Despire what Hallmark card writers extol on the bazillion virtues of being in love, oftentimes, the very same condition gives you an opportunity to become very intimate with concepts of indescribable misery and torturous ordeal. The more defensive ones choose the self-defeating mechanism of aloofness or faux disinterest but like you they are also being gnawed by that undeclared ache of being the parallel contributor and recipient of a certain fondness. “Who can resist the thought that s/he is being loved?”, Buscaglia once wrote. Yet actual love experiences are complex and most often they do not rhyme or painted in adorable pastels. There’s so much struggle for those involved and the games people play make the whole shenanigan all the more less simpler than it should be.
Admirable how a few brave souls are not shy at admitting that they are veterans of many failed attempts at this thing, which merits them the unappetizing title of being bonafide losers. But that doesn’t stop them from finding another mistake. You can argue with reason, you can argue with pain, you can argue with experiences. But you cannot argue with passionate hopefulness.
Other people will find the persistence a stupid pursuit. Who in bleep’s sake cares? Of course you’ll do stupid things but do them with enthusiasm.
My truant tendency always hits me at the wrong time. It appears like the insidious Eve brandishing the delectable apple before the unsuspecting Adam in the blissful garden of Eden. Too strong a come-on to rebuff with guilt. Guilt conversely cancels out being present in both sides of the equation. Guilt and erroneous conscience. Where right can be made wrong and wrong, right. There’s not much time left for rational thinking. I’ll deal with guilt and my conscience later. After playing truant, that is.
Is there a vending machine for tender pleasures like wasting time in bed on Sunday mornings next to someone you’re very fond of? Let me know. My pocket is filled to bursting with coins.
Have you ever had that disconcerting feeling of being totally detached from your very own life and you’re reduced into powerless self-voyeurism? Like you’re observing your very own proceeding in confusion while your conciousness frantically waves from a distant trying to catch up with your empty shell?
In the past few weeks, that kind of blah-ness is quite a pervasive condition on me and no matter how I struggle for clarity or directional shift, I can’t help but get this perpetual twilight zone smog. Names, faces, events and emotions are reduced into one incoherent blur and many times over I get the absurd disposition that my life is one protracted stretch of horrific and surreal scenes strung together.
Despite the abundance of daily stories to write about, that creative spark seems to have taken a holiday. Missing. Out of reach. Elsuive. I should console myself of the thought that life, although not that spectacular in excessive ways, have been quite permitting. There’s nothing much to whine about and for that I’m thankful.
Omnipresent as ever is that pang of sadness. It didn’t help me that I have a few striking episodes of total astonishment over complete strangers who remind me of that one absolute deficit that’s somewhat within grasp but remains perversely unreachable, dodging me, rolling with teasing laughter. Being swaggering and self-absorbed.
I woke up in the middle of the night and lethargy descended like a malicious cloud threatening a predictable downpour. I remain very still, lying in bed, wide-eyed, bated-breathed, naked, waiting for something to hit me.
Maybe the cosmos is sending cryptic signals. And I, being appallingly irresponsible, ignore the encrypted messages and choose to take the statements as they are: basically amusing pseudophilosophies slash individualistic mantras that spark amusement, and on certain neurotic cases, deep thought. I’m not talking about earth-shaking utopian suppositions. I’m talking about T-shirt inscriptions that I see being worn by people while wandering aimlessly in the mall. “Real Men Don’t Need Viagra”, “Porn Star On Training”, “I Wish These Were Brains!” worn by a big-bosomed woman, “You Say I’m A Bitch Like It’s A Bad Thing”, “The Only Bush I Trust Is My Own”, I saw this shirt worn by a Vegas stripper in protest of President Bush’s policies. And the cringe-a-holic, perverse in a mad hilarious way shirt I saw: “I (Heart) Mahal!”
Five questions still dangle in my head like infuriating specks of cheerful-beyond-belief clouds that just won’t give me a break.
1. What’s the point of all this?
2. Why struggle?
3. Why can’t I be a bonafide asshole and just let it be that way?
4. Why can’t I bear the thought of being directly involved in inflicting hurt?
5. Why am I so bad at being too close for comfort?
As a human capable of this thing called thought process, the more I try to rationalize with shallow pseudophilosophies or recycled self-empowering tepid attempt at self-consolations, the more I flaggelate myself by mentally kicking my own shins.
It’s possible that I am hitching the rational train in full throttle. Am I a human train wreck?
If everything is so close, almost within my grasp, then how do I explain the little slivers of restraint and self-doubt that prevent me from being so happy? Maybe this is one of those moments where I am actually feeling depressed but too engrossed with petty distractions called academics and living to actually take heed and do something about it. Maybe after all the avoidance, I just want to slump on the couch next to a fond breathing thing which will prove my delusions wrong.
Or maybe a quick fix of Oreo McFlurry will dispel this supposed decline. Maybe I am feeling this to remind myself that I am very much capable of hurt despite the mounting jadedness. Maybe it’s just me. Which, with great possibility, is definitely all there is.
You must be a very sad man, the message goes. It shows in your writings.
I am very well acquainted with how it is being sad, I reply. But writing dons its own wings and charts its own flights. I have nothing to do with its cheerless expression. All I remember is I was looking at words assembling themselves into something I am quite familiar with. Eventually they make sense. I know of joy as I know its reverse. They are constant visitors who seldom arrive simultaneously. They choreograph their stopovers with mutual respect: the other won’t knock while the other is in the middle of an enraptured conversation with the owner of the house. They both know it is rude to barge in, to disrupt. While the other dwells in the room, the other is patiently waiting in the outskirts of the fields, counting heartbeats until his time is due.
When it’s proper, appears in full glory, brimming with a smile. That’s how it is, I conclude, don’t let the words confuse or mislead you. Don’t assume too much. Nor attempt to understand anything too soon. Like you, I await the coming and going, alternating the anticipation, as steady as the rhythm of night and day.