on friendships and moving on

A., my lovely sprite of a friend once told me that life is all about moving on, moving from one thing to another with books to inspire us and friends to keep us sane. I've moved on from a number of events in my life and left behind people in one way or another. Like I said before, I am good at holding grudges, at squirreling information away, so I can use something against you if you leave or move on. This is what I spread over all the good memories I have of you.

About a week ago, my erstwhile best friend, L., sent me an SMS and told me she was at UP and passed by our old college hangout ( more hers really) and that it reminded her of me, which is why she sent me the SMS. The message made me smile. Because I have those places tied with my memories of her as well. After all, we have more than fifteen years of history, half my life, that's how long we've been friends. We've been there for each other all those years, navigating through the excitement and confusion that was university life, through infatuations and broken hearts, anxieties over our future and our life choices. Even when life dictated we take separate paths, we made time, we made a point of seeing each other, touching base if only to know how each other was until inevitably, I guess we began to out grow each other. We were best friends for most of those fifteen years, which is probably why despite all my drama, all her shortcomings (imagined or otherwise), despite the combination of hurt and pique that has tinged my perception of our friendship these past few years, I am still reluctant to move on.


I have scribbled so many letters to L. so many times, but I can never bring myself to send it to her. The closest I came was when things started to fall apart and I sent her an email but she must have misread what I wrote and things somehow managed to resolve themselves so we never spoke of it anymore. Maybe this is why I still am reluctant to move on, that plus the fact that I don't make friends that easily.

I know I come across as selfish and self-centered and basically a brat. And some days, I am that exactly, and a drama queen to boot. But given the history of our friendship, I think I'm more than entitled to be in this case. I suppose I should grow up and start acting like an adult, given that I turn 32 in a few short days. I should talk to her, tell her how I feel, maybe then I can move on.

wishful thinking and writerly pursuits

I wish I could write, really write. The kind of writing that touches people, that makes a connection. Not this, this whiny, self-indulgent exercise . W says that the fact that I blog means I'm a writer, but I don't agree. I suppose it all comes down to perception and labels. Because heck, I suppose anyone can be a writer or claim to be, I should know, given where I work. But that's saying too much already.

My question is what is it that makes a writer? Is it the way that one skillfully strings words together to form a coherent thought or is it the way one is able to connect, to tell a tale, to impart knowledge and feeling? Is writing less than the stringing of words and more than being able to convey something? My thoughts on this is that it comes down to labels. Because in some capacity or another, we are all writers, whether we are blogging, or creating letters or even reports, for school, for work, as dry as can be, we are conveying something.

My friends (perhaps because they are my friends) have told me at one time or another I have some capacity for this, this writing thing, this nebulous chased after label. I remain unconvinced.

the truth is out there

"There is no such thing as uncharacteristic; there is only previously unwitnessed".

I got this from one of the excellent X-Files fan fictions I have been drowning myself in during the run up to and after the second XF movie was shown. It gave me pause and I had a whole entry written in my head that I was going to post but its all lost now. Anyway, because it made me stop and think, I am posting it here.

that which keeps us tethered

I've been entertaining crazy thoughts this week, perhaps brought on by the fact that I have taken to skipping work and brooding in bed all day. Anyway, I came to a conclusion from these talks with myself that I have been having ( and yes, I am certain that I am not crazy, I just work things out better in my head if I vocalize them). I came to the conclusion that if push comes to shove, that if I were to take sides or forced to choose, my choice will always always be on the side of where my sisters and my mom are, right or wrong, them. Them, the ones that keep me sane, that keep me tethered, my family. They say you can't choose your family, but I wouldn't trade mine for anything, neuroses and all.

biding time til things get better

I hate this half-lived life that I've been living. Most days, I can cope with it, I can fool myself into thinking, hey its not so bad what I have. And then there are these dark days, when I feel decidedly self destructive, bent on trampling over what I have built, on blowing away this precariously balanced house of cards with a huff. These are the days when I hate everything about my life, when I question the choices I have made. And yet, and yet I still wonder, if I had chosen another path would I be happier? Would it be more than this half-lived life that I have built and gotten comfortable in and have now grown to resent? I wonder if there are other people out there like me, pretending to bide their time till things get better yet not doing anything about it? People like me who pretend and fool themselves into thinking that their half-lived lives are better than nothing at all, that settling for what you have, what you can have, is better than chasing after the next shiny thing in the horizon. Is it? Is this really better than the not knowing the reason for this gnawing discontent, this rumbling anger threatening to overwhelm my sanity? I don't know who said it, but I agree with whoever they are when they said that we all live lives of quiet desperation. Because god knows, I do.

on taking chances

Life is like that I suppose. You gamble, you let go of your anchor, to take risks and sometimes it pays off, but most times it blows up in your face big time. And so you go back to your corner to lick your wounds and regroup, vowing never to take chances again. But you know that one day, you're going to find yourself standing on that particular ledge again, staring ahead, and deciding to jump at whatever chances that fate throws at you. It's a cycle, funny but vicious, and you always, always get thrown.

define normal, I do not understand

Most days I feel like I have been left behind, that the whole world is moving, everyone moving in a frenzy, in a hurry to catch one more brass ring. Everyone but me. I feel like everyone around me has kept at their pace, pushing on, but somehow I'm stuck, inevitably stuck. Their worlds keep moving while mine has come to a screeching standstill.

I used to be like everyone else, eyes on the goal, never faltering and in that frenzy, I somehow stumbled without knowing it, lost focus, and I let the rings drop. Now it seems I no longer know the dance, that I have forgotten the steps somehow. And so I got left behind. Everyone is moving around me, moving on with their lives, and why shouldn't they after all? Meanwhile, in me-land, I feel stuck, frozen, like all the pieces of my dreams have gone tumbling down and I can't seem to get them back in order anymore. Neither do I feel motivated to do so. Because I have come to the realization that catching a particular brass ring will never be enough, that there will always be another one on the horizon, just beyond my reach. Yes, I so want to be like everyone else with their normal adult existence, with their lives planned and plotted out. But is that all that life is ever going to be? And the scariest part of it all is here I am, two months short of having been in existence for thirty two years now and I still don't know what I want. Why can't I be like everyone else?