Childish hope, childish fear

Tired.
Tired and restless.

I don’t really have much to do because it’s holy week, but I’m tired. I’m mentally tired, and I feel weak physically.

I’ve been moving around the house upon getting up, cooking and doing whatever there is that’s needed to do. I’m alone. Everybody were out somewhere, and i’ll have to spend the night by myself. Not that I’m not used it. I mean, that’s basically an everyday thing to me.

Anyway, I couldn’t function with messy surroundings so I started with cleaning. Then I organized my closet, washed my old shoes and sneakers, prepared stuff that needs to be fixed so I could bring them tomorrow to the mall. I didn’t have to do any of these if I brought my guitar back with me. But well, can’t be helped. My sister couldn’t pick me up, and I don’t want to commute with two heavy baggages.  I did these things anyway so I could feel productive. I don’t like doing nothing. It’s only recently but I always have this urge to seize the day. My hands need something to do. My body needs to keep moving. I need to be busy.

And in the back of my head I know what this implicates.

A coping mechanism.

I don’t know, perhaps some sort of way to move on. God. I hate talking about it. It makes me feel weak. I feel ridiculous, pathetic, and superficial. There’s nothing profound about it. It’s just me, you know, romanticizing every little thing. When none of it were actually real.

It’s stupid to think how half of my teenage years revolved around that silly thing. I wasted my life thinking I could only be happy if it were to work out. Even if it’s just once. Thank God I grew up.

Anyway, I got lost. The purpose of this post is to address this developing feelings towards someone. But then while writing I forgot about it. This post is pointless. I know. I keep jumping from one topic to another. But that doesn’t matter to me right now. I just wanted to write. Thoughts don’t necessarily have to be coherent to make sense – besides, disorganization makes thoughts more authentic.

I’ve been having these thoughts while studying. Probably because of the music playing in the background. Also, I was thinking about you. You, and this seed of feelings that started growing in me for goodness knows when. I was determined, really determined not to leave any clue about these feelings. Partly because I know they don’t mean anything to anyone, and partly because I know where this leads.

I know where this road is going. It’s all too familiar. This is not me being cynical or pessimistic. This is me being logical and rational.

It’s exhausting. This recurring encounter is making me sick to death. You know what I hate about this? It affects every goddamn aspect of my life. I couldn’t control it. I used to be jolly, enthusiastic, and carefree whenever I go to school. My happiness used to be linear, but during the last two weeks it started fluctuating.

Because of you. You.

You fucking happened.

Or more accurately, these feelings happened.

I wanted to conceal it to myself because it’ll eventually be the same thing – letting it out and not letting it out would lead to the same end.

These feelings are going to destroy me.

I’m not even scared of that anymore.

What I’m afraid of is the aftermath. It’ll destroy the friendship along, distort the memories, and warp out important people in my life.

No, it’s not the same as that with the past. In fact, this is… shallow. But it’s beginning to fuck me up. I’m not even going to tolerate the fact that it’s small, because everything starts at the molecular level. I haven’t even recovered from the past. Not that I haven’t moved on, but you know, I feel like I’ve become unable to love the way I used to. That’s the only change that seemed strange to me. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s a bad thing.

Isn’t it awful how it is rather easier for many people to advise others to do things that they wouldn’t otherwise do themselves? I often speak of vulnerability like it’s the core essence of love. I could talk about holding back as an extremely detrimental thing and be passionate in defending it. I tell people to be always honest about how they feel because they don’t know how much that could change another person’s world. I could easily talk about love like it’s the most wonderful and beautiful thing in the world to others. But if it had to involve me, I could quickly slip onto its dark side. I have always been ambivalent about it. Not because I had a fair share of the good and bad side of it (I mean jeez I think 9/10 of it is bad), but because I’ve been holding back that small hope that maybe one day, things will change for me. It’ll be okay. It’s going to work. And I’m going to be happy.

Childish hope, really. Only children are suppose to keep hopes like that.

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Awoke

Somehow at this point, I’ve finally found my resolve.

Over the course of about a lifetime, I’ve never been really happy about the romantic aspect of my life. At least not absolute. I’ve never entered a relationship, and I’ve never actually discussed my status with someone. Perhaps it was partly because I’m too egotistic to be the one to bring that sort of thing up, and partly because I’m afraid that would immediately put an end on a seemingly beginning of something unknown. Or unsure. So I guess I’m stopping here. Not that I was looking for The One all my life (seriously that’s stupid and delusional), it’s just that I’ve been endlessly hoping that things would work out. That things could work themselves out. Because if things would be, they’d be. Let the chips fall where they may they say. And similar cliched crap.

That was a dumb thing to believe in.

I know, I know. I don’t know what lies ahead but it’s all in my hands. I decide my fate. And if I won’t do anything nothing would come out of this. But I’m a fool. I don’t know what to do. Initially I thought I did. I believed I did. And people believed me too and listened to my advices. Ironically things worked out on their end, though it wasn’t guaranteed it’ll be well long enough. But in my case it didn’t.

Well after all I always gave myself the opposite advice.

And should I vindicate that, I only know that still, I’m afraid. I am a coward. A big coward. I’m stuck in my past and I chose to be there. I chose to be there because in the past, albeit the pain and sufferings, I was happy. Not to mention temporarily happy. It was the lone thing that worked. She was the lone person who openly and genuinely returned my feelings, the lone person who made me feel requited.

I shouldn’t have included her case. But anyway, I figured that any kind of romantic relationship isn’t for me. I mean that commitment thing. What a joke.

And maybe I’m happier without a partner. With just, being thisjust like this. Enjoying my own company and my friends. Being fruitful in different fields.

I’d shun anything that provokes feelings. God forbid I engage into any friendship with someone I’d end up liking.

Not again.

I will never become a fool again.

It had to be you

I’m on the verge of flunking this subject, yet I still found time to toss that aside and think of you.

I think about everything I’ve been through, and the things that led to you.

And then it hit me.

Did I ever mean anything to you?

I’ve thought about it—reasons. All possible detrimental reasons to stop this—to stop feeling like this, to stop making a fool out of myself. I’ve thought about every ridiculous thing to convince myself to just give it up. But it amounted to nothing. Wala eh. I’m still hoping. I’m still hoping everything you did in the past actually meant something, that it’s not just me reading too much into them, that overanalyzing them wasn’t a waste. And that you’re just as scared as I am. And that we are a lot alike. And that I cross your mind every now and then. And that sometimes you wonder about me. And that you’re thinking about these things too. And that sometimes you miss me like I miss you.

And that you love me like I love you.

Feelings are disgusting. They make me sound disgusting.

It’s terrifying how much you could actually think of someone.

We didn’t have many memories. We barely see each other. We barely bond and do anything together. We barely talk or communicate. We hardly know anything about each other.

Funny how I stated that. It appears as if I’ve concluded we had feelings for each other, wondered why and listed reasons to contend it.

When in fact, it’s all me. It’s just mine. Because I don’t know what’s he thinking, I don’t know what I am to him. I don’t even know if I’m anything to him to begin with.

Every day passes and my feelings only get worse. Why did I think I could stop them? What made me think it could fade away?

When I scrolled Izumi’s blog, I was astounded by how maturely she views things. Although she might sound a little biased about everything, by the way she vents her thoughts, you could tell that she definitely had gone through something. And a lot. I mean the real thing. Legit. (No big deal actually. It’s just that… I’m not totally acquainted with that thing and I barely know anything)

How awesome would it be to actually have an experience. First-hand experience. And speak about it while philosophizing as to why this and that happen. Realizations would not be tentative then. What ifs are not directed to an unknown. There’s that thing. It breathes. It lived. But it died.

Unlike mine. So close to being an experience. Only it wasn’t—in a legitimate sense. I merely observe things from afar, theorize and conclude without firm bases. I apprehend and kill the thing before it even comes to life, and delude myself that it almost lived but was too weak to live on.

The things I said were irrelevant to each other.

I just wanted to write because I am sad.

I feel alone and dejected.

And I just miss him.

But it’s wrong.

It’s wrong.

Wrong.

—-

I don’t have many memories of him. I barely see him. I barely bond with him. I barely do anything with him. I barely talk or communicate with him. I hardly know anything about him.

So why.
Why?