Verse Perverse

The redness of its beam demands us to stop: there are other people crossing our paths. I, for one, have never cared about the effects of colliding with them, except insofar as it involves the impossibility of colliding with you. So maybe, it’s about time I follow the rules. After all, my reluctance to do so has led me here, alone on this side of the road.

I am afraid to approach a second sooner than I should have - I have been told what timing is when it’s not on our side. There’s logic to how this system goes, right? We are supposed to keep on moving so as not to allow others behind us to fall behind, and then carefully slow down and stop as we see others move across us. We are supposed to stand steadfast and strong, and not allow the illusion of movement take us away from our course.

But I become selfish sometimes. I look at the green seconds counting down and I move so hastily that I forget to take with me those important to me to the other side. The yellow light does not signify the caution one is supposed to exercise; instead, I look at it as the lack of time needed to eliminate our lack of care. I never even noticed how foreign red lights are now, because I have always been overspeeding at the road that has led me nowhere.

So here I am, completing a U-Turn, as I try to go back to the road on which you no longer are. I am on the other side of the stoplight now, wondering if you’re still trying to keep up within this same path, or if you’ve gone ahead and made a left turn somewhere - I’m sure it’s a left one because I have convinced myself that it couldn’t have been the right one. The light screams yellow, and I have since learned to be more careful of warning signs. 

Either way, I am unbuckling my seatbelt as I wait for the final blow.
I am ready to beat the red light, if you’re ready to crash unto me.
Maybe I’ll never be ready to follow the rules.

The melancholy I use to fuel this writing is confirmation of what I had suspected all along: I had finally broken free.

There was something so sinister about the way you held me captive. It wasn’t that you deprived me of the liberty to roam around - you did give me the most space out of everyone that I demanded that from. I was able to move freely despite your orbit, always careful to only graze the gravitational pull of another planet, but never completely succumbing to its magnetic pressure. There was no point, right? The one thing I loved the most - being alone - was given to me by you who shouldn’t be okay with me being alone. I have often described it as the perfect set up.

But this galaxy knows no perfection. In the times I found myself alone, I no longer loved being alone. I couldn’t fathom how movies and poetry were no longer of interest, and I wondered if it’s because the thought of being with you trumps my yearning of being alone. And yet, as we meet each other in the vastness of space, it wasn’t much fun either. So whether I was alone, or I was with you, I was no longer happy.

In a desperate attempt to figure out what’s wrong, I decided to abruptly cut the ties of your orbit even for just a short amount of time. Suddenly, it made sense. What I loved being alone was that I could finally listen to myself speak as I say what has been brewing deep inside. And when I knew what’s going on within me, I can finally tell you so you understand a little bit more about myself.

But you couldn’t care less. You leave it all to unnecessary drama that you can live without, that you wanted absolutely no part of. Maybe it was unintended, but you shut me out. If I couldn’t tell you these things, what’s the point of being with you? No handcuffs, no jail; but a subtle detention of what and how to feel.

Nonetheless, I chose you. I chose to swallow my feelings and let you be as comfortable as you are with me. I chose to stop listening to myself as the monsters within me grow, waiting to explode and start a supernova, at the risk of not only us, but of everyone around me. I chose to ignore these as you have ignored them, too.

I chose to stop taking care of myself just so I can take care of you.
And because of this, I am too empty to take care of anything, or anyone.

In your solar system, I had mobility - but I didn’t have freedom all along. In my intention to keep you from running away, I had forgotten that I could escape from this as well. I didn’t even notice that I had already begun to.

And now, my broken-down planet has nowhere to orbit, and has no one within its orbit.
But as I listen to the stillness of its barely existent movements, this is lightyears better than what we were, and what we’d ever be.

If we find ourselves across opposite corners of a crowded room, what path are we going to take to meet each other?

Do not meet me in the middle of the room. A clear path is a misleading one: do not forget that the straight line we’re tempted to take is also a slanted one. We see each other from where we are, but once we take a single step away from our little space, we end up entering someone else’s. We will be so busy occupying the spaces of everything in between that we won’t even notice that we are no longer within intersecting paths. Don’t you see? We will never see each other in the middle. Under the spotlight, we will lose sight of where we want to be, and of where we currently are. Are we still even in the same room?

Skirt around the edges, as I do the same. It’s a small room, but I am overwhelmed with the unnecessary clutter in the middle. I do, however, find consolation in the fact that we are on our way to see each other. There is no way to plan the exact moment when and where we’ll meet - our prior lives have denied us the timing needed to be experts at this. But our heartbreaks have given us patience to keep moving on. Several revolutions later, we can finally claim our naked surrender by the concrete wall of a room so silent that we won’t wonder why it’s only each other’s breaths that we hear. 

Perhaps, in another place, it would be easier.
But given the choice, this is still how I’d meet you.

It should be a crime to mistake romance for love - and it goes both ways. The fact of having someone beside you on a bad day doesn’t necessarily equate to being loved. Perhaps, it’s a sign that it is within human nature to preoccupy one’s self with an activity that is so natural, so mundane, and yet so complex at the same time. I guess that’s why some people survive without even thinking that they need a mate - what engrosses them has nothing to do with another person. In the end, it would seem, romance is just another activity, just another habit, just another nuance in our daily lives. Love can be something more.

Somehow, I find relief in all of these. Because if romance does not equate to love, then the lack of one does not mean the lack of the other. In the midst of lonesome drives, sleepless nights, and monotonous monologues, there can be love. It’s just that we seem to see past it under the mistake of not knowing what to look for. Sure, love comes in all shapes and sizes, but if we ourselves can’t recognize what love is for us, how do we even know if it’s there?

It’s a tricky thing, looking for whatever it is that would make us happy (and I’m not prepared to say that it is happiness). I’m a firm believer of the “when it feels right, go for it” mantra, and yet I fear making mistakes when it comes to these kinds of things. I believe in going with the flow and keeping it cool, while also being extra mindful of my aging self vis-a-vis the goals I have set out for my self (family before 30!). The ironies are difficult to iron out, but I guess, in those wrinkles, there’s compatibility. 

One thing’s for certain: I still believe that we carve whatever we make out of love. Only we can define it for ourselves. No one can ever tell us to accept love because it is what we deserve - because no one knows what we deserve but us. I guess some people are lucky in the sense that they can easily define what they want out of other people. I am not as fortunate. Different kinds of people can come up to me and they’d all have the same opportunities as being my next person. If this is a blessing rather than a curse, I am not sure how I’m benefitting from all of these.

Of course, the easy benefit is the learning process. Looking back at all the previous romances and I can say I have made strides (no matter how seemingly insignificant) in they way I have handled them. But when does the learning stop? How do I differentiate the last lesson from the one to which I am supposed to apply all these? Granted, there’s so much more to learn. But grant me the same: there’s also so much time not to waste.

So what’s the point? I guess I don’t even know. Someone asked me when I’d be ready to engage myself with romance. I guess the easier answer is that I am preoccupied with other things to be preoccupied by that. I guess the difficult answer is defining what I even mean with such preoccupation.

From across the pavement, I yearn to have you. So many people have been on the other side, but you feel different than the others. I have witnessed round after round and loss upon loss, but you are the only one who has made me stand up from the bench, stretch out my weary limbs, and line up for a shot at victory. After all, you kept on chanting my name to cheer me on, and while that is the only thing I have to go on, it is enough.

And yet, the obstacles between us are so persistent in keeping us apart. How many more of these am I willing to take? I have deduced that every dodge, scratch (nails don’t count!), and roll is worth it if only for the chance to fight with you so that I can take us back to the safety of my comfort zone. Yes, I am fighting for only a chance, but a chance with you is miles better than the security of another.

But you, my dear, are a traitor - you belong to the side of heartbreak and deceit. And I can feel the loss of a great game by the means of your single touch. It was never us against the world, it was always just me against it, and I just happen to let you be the world. The instance our paths collide is the moment when all of this will end - more likely for the worse than for the better.

I count my wounds and my bruises and unsurprisingly, they amount to the number of times you have chanted my name. You weren’t cheering me on, after all. You were only tempting me with yourself, just wanting me to want you and nothing more. Had I reached the end of the game, would you have come back with me? The color of the blood on the concrete spells out a loss.

But if I’m not going to win, then you’re not going to either. I will not bow this down. I will not go out without a fight, and I will not let you get the better of me. I will face away from you and redo every dodge, scratch, and roll I have done so far so I can go back to the comfort of the beginning. Then, I will start chanting your name. How weak will you be when you find out that I am not the destination, but the obstacle of all obstacles?

When will I finally outgrow this game?

1. Truth is still the most profound virtue. But only because there is more to be found in the lack thereof. What would you rather know - the percentage of lies told over everything that a person says, or the ratio of the things that one wants to say over everything that s/he actually does? This irony is a bit sad. Honesty is the most accurate social currency and yet it’s also the easiest to dodge. In a world that refuses to reward itself with its own demands, how do we survive?

2. I find myself lost within all these greetings. It’s like I don’t know the person they’re thanking for the past year. I had at least 5 friends tell me that I had taught them how to trust people – but I have forgotten how. Or that feeling sad is okay as long as there’s also a way out of it in sight – but I never seem to get to the latter stage. Perhaps, this shows how I’m really a lot tougher on myself than I am with other people. But then again, maybe this only shows my inconsistencies.

3. The worst part of the previous year was being disillusioned out of what I had always thought as the formula for happiness. But I have since figured this much: if we rely on others to make us feel happy, then these other people must know what makes you happy, must be able to make you happy, and must be willing to make you happy. I feel as if it’s the inconvenience of the third element that makes this so damn difficult to find. So maybe humanity is not ready to make me (or to keep me) happy, despite knowing and being able to do so. So for the next year, I vow not to let other people carry the burden of my own happiness. I still acknowledge that I am dependent on another for my complete happiness, but I shall start recognizing that I don’t have to be whole to feel content about my life. Maybe this will help me sleep better at night.

4. It’s so god damn difficult to be a human in this human-driven world.

I am always looking for the right words. And every time I feel like I have them, they suddenly feel worthless, as if only Third Grade spelling booklets can make them feel home. But the warmth of red ink and inadequate scores is no match for the errors that are housed inside of me.

Do not patronize me by offering me your thesaurus. Synonyms are not my business - I cannot pretend to suddenly be enough with a simple replacement of what I thought I was capable of. Instead, hand me the dictionary but don’t offer me your definition. Show me your etymology and I will find your meaning in all the places you’ve been through and all the changes you’ve gone through. If it’s impossible to fully know you, then I will not settle for the semblance of you. I will accept you for all your hidden connotations as long as you accept my misuse of what you never really stood for.

In the greater scheme of things, there is nothing to say, after all.

You were by the fireplace when we first met.

I had no idea what were fueling the flames. Or maybe it was just a matter of convenience to ignore it. It was much simpler, after all, to snuggle next to you, so that you’d feel the coldness of my heart against the heat of your destruction. For you, I lingered; for me, you allowed me to.

But I had forgotten that heat was my weakness. Or rather, change. I had become so used to the cold that I had no idea how to deal with the fact that the blizzard was turning into a breeze. I had become so used to lonesome nights that I had forgotten what it meant to offer the same blanket to another. I had become so used to myself that I hadn’t realized that there was enough breathing space for only one, and I hadn’t kept some for myself.

So I decided to bring you out from the flames, to take you from the comfort that surrounds you and to bring you towards what I considered safety. But you could not be moved. You sat so firmly before the fire that I had begun to wonder what was in there. And yet, the moment I asked, the flames weakened. So I asked and asked and asked until it was no longer enough to keep you warm. And you became as cold as me. And I was happy, or at least content.

But I was stupid, mistaking the invisibility of the flames for the lack thereof. How you managed to hide the fire was a matter of expertise. But how the shadows grew bigger when the flames were smaller was a matter of inexperience. How could I think that I was safer when there were more places to hide, more secrets to keep? Why did I allow you to extinguish something you cherished for so long?

So I stepped away, slowly so as not to make a noise. But you heard me - you know me so well. And I would have given the world to bring you away from the fireplace with me. But the moment you moved, you were no longer the same. You were blue and pale, as if the smoke was the only air you needed to breathe. And I do not want to suffocate you by the mere absence of what keeps you human.

And now I leave. I left. And now you want to be with me. But see, I already know that if you’re going to follow me, you will just as well take the fireplace with you, and settle down with me being beside the point. As long as you’re happy, as long as you’re safe. Even if that means that I no longer feel happy, that I no longer feel safe.

You will insist that you no longer need the flames, but I am unfazed. After all, there wouldn’t be fire if you weren’t ready to ignite so recklessly, so haphazardly. How easy is it to disclaim necessity when the fire is the only thing that remains with you? And how difficult was it to refuse when I was tugging you out from your warmth?

Go ahead, bring out the gas and fan the flames even more so you can throw me like you have done to others before me. I have not and will not walk voluntarily to my own demise. You have taken me there for me to burn, but you are not allowed to bring any part of my ashes home. I did not ask for this, but you left me with no choice but to accept this fate.

Perhaps it would be easier if you fight the flames yourself, instead of relying so much on another to put it out. But perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you’ll never learn. But certainly, I do not care anymore.

You, by the fireplace, was the greatest thing that happened to me.
You, still before the fire, is the worst.

In my room, at 3 in the morning, leaning towards me as I whisper your name. And in an instant, I am filled with shame, as if anyone can hear, as if anyone would listen. My senses curse as we go through the motions again, closing my eyes but not my mind, imagining every possibility that you and I will meet in a time both convenient for us.

At the doorstep, bags packed and ready to go, waiting for me as I check if the windows are closed and the doors are locked. Which takes too long, so you leave me, like they always do. I thought you’d be different, and I still think you are. So when will you come back for me? Because I’m hearing noises inside and I might have missed a window or two, but I’m afraid to look because when I do, I might miss you, and I think I already do.

Across me, all smiles, waiting for dessert, killing time in between mundane hours that only seem mundane when not spent with you, stealing moment after moment that only gets better with yet another moment. These are the stories we’ll tell our children one day, when we’re old and weary and they’re still interested in how we fell in love. We won’t tell them that I spent decades chasing and waiting for you at the same time, that it took you centuries to stop and arrive at the same time, but that we still happened so perfectly that romcoms were based on our lives. We won’t tell them anything. We won’t have anything (or anyone!) to tell.

in my heart. Even if there’s a place for you.
In my heart. Because you refuse to enter.
In my heart. But if you do, I won’t allow you to leave.
In my cold cold heart.