all this wasted longing...

You Who Never Arrived

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start, I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me - the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods --
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house -- , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon, --
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening…
                                       -Rainer Maria Rilke

I wonder if you will still arrive, if you are out there; I hope you are...

how we didn't die, we just never had a chance to bloom

Whatever it was that I wanted us to be, what I wanted me to be for him, whatever it was that I deluded myself into thinking we were meant to be, never was. I knew that when I met him two years ago, but I kept on fooling myself by clinging to the tiniest bit of hope, despite appearances, despite actions that negated that hope.

Love, romantic love has always been difficult for me. W says we have, the two of us what she calls, the Sisyphus complex, falling for people we can't have, unattainable due to circumstances beyond our control. Maybe that's the reason why I clung so much to that hope, because despite everything, I really believed that I had a chance this time around. I guess I was wrong.

chocolate makes me happy...

I turned 32 today, and for once I will not whine about how direction-less I feel my life is but instead be thankful for everything that I have. I am grateful that I belong to the family I belong to, that I have a wonderful relationship with my parents ( only my mom now since daddy's gone) and my sisters. That I have an interesting enough job, two in fact that challenge my mind in different ways, I whine and complain about both a lot of times, but I am luckier than most, one job allows me to travel and learn while the other allows me to flex my writing muscles so I can not complain really. I have great friends who tolerate my moods and my lectures and my rantings. And I have my books that keep me occupied along with the fact that my favorite show of all time, The X-Files, is currently running on television five days a week. Life is good really.

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.