Saturday, April 28, 2007

Long-Distance Anything, Unable to Sleep

I can't sleep. I've been trying to sleep. I played with my clit a little, but it didn't help. Something's really bothering me, and I'm not sure what.

Earlier tonight, I had a long webcam conversation with my best friend. We had a thing before, but she's now in New York working as an interior designer. It's such a hot job, I envy her. But she really deserves it, because she's got an amazing talent. Recently, she was asked to submit designs for a range of houseware, throw pillows, table cloths, plates, vases, what not. She's hoping it gets approved. If it does, she promised to send me a set of everything.

She told me she missed me, so I told her I missed her.

We've talked almost every night this past week. For some reason, our schedules clicked, and she had time to burn.

Most nights she would be talking about her work, meeting with clients, her designs, her inspirations. It's an exciting life, something I would gladly have. But she told me that she feels her life is on hold, that she feels stuck.

I've heard this before.

It's not something she mentions a lot, but we talk about it at least every six months, almost on schedule. Again, I hold my sigh and ask the same question I always ask:

Is it because of us?

The same pause, then the same answer. Part of it, yes, she answers.

It ends there. Nothing much else to talk about. We had a thing years ago, but she had to leave for New York, to study, then stayed on to work. Her entire family is there.

I'm happy for her, and I'm happy we're best friends.

But it's such a burden to know that someone's life is on hold because of you. Because of me. It would have been easier if I didn't care. I do care, but please move on.

So, tonight, I told her that.

There were tears and silences, and lots of quotes from self-help books. The call ended well enough. For her.

For me, I did my part as a good friend. But I only realize now, in my lack of sleep, that this is another relationship that could have been more.

We were inseparable for a while, and even tried being together. She let me talk and blabber all day, everyday, and she always listened and looked at me googly-eyed. She matched my sexual appetite and we kissed and fondled each other almost everyday (I loved how she kissed my breasts) , whenever we were together. We always made love (fucked, she prefers) while listening to Mishka Adams. It was fun and easy , but I always felt she had more love for me, more need for me, than I could for her.

We never had to resolve that, because she had a plane to catch. No real ending, no good-bye, no drama. Just a promise to keep in touch, and to keep the love. As friends. That was over two years ago.

I don't like long-distance anything. That's my conclusion for now.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Let the Burning, Purging Begin

When I first met you, I imagined you in black underwear.

We were Freshmen, we had common friends, and you were all talking about clothes. And underwear.

I was introduced to your group. "All poets," my friend said. The idea of poetry and lingerie quickly got me excited. You said your name and gave a little wave, then you went right back into your rousing discussions. You laughed, and it sounded so familiar. Your eyes twinkled in the afternoon light.

I had a crush on you right away.

A few weeks later, we met again. A bunch of friends were supposed to go to Club Dredd (in Timog, I'm so old!) to catch a poetry reading. Everyone backed out, and there were two.

Fate doth conspire!

We took a cab, had a great night, and fell in love—oh, if that were true. In fact, the opposite happened.

That night, while sipping San Miguel and popping calamares, I looked at you in the middle of this dark, cool room, in the middle of all these strange artists and musicians, and I realized that you were out of my league. You were a real poet and you knew where you were going.

In your presence, I truly felt like a Freshman.

Luckily, I had three more years to be in the same world as you.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Miss Nineteen Ninety-Seven

I miss you. I've been trying to write but nothing arrives. I know, I know that I just have to give time for it, to sit there and open up. I know all that, but I'm searching for something. Maybe I'm searching for you, for those lost, long nights that we talked and drank wine outside a darkened chapel. That scene haunts me. Walking across the car park, hugging you on the front steps, our countless dinners, that off-shoulder shirt you wore, revealing your smooth shoulder and emphasizing your young, slender neck. I wanted you, I was crazy for you. I realized that our deep discussions was like foreplay for me. I could have made love to you so many times. I miss that depth of sharing, the ideas and feelings. I never had that since. I regret that we didn't end up together, and I regret that I deleted all our emails. I was angry with you for the longest time, because I couldn't love you.

And now, only now, I realize that I've been literally so lost without you. And that all is lost, it's too late for anything, even for dreams and hopes and second chances.

All I have are memories and remembered fantasies. I know the idealized you, the lost you, the never-to-be-recovered you. And it is you that intrudes my thoughts when I write.

When I write, when I try to stir up my imagination, when I try to dip into the pool of creativity, I am always reminded by the exhilaration I felt when we were together. Here's another cliche: I was so alive when I was with you.

You, you, you. It's always been about you.

Now, I'm just stuck with my self, my sorry self and my reliable self-pity. The first few years were really bad, which contributed to my clinical depression. Nowadays, it just comes as an incessant dissatisfaction. A blah-ness in my daily life.

I never thought I'd still be alive at this age. I never planned for this.

They say that some writers write about the same thing over and over again, in different ways, in different works, in different times. I just might be one of those writers.

And you, yes, you.

You will probably never know this, but you were the one.

I was in love with you, and I loved you. I was truly, madly, deeply in love with you. And what did you say?

You said that you will invite me to your wedding.