Maybe I’m just wasting my time waiting for me to finally be ready for you. I know it should be the evident thought, but I already have this logical reason on why I should keep on hanging on to you for as long as I can. Because there’s this weird place in my head that thinks that “as long as I can” is about to end, and it’s about to end well.
I could live my life not telling you about all the things you make me feel. About how you can be the only thing I look forward to in the entire week. About how you can be the only one I’m with when I don’t feel the need to be anything else but myself. About how thinking about you can sometimes be my only defense against my constant sadness. I can choose not to tell you these, but where does that leave me?
I will always hate the thought of you not knowing how much you really mean to me. And I have always hated this thought more than me not actually meaning anything to you. But I know, deep inside, that when these thoughts are not just thoughts anymore, I will end up hating the latter over the former. Because the former will lead to the latter.
I’m wasting my time waiting on you. I know I am.
But I’d rather have that than have you waste your time on me.
Someone once offered me a key to you. But I didn’t take it,
because I’d rather deserve you than receive you.
And if you didn’t want me, I wouldn’t want myself, either.
You’re the answer to the questions I haven’t asked.
You’re the solution to the problems I haven’t thought about.
You’re the light to the darkness I haven’t even noticed.
You are my strength, but only because you are also my weakness.
And only because I don’t care how weak I look to you,
just as long as you look at me in the way that I look at you.
This is where I hope, even when all that is left is hopelessness.
Let me convince myself that we are playing a game.
Even if I’m the one both hiding and seeking.
Even if I’m the one both chasing and running.
Let me convince myself that you’re in this, too.
This is how I fall asleep: cold and alone, thinking of the only things that really matter. How can I live for more than fifteen hours a day when all that’s important can be compressed in fifteen minutes of thoughts - of hopeless and sleepless thoughts?
In my mind, I replay our conversations, even those of the distant past. I make mental notes of the things I said wrong, and of the things I could have said right. But for no good reason. You’ll never talk to me again in the way I have familiarized as home.
I used to thank The Sandman for giving you bad dreams, because that was the only time you needed me, the only time you called out for me. But now, you don’t even do that anymore. So I step back, put both my hands over my face, and wordlessly hope to the stars that you are feeling fine tonight, because I can no longer be there to make sure you are.
One night, I saw you down the path where we had always met. And I was almost sure that you’d stop and wait for a few minutes, just like before. But being sure isn’t the same as being hopeful, and instead of speeding up to meet you in our spot, I was the one who had to stop when you didn’t even bother to remember. I can still smell who we were, but I can no longer keep up with what you are becoming.
Can you slow down and remain in place? Because I get that I was the one who first turned the page, and I can never ask you to look back when all you’ve done is move forward, too fast, as if you were desperate to close the book before I even noticed you were reading ours, too.
This is how I wake up: hopeless and impatient, waiting for the next opportunity to think of you again.
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken pieces. — Ernest Hemingway
when our eyes met
for the first time,
i felt something i’ve never felt
in a very long time,
i felt being looked at,
but not being watched,
just being lost at
the many elements
of my soul,
and finding nothing.
but it’s okay
because i haven’t
to be found.
when we stopped looking,
we started searching,
and you were the first
that we are indeed searching.
and only i
can make you find something
despite my nothingness.
i could have,
and would have,
what you were looking for,
but i wasn’t certain
you were looking for me.
so i started my own search,
and quickly found
in the midst of my own reflection
of the need to be searched,
and the need to be looked at,
and the need to stop being nothing.
so i did the searching,
and i did the finding,
but you were not mine to keep,
and i couldn’t tell you
that i wanted
to keep you
because it became evident
that the only one to keep you
and then, everyone else,
i am not a good person,
and i don’t claim to be,
because it’s not easy being good,
but it makes sense to me.
so i try to, nonetheless,
(hint: it’s always less)
because i’m a sensible person
who’s not as sensitive
but can be more emotional
than some would think,
than you would think.
one day, i hope
that you can look at me again
but no longer look for me
like i looked for you
so that you can see
who i am
and not who i claim to be.
because i’ve given up on tears,
and i can give up on me,
but i refuse to allow you
to give up on you.
will let me
There is loneliness that is felt by the mouth. It’s given away by pouts of disapproval, discontent, or both. I find that the mouth reacts to words that hit too close to home - whether in songs, in books, or in listening. But this loneliness is easy to shrug off. In fact, sometimes it doesn’t even feel like it exists.
There is loneliness that is felt by the eyes. Tears well up in the sockets before falling in streams down the cheekbones - a perfect picture of how this sadness is slow and methodical. I find this certain loneliness in grieving, usually for loss. It’s rather fitting that the sense organ of sight contains tear ducts because when we’re done mourning, we get to see the world more clearly.
And then there is loneliness that is felt by the heart. I feel how the areas around the chest are trapped, where there is supposed to be free flowing blood for life. This is the loneliness that hits fast, hits hard, but doesn’t even try hard. It is not borne of any other event than the realization that the one solution to this melancholy is far out of reach. The thing with reaching this level of sadness is the capacity to accept things as they are, and never bother to look for a way out. For some, it’s a curse to never want to be happy again; for others, it’s a blessing to never being worse.
They say there is loneliness that can no longer be felt. I wonder if I’ll know for sure. Maybe it wouldn’t make such a big difference after all.
I know, I know. Some people have it worse. My problems are not as heavy as those on the streets, on hospital beds, or behind prison bars. But god damn my weak back for not having the arch to help me carry these supposed light stuff.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t complain, and I should celebrate the fact that I’m still here. I am conquering battles without trying. I am surviving where so many valiant warriors are not. But in as much as I am not quitter, I cannot say that I am a soldier.
I know, I know. I am just overacting. I am just enjoying my sadness because it’s all I’ve ever found comfort in. But how could I ever tell apart what depression is from what depression feels like, because I certainly can’t figure out their fucking difference.
I know, I know. I am way too emotional for a guy, and it doesn’t fit the persona I am trying to keep. But this is who I am, and I’d rather be disliked for being honest than being liked for pretending to be honest.
I know, I know. But just the same, I am in pain.
I was only given a minute to get you back.
For 59 seconds, I gathered all that I had to think of ways I could win you over again. I wrote mental scripts that made no sense at all. I picked the flowers that were within my reach no matter how ugly they were. I even managed to run to the corner store and get you those P5 chocolates, knowing very well that they were not your favorites.
This is how it’s always been, isn’t it? I will try so hard and fail. But it isn’t because of your low standards or my unwillingness to do what it takes. It’s just because no matter where I am, I will always have the nerve to push aside romance for the things I need to do. Sometimes, I think that I’m ready to settle down - with you, especially. But I am afraid to be fooled by this change in principle, and I am afraid to fool you.
And then, I realized, if you wanted me back, you would have given me more than a minute, you would have given me something. In fact, if I had any chance at all, I wouldn’t be setting deadlines for myself. Things would just happen - just like it had been in the past. If you and I are finally going to be us again, it isn’t a question of time, but of timing.
So instead of telling you what I have and giving you who I am right now, I will simply watch the final stroke of the clock, our clock. I am hopeful that one day, I can tell you everything, and I can be everything to you. Maybe then, you’ll give me more of your time, and the best of our timing.
Finally had the time to finish this film