Tag Archives: reflections

Of losing and finding love

I wrote about this a lot time ago. In a stupid, emotionally driven post on a deleted social network where my fingers worked faster than my brain. Looking back, I don’t really remember much of it except for the numerous typographical errors I made as I burned through the keyboard. This is a much happier, more optimistic version.

When I first fell I love, I made plans. By 24, we’d get married; by 26, we’d move out of his parents’ house; by 28, we’d consider having children. Everything was penciled in and we were fully booked until 2057–that’s when I stopped and realized that by then, we’d probably be cloned and my copy would be doing the scheduling.

But like most harebrained schemes, the plans fell through barely a year into them. The ink on my notes began to fade; clear one second and blurry the next. Save for hiding under the sheets for days at a time, nothing seemed to make sense.

It was a beautiful summer day, I learned later–much later. I slept through it. I slept through most of that summer actually; eyes too heavy to keep open and too tired to even try. Eventually the sheets had to be changed and I reluctantly had to leave the 2×4 comforts of my bed. Right foot, left foot. Turn knob, shampoo, rinse. Pick up spoon, open mouth, chew, swallow. Days were accomplished in motions, slowly and one at a time.

Maybe it was God finally taking pity on the pathetic little girl who was slowly withering away. Maybe I just maxed out on sleep. Maybe a ghost shook me out of my revelry. Who knows? Suddenly, the world seemed terribly different. And without thought nor question, I erased everything, bored holes in the paper, ripped through the pages, crossed out words. When I was done, I looked outside with my first real smile in weeks. The sky was a dusky shade of gray. Summer was, regretfully in hindsight, over.

More than the pain of heartbreak was the pain of realizing a future I had stopped considering. And a past that had, in a blink, become useless. I had to switch gears and re-consider. C’est La Vie. Nothing too serious, with decisions centered only inside myself, emotions behind a shell, and foresight that only lasts until the next few weeks. Life armored and in tiptoes.

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On to the next leg of our adventure! Happy anniversary, bossing! Thank you for keeping me head-above-water sane for three years and counting!

But then I met you. A person who’s innately programmed to look only at the bright side. A person who has long dismissed failure as an option. A person who makes me believe–in reality and in dreams and how they can be one and the same. A person who makes me stronger despite the cracks of my own frail system. A person who can recite a decade’s worth of economic fluctuations but can also do a mean Katy Perry impersonation. A person I can just foretell myself with. And when you wore those ugly plastic clogs, stayed with me to clean up sewage flooding in my house, and helped me wipe every tile dry with tissue, I knew. I took my pencil and started writing.

When you love someone, you take the risk of losing yourself for the other person. And when you truly love someone, you know that even if you do lose your whole self, you’re strong enough to gain back what you lost. Chos!

Written on December 26, 2012

Brain block

One of my respected lit teachers (I took a whole bunch in preparation for my former future career as a law student) told me before that there’s no such thing as writer’s block. I’ve been trying to write a particular story and so far I have a trash can full of crumpled drafts, a two-page text that doesn’t exactly enamor me, and a blinding head ache.

What kills me is how much I looked forward to this. A month of waiting for this interview, three hours of standing around on set, and another two hours of transcribing. The best stories are ones that write by themselves and I thought the words would come crawling out of me. And now we’re here. Stuck. With a deadline less than 12 hours from now.

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This pathetic little excerpt is the best explanation I can come up with why there’s a nearly monthlong gap between this post and the last. I’ve been ridiculously busy and occupied with attending events, writing about them afterwards, then oiling up for the next cycle. I haven’t had time to read, haven’t had time to exercise any creativity. Even my quilting project is put on hold (:( as well as my coaster beading). Normally, it’s a good book that keeps me motivated, rich, and just bursting with words.

How ironic is it that as writers we are so often sorely deprived of the one activity that inspired us to be who we are in the first place: reading.