.
Seeing your face, etched pixel by pixel, made me ponder: was this what I was fighting for?
Before, it felt like a pretty good reason. It was a no-brainer back then. But now I’ve wasted every pretty damn good day (and weather) over something that seems so stupid, coming from a different perspective.
I couldn’t bear to live through seeing myself being so desperate enough to force spherical self into a cuboid opening. It doesn’t make sense much—I’d just feel (and look) pretty stupid fighting for a lost cause.
Of course, being a wonderfully made creature of womanly nature, I have to suffer from the roller coaster rides of my mood and feeling. I’m pretty sure I won’t sustain feeling this way when I wake up again tomorrow.
Predictability has gotten the best of me—I’m betting half of my life I’ll wake up tomorrow hastily preparing myself because I already started the day running late. I spend most of my mornings sitting on a chair wishful thinking. And then I’m going to shower in the evening trying to sort out feelings only to find myself having a reshuffled board when I wake up again in the morning (if I do wake up).
Ahh, but the feeling of hope—when you know somehow you get to jump away from the monotony little by little. I see little shifts, little improvements. Little, but improvements nonetheless.
When the warmth of the sun creeps into your skin and flows through your veins—that’s when it’s summer. And there is where I will wait for you.
It’s me again. I was back reading on my awfully melancholic words. I find that the hopefulness in my new found tone makes me fidget, somewhat uncomfortable.
I’m not a master of moving on, even from feeling hopeless to hopeful. It takes baby steps, I presume?
Nonetheless, I do feel hopeful. Summer is coming, and I don’t need to brace myself for it. I am excitedly ready for it.
Ahh, hello. It’s been far too long, wouldn’t you agree? I had to log in again—thatlong. I haven’t had the time to get back to my leisure writing. To be quite honest, I still don’t have the time, but I had to make it. I need the pleasure of being able to “think out loud” again.
The sweet, loving taste of being able to tap my fingers to a wonderfully strange beat I have started being unaccustomed to sends me exhilarating. This week is quite hyped up, especially if you’re being called the love week. Just to join into the bandwagon, I have decided to rekindle my (first) love and come back here, a place that welcomes her prodigal daughter.
Much has happened since my last sighting (writing). I’ve been through hoops and leaps the past two months, and I’m starting to find my way back to the rail. It’s been emotionally exhausting, I give you that. But nothing says freedom quite like this. Then again, I can’t say that I am free.
I’m bound in many ways. I know I’ll get there, eventually. Now I just try to dodge bullets and balls. I don’t believe I’m quite headstrong in matters of the heart. I do believe, however, in waiting it out.
I find myself longing for the sweet embrace of sunshine on my legs while I walk on an adventure with summer in my pocket. I’ve been starting already, actually. Strangers are company too, yes? Looking forward to summer is what I’ve been doing on my free time—when I wait out a jeepney ride, or patiently wait for my order in a restaurant.
There’s nothing else to do but quietly see how the future turns out. My heart may not yet be liberated, but I feel free flying into the warm summer crevices of my mind.
I can’t wait to come back.
I am the resident summer girl.