I can't write anymore. Because everything have been falling into their proper places. Although I never thought that the government was my proper place. It takes a lot of getting used to -  this government work. I hear someone say we're swimming in treacherous bureaucratic waters and I nod, then nod again at how brilliant he strings his words. I feel envious of his wordplay while I have gotten tired of writing simple boring endorsement letters. I should go back to school perhaps, and learn how to write again.

Adieu, 2010, you have been very kind.

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ret·ro·spect
–noun
1.
contemplation of the past; a survey of past time, events, etc.

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"I was always late everywhere because I was stuck in my world."

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My Dad found Lolo's old Remington. I thank God for both of them.

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On Lolo's work table is a spinning globe. I should remember to take a photo of it. Last week, I saw him scribbling notes on his diary in that very table. Maybe I should ask him if I could read what he has written for 2010 and if he keeps any more memories of the past years. I wonder what kind of remembrances he logs and if he writes about me, too. I wish that Lolo never writes about his heartbreaks though. 

And oh, he even has a transistor radio. A Remington and a radio = vintage wow.

Remember that when hit your mid-twenties, you will realize how apt this excerpt is to describe that time of your life when everything was muddy gray and incoherent and pointless to you.

Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth.*

There, there. You will eventually grow up to be absorbing of the grayness of things, and when you get to your twenty-fifth year, there will be less and less of anything that you will find shocking anymore.

The little cuts will heal, yes, and you may not forget that they have been there but there are a million other moments you must exchange with the cuts. 

So forgive yourself and stop worrying about being seventeen and gullible. 

*Excerpt of poem from here.

"There are stories inside everyone, of course; some are like caged birds of varying hues, some like ripe, slimy pods ready to burst at a touch." - Tell The Sky, Luis Katigbak


Here you are; the story you won't admit telling: 

So you suddenly feel the ache of wanting to hear his jokes again. Once upon a time, his attention was concentrated on you, and all your small pains and complaints were relieved by hearing him crack his silly comments.

But some things change over time. And some things change without you realizing them as they happen. There was this shift somewhere, last year it is, but looking back, you really weren't so mindful then. You were too busy drinking your nights away and his image was a mere blur on the background, much like the music you couldn't quite comprehend.

Now, you can only see him twice or thrice, when everyone gets together. Then, he was only one SMS away.

You'd like to see him again. How your heart beats faster at the thought.

He was a keeper of books, you remember. There was this pile of Dahl books he lent you and you never gave them back. And you intend to never give them back, for fear of losing him outright.

A thought occurs to you: why not borrow some other book again? You know he won't be able to say no.

If he agrees, you can hear him crack jokes again. So you reach for your phone, with your hand slightly trembling. Hurriedly, you send him a message. "Can I borrow your Harper Lee book?"

Thank God, for books, you say while waiting for his reply. Yes, thank God for books.

"Listen, sometimes when you finally find out, you realize that you were much better off not knowing."
— Audrey Niffenegger (Her Fearful Symmetry)

I am looking at these pages again, I forget how many times I have to click and look and reread all that was. All that was, cannot be erased, or unstumbled upon, I know that, so I am trapped in the excruciating state of knowing.

There they are, your perpetually smiling girls, your perpetually laughing girls, them perpetually holding hands with you, you perpetually holding their waists and hair.

I wish I met you before them.

Dear you,

"One thing I do know about intimacy is that there are certain natural laws which govern the sexual experience of two people, and that these laws cannot be budged any more than gravity can be negotiated with. To feel physically comfortable with someone else’s body is not a decision you can make. It has very little to do with how two people think or act or talk or even look. The mysterious magnet is either there, buried somewhere deep behind the sternum, or it is not. When it isn’t there, you can no more force it to exist than a surgeon can force a patient’s body to accept a kidney from the wrong donor."


With love,
Me

Words by Elizabeth Gilbert

Forgetfulness | Billy Collins

Last night I can't remember what I wore on the 11th of this month, when that day as it turns out, will define the mood of the days to come. On the 4th of this month, A reminds me I wore this black wraparound skirt and a thick gray blouse because that was the day we met old college friends in Trinoma and the small event was noted in her planner.

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

So when I got home last night, I sat on my bed and counted all the things that happened on the 30th of this month, like Edward going to Splendido, the amount I stashed in the bank, the dinner I ate with A. Those small things I need to remember.

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

As I sat writing, I remember on the 29th E gave me this Kenneth Cole pouch that smelled so much like my Clinique Happy but I forgot when the Mont Blanc was given to me.

And I still can't remember what I wore on the 11th. It matters a lot now.

When you cc-ed the news, I was unable to comment because what I really wanted to do was to light fireworks, drink beer and celebrate. That, for me was a call for merriment but I had to keep my composure, feign sadness for you and offer coffee, in cyberspace.

You know that I don't have too many talents. The only thing I do best is to sleep for more than the prescribed eight hours. And since I do not have the talent to console, thus the coffee.

But if you were here when you said what you said, I would have hugged you and instead of overdosing on caffeine, we would gulp on vodka tonic. And beer after. And whatever you want, really.

And I would let you talk.
 
It is your story anyway.

I'm not even lonely today. But this poem needs to be noted.


A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.


The Rider
Naomi Shihab Nye