To my 25-year-old self

To my 25-year-old self,

At this point in time, you’re dead tired of and from your job and on most days you hate it. You dread going to work and you cry on some days before taking a deep breath, composing yourself, and heading to work. You are spiraling, and you are very unhappy.

Yet you choose to go to work every day because you still don’t know where you will head. The unknown scares you far more than being unhappy. You’d think maybe this is your quarter-life crisis happening right on cue.

And then you meet someone.

And this someone would be your mad love. What did one of your directors say? That you are entitled to that one mad love in your life, the kind of love that you would do everything for, be crazy for, and maybe even destroy yourself for. And that should be it. One mad love for the rest of your life, because this mad love should teach you a lot of life lessons.

He is someone who doesn’t fit your specs at all except for the fact that he wears glasses and he plays a musical instrument. He smokes (which is one of your deal breakers), he drinks, and aside from the fact that you work together, the list of things that you both have in common probably stops at ten. If this was high school, he’d be part of the ‘it’ crowd, the group of guys who act like they own the hallways, the ones who would sit at the sides and would rate the girls that pass by. And you, well, you know where you were in high school: Miss Goody Two Shoes, sometimes a wallflower, sometimes thrust in the limelight due to an academic achievement. The only times that your world would intersect with his is when he asks for help for his book report or when he wants to copy your homework. (Or when you would ask him for help for your drafting assignment because you hate it, and he’s good at it.)

Continue reading

Little Things #41

IN MY HEAD: A poison is slowly but surely killing me. Torture—like I was chained to a bed, and then they placed a pail over my head with a very tiny hole, and the water drops on my forehead, one drop after another.

DAY 14, REALITY: Twitter update accounts say he is headed to LA along with the boys. My calendar says he’s there for three days, performing for a finale of a reality show, and then back again here.

It was safe to be at the house in the woods.

Aside from the 500 Days bench, it was that other place where I think best. The calm and serenity that the place gives me is amusing, along with the warm coffee type of memories it brings up.

I was there, in the room that H and I share whenever we’re staying there, just rummaging through things. I liked looking around here, particularly because the house just contains so much of H’s life in every corner—his favorite stuffed bear on its own seat at the corner of the living room, the pictures of his family that hung above the fireplace, his first ever guitar with one string broken leaning against the wall next to where the Christmas tree is usually placed.

That’s when I found some sheets of paper, folded between a tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice stacked behind the dresser.

LT 41-1

LT 41-2

LT41-3

I know that if I would date this, he would have written this in the past few months. And I get him now. I get him way better now than before this whole break started.

My thoughts collided with each other, wanting to explain myself to him. I want to assure him I need him and that I love him still, no matter how complete that I am feeling right now. I want him to understand that I know what life without him feels like, and it’s the worst kind of life. It’s not the kind of life I wanted to live.

Did I not do enough? Was I lax, because I was thinking that it was already enough that I chose to stay?

He was right—he needs to fix himself. And I would want to help him.

I wish he would let me help him.

Lie Chapter 7: Lie to me and tell me that it’s gonna be alright

So lie to me and tell me that it’s gonna be alright

So lie to me and tell me that we’ll make it through the night

I don’t mind if you wait before you tear me apart

Look me in the eye

Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.

-Lie, David Cook

The house that Yael had gotten me was dainty—almost too cute for my taste. It was an apartment with one small room, one that I had found out Yael has taken pains to make it look like what I wanted it to be—one with a heavenly theme. Stars dotted the ceiling while a poster of Van Gogh’s Starry, Starry Night was beside one with Peter Pan and Tinkerbell (yes, not Wendy) flying into the night. He knew it was one of my favorite bedtime stories. The curtains and the beddings match—both were midnight blue with stars and moons as the design. Four pillows lined the single bed, and there was a night lamp on the bedside table.

AJ crept up behind me and placed my things on the foot of the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

“Ah. Stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars. When you leave this place, it’s gonna be a pain in the ass to take them down,” AJ commented, and I just grunted my response, not really in the mood for banter.

While the bedroom has a dainty, almost homey feel, everything else in the house was bare. The kitchen only housed a gas range, three pairs of spoon and fork, three Melaware plates, a bowl of the same brand, and a tumbler and a mug that screamed Harry Potter. When I opened the mini refrigerator in the kitchen, it had orange juice, a carton of milk, a pitcher of water, two apples, a pack of bacon in the crisper, a box of Ferrero Rocher—whoa, what?

I just grinned. Yael.

The overhead cupboard contained only those that I know how to cook—a couple of cans of corned beef, a pack of oatmeal, a couple packs of pancit canton and chicken soup, and cans of mushroom soup. Yael didn’t underestimate my cooking prowess because he knew I didn’t have any.

There was only one sofa in the living room, and aside from the center table, a television propped on a small cabinet was the only other appliance that was there.

“There is no electric—”AJ began to say, but he stopped when he spotted the split-type air-conditioner that hung above us. “Ah. You say Yael chose this?” he asked, and I nodded.

“He knew how to look,” AJ quipped, and I smiled. “And how to stack the place.”

I turned to look at him, limbering towards the couch. AJ went to the fridge and took out the water, took three steps to his left and got the Harry Potter tumbler. He set the now full tumbler in front of me, sitting next to me. He made the three-seater couch look like it was only made for two, with his long legs and now bulky frame. He was a far cry from the AJ I had known years ago.

Maybe people do change.

“Now can you tell me what happened?” AJ asked, his eyes boring into me, as he waited for an answer. The way he looked at me reminded me of that one last time I was with him—before everything went downhill. Continue reading

Stay

Holding on to you--
the one thing that's true,
the one thing that's real
and not some random fantasy.
Not some bullshit pseudo-relationship
formed in my head,
not a fling that's over in a jiffy
and not some fangirl hopelessness.

You are the truth--
with holding hands
and fleeting kisses
and sweet whispers
and I love you's
and walks in the park
and sunrise and sunset
and moon and stars
and mysterious smiles
and happy and sad tears
and stuffed bears and bracelets
and necklaces
and secrets
and petnames that don't mean
anything to anyone but us.


Slipping away--
You and not me--
a thousand times over.
Excuses and reasons
all blur into one mess
in my head
but they all screamed the same thing: 
you are slowly leaving
each and every time,
and taking a piece of me, 
each bigger than the last.
And I would just let you 
until there's nothing left of me. 

Tired.
I am tired of you
leaving me over and over.
Tired of waiting for you 
to come back
and take me once again. 
The last time
hurt way more than 
the others.
I want you. I need you. 
I love you 
with a love that's there
and a love that isn't.
But I need to know
if you're staying for good
or if you're leaving for real.
Are you staying
or going?
Are you leaving
and never coming back?

The door's shut,
deadbolt locked in. 
I threw the keys away.
Either you're in this with me
or nothing at all.
Because I'm tired
of waiting
and loving
and waiting
and loving,
and waiting,
and loving, 
and waiting
and loving
a ghost of a man
who I used to believe
truly loved me too.
Kessica Tanglao, 24Aug2011
Written on Memo on Blackberry

Tanga

Simple lang yung araw—walang palatandaan na may closure na magaganap o masasaktan lang ako ulit. Ni walang pasabi si Mother Nature na pagkatapos ng isang taon, magkikita tayo ulit, na maaayos ang kaguluhang ginawa nung pag-uusap natin nung nakaraang taon sa mga buhay natin.

Mainit—yun ang naaalala ko. Tanga lang, summer diba? Malamang mainit. Papunta ako sa bayan pero hindi ko alam bakit. Meron akong purpose, pero hindi ikaw yun. Hindi na kita nakikita. Nararamdaman. Ni mag-text hindi mo magawa. Ay teka lang, hindi ko pala matatanggap. Kasi pagkatapos nung usap natin last year, nagpalit ako ng number.

Ayaw na kitang makausap o makatext ulit, kahit nagsusumigaw ang puso ko.

Nasa jeep ako nun. Malapit na sa bayan. Pero may pamilyar akong nakita. Yung lalaking katabi ng driver. Kung sa mga kwentong isinusulat ko, ito yung part na sasabihin kong “familiar brown hair and familiar built that I wouldn’t mistake for anyone in a crowd.” Taray, diba.

Dumiskarte ako. Nakita ko sa side mirror na ikaw nga yun. Hindi ko alam bakit nasa jeep ka. Mayaman ka diba? May sasakyan. Bakit hindi ka nagsasakyan?

Tumigil ang mundo ko. Actually hindi pala. Yung puso ko lang.

Hiling ko na sana hindi mo mapansin na nasa dulo ako ng jeep. Nagdasal ako sa mga santong kakilala ko kahit kokonti lang sila. Hindi ko kasi alam kung kaya ko bang makita ka ng malapitan o kung kaya ko bang kausapin ka. Ano naman sasabihin ko diba?

Nasa bayan na tayo. Leche, andito na tayo. May fiesta yata. Ito yata yung pakay ko kung bakit ako nandito. Parang Pahiyas. Pero hindi eh. Hindi naman tayo taga-Lucban, ano ba. Ang gulo talaga. Ang daming tao, tapos ang saya-saya nila. May bandang tumutugtog. Ramdam ko yung drums. Sabay sa pintig ng puso ko.

Ang saya ng mga tao. Pero sigurado ako na hindi ako kasama dun.

Baka ikaw rin, kung nakita mo ako.

Nung tumigil yung jeep, karipas ako ng takbo. Hindi kita dapat makausap. Sana hindi mo ako nakita.

Hindi narinig nung mga santong dinasalan ko yung dasal ko.

Nakita mo ako. Continue reading

Gino Quillamor’s Unwritten

I know I rarely post blog entries, but this one just plainly deserves it. It’s so heartwarming yet painful at the same time. This was written by a DJ from RX 93.1, and I think he moonlights at Party Pilipinas too. You can follow him at Twitter.

Unwritten

There’s a million things that I haven’t said to you, and I hope that somehow you actually get to read this, so this one’s for you.

I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough for you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t find the courage to stand up for you. I hope you know that it’s not because of a lack of love, but it’s because a different kind of love is conflicting with my standing up for you. I know that this may seem unfair to you, and trust me it’s unfair for me too, but one of the things I’ve learned is that things are almost always never fair. This may seem trivial to you and you may not understand it but I hope that one day you will. (click here to read more)

Sunset.

I was standing at the shore, watching the sun set against the very nice backdrop of the sea and the sky, the perfect blend of oranges, yellows, and blues. The wind was playing with my hair and it was making it tangled, but it was okay.

I took a deep breath.

And then he came around, hugging me from behind. I closed my eyes as I felt him lean his chin on my shoulder.

He and I have been best friends, seven years ago. I had gone over the line and loved him more than a friend, and I told him so. But he didn’t love me in the way that I had wanted him to, and at that time, even though it was painful, it was okay. He was still in my life as my best friend, and that was okay with me. That was good.

And when he went away to study college, we lost all contact—only to talk once more after seven years.

And on the day he contacted me, he also broke the news that he’s about to get married because his girlfriend is pregnant.

Who knew after seven years that my heart would still break because of him?

And here we are, another year later, two days before his wedding, his kid already a month old, in La Union. He “kidnapped” me, asking me to come with him because he wanted to tell me something, and he didn’t give me a chance to refuse. He almost carried me to his car just to take me here.

We’ve been here already for a day, and whatever he wanted to tell me, it still wasn’t coming out.

Until now.

“We have to go back, you know?” I said, and he nodded.

“Cold feet?” I said again, and he shook his head. “No, I’m good,” he said, but his voice was hollow.

“You said you need to tell me something,” I prompted after a long while. I removed his arms around me and I started to walk along the shore. He followed, three steps behind me.

“Yes,” he said, and he stopped. I turned to look at him.

He took a deep breath. “I love you,” he said without any other ceremonies. “I have loved you before, in the same way you loved me too. And I still do. I still love you.”

I gaped at him—I think that was the least I could do. I stopped functioning altogether, and I just stared.

“Do you… still love me?” he asked, and I closed my eyes, exhaling loudly.

“What is the point?” I asked him. “What is the point of all this?”

I took a step back and opening my eyes again. He was watching my expression real carefully. “Do you still love me?” he asked again.

“What is the point?” I insisted, not answering his question.

He gazed into my eyes and I could feel his resolve melting away.

“You can’t run away from your soon-to-be wife, from your kid. They are there and they won’t go away the moment you tell me you love me. And I can’t believe you,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. Angry tears sprung in my eyes. “I can’t believe how selfish you are. You’re telling me this because you wanted to find a way out? You’re telling me this and you don’t even think how I’d feel?”

He reached out for me, holding my hands. “I wanted you to know. I just wanted you to know so that I won’t regret that I didn’t tell you how I feel! If you feel I was unfair, if you feel it was selfish—I’m sorry. I wanted you to know that I love you because it’s true. It’s real. And even though I’m getting married in two days, even though I know this won’t change anything in my life plan or yours, I wanted you to know that at one point in this lifetime, I loved you in the way that you loved me and that I deeply regret not telling you at that time. That I wished so badly that it is you and me getting married in two days.” He was begging, pleading for me to understand. Tears were also streaming down his face.

“I love you. And I still do. And I would love you forever. But I know this is how it’s supposed to be. This is how you and me should be. We were meant to love each other but we’re meant to stay apart. And it kills me. It kills me every single day. And I want you to know that. I want to know it hurt me that I hurt you before. When I made you feel I didn’t love you too. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I turned away, choking back my sobs, my eyesight blurry because of the tears.

“You’re getting married. And I’ll be there. I’ll watch you get married. You have to get married.”

“I love you—”

I nodded, removing my hands in his and hastily wiping my tears. I reached out and held his face in my hands.

“And I loved you. But this is it. Like you said, this is how we’re supposed to be. This is the end of the line for us,” I said, my voice wavering, wanting, willing for him to understand.

He nodded, taking a deep breath.

I gave him a small smile, trying to mask the breaking of my heart in a thousand pieces. I sat on the shore, the waves and sand tickling my feet, and he sat next to me.

He held my hand.

The sun set on the horizon, just like it had on our love that never happened, on our love that was might have been.