A state of exhaustion brought about by the fact that you are alive, that somehow, as a living creature you must do something to affirm your existence, but you just stand there utterly unmoved and uninspired waiting for the off chance that life passes you by and spares you the burden of having to live.
Give me long dreary nights, gloomy afternoons, and cold mornings. Give me sadness so that I may forget my own.
They say that when you get stabbed with a knife it is best to keep the knife where it is at for it helps you stay alive by preventing blood loss. Otherwise, you would bleed to death. The dilemma is this: how do you get rid of something meant to kill you, but is also keeping you alive? I wish I had a better answer to this, but as it stands, the knife is staying where it is at.
I want to live high atop a mountain, accompanied by clouds and surrounded by light. A place where the weather never gets broken, where it always unusually gloomy and sunlight a rarity; where cold winds embrace you and rain cleanses you. Sometimes, I wish to leave the world here below and settle on that mountain, like a white bird whose nest is perched untouched. I do not wish to be touched by anything that dwells below. I want that mountain. I want that cold. I want the clouds and the light and the long dreary nights.
"I wish to visit our paradise again," I told you one night. I was particularly nostalgic then, perhaps the foggy surroundings had something to contribute to that. We never really talked about the past before I told you those words, and rightly so. It wasn’t something worth remembering, we both agreed. But something made me say it. It wasn’t just nostalgia, but a deeper sense of sadness for things already lost, a regret over something we can never touch again. It was heartbreaking what you said - "the paradise has been destroyed long ago." I wanted to damn you that moment, for telling the truth. I wanted so hard to believe that our paradise still existed, that maybe it can still be salvaged and made anew, but you and your truth-speaking tongue and honest demeanor would not even permit me a glimpse of our secret haven. You were always more honest than I ever was. You are unafraid of reality, seeing it as is. Not me. I am better at lying to myself, better at creating universes to live in inside my head.
There might be no more paradise for us, but I at least made an effort to believe there was.
I don’t know why I love the things I love. I cannot fathom the machinations moving inside me, compelling me to see you and only you. This was not a place I chose for myself. How I ended here, with you, I do not know. I can only recall late night conversations that thread on until the sun rises; the quiet stares we shared amidst the noise of the world; our meetings amongst the books, where we whisper words and not phrases. Each time we stand side by side, I have this feeling of complacence: nothing else matters, only you. Only us. I had never wanted to feel so attached, and yet I have. I have grown fond of your company and found myself unable to breathe properly whenever you are away. I yearn for your touch, the way your pads would caress my wrist and leave tingles where it landed. The sweet sound of your voice would tide me until I safely reach the shores. It was all a good dream. I could have stayed in slumber with you and shrugged the world off. I do not know when it began – the feeling of being unable to breathe when you are away. The obsession to be near you always. Pieces of me began to dissipate only to be replaced by yours. I didn’t recognize that I have given you much more than I have decided to give. I walked straight to loving you, and I didn’t even know I had begun walking.
I don’t know why I push away the things I love. I can only establish the fear that commences this machination. Inside me, a selfish monster slumbers. How it ended there, I do not wish to know. It has always been there, for as long as I can remember. It urges me to see me and only me. It grows stronger the more I forget to rein it in. I would find myself seeking more. More. More. Always more. It can never be sated, not but anyone living who gives itself fully. And I feel sorry for anyone who awakens this shadow because it takes more than it can give. Without meaning to, the love withers into ash-like particles that slowly drift away. Without meaning to, you get tired of giving. Perhaps you have given all and have nothing more to offer. Either way, it has drained you.
I don’t know why I let go of the things I love. I am only sure that it is better to love someone my monster can’t touch.
I remember reading Waiting for Godot for our Metaphysics class.
Waiting itself has turned into an action independent of whatever desired end. It doesn’t seem to be an idle waiting. Ironic to suppose that waiting is not idle—for whatever else is it conceived to be?—waypoints between two significant events, without knowing that waiting itself is an event.
Waiting becomes existence-affirming.
I’m not sure if anybody agreed with my analysis of it. What we wait for is not the arrival of another event, what we wait for would be the end of waiting itself. Looking at it now, it seems that I didn’t really quite make much sense. I wasn’t aiming for something which would be logically irrefutable; that statement was glib, but at the time I spoke it, it seemed real; still, it seems true to me now. I am not waiting for something concrete, I am not waiting for an event far into the future (or near into any future; that there is no future, only the eternal present). I am within the act of continuous waiting, only occasionally interrupted.
I remember Wittgenstein remarking somewhere that nothing ever is illogical since logic is not a matter of the world, that it sets the boundaries of the world—nothing is illogical, but one could use faulty logic. Here I feel that my reasoning is faulty, but it doesn’t seem to matter to me any longer.
I’ll just wait. Perhaps something shall turn out. Something must…
I can’t pretend to understand you. I used to, but not now. It seems like all the awkwardness between us is getting more and more apparent. It’s almost corporeal and I feel its cold and unnerving touches all over me. I hate that it has come to this. We weren’t exactly the greatest of friends, but we had that kinship that merits respect. To be honest I can never trace the beginning of our camaraderie. We never shared anything in common, not even our tastes match, but somehow we ended up getting to know each other. And I ended up liking you. It makes no difference now that I look at it because I knew then how implausible it all was. Your numerous exploits does your reputation no good, but that isn’t to say mine does. Yours was just more well-known, more talked about, some even consider it charming. In your credit, you really are charming and it’s easy to see why people fawn over you. You are easy to like with all your wit and dry humor, and it doesn’t hurt that you look damn fine too. But what pulled me in the most was your ability to confuse me. I never found anyone quite like you. You’re unpredictable and difficult to chart; I wanted to be the one to figure you out. It was a game for both of us. You pretended to keep your distance and I pretended I didn’t want to breach it. Only now the game has become the reality. There is an expanse between us, full of unsaid words and ploys that never materialized. I only wish that you have the courage to end it because I can’t. I still hold dear the person you are in my imaginings and I would hate for that to go away. All I have of you are those memories and I feel it sacrilegious to forget those.
I am spending my holidays alone away from the city, away from all the busy streets and noisy nights. I’ve never craved for solitude as much as I do now.
I miss just sitting, or lying while reading an insightful book. I miss the pleasure of walking for the sake of it. I miss cold evenings where I stay cuddled in my bed, watching heartwarming movies. I miss not worrying about school, people I need to impress, and about waking up early.
And for a few days, I get to do just that. It may be just for a short moment, but I’ll make sure to indulge in it.
Thank you, universe, for the gift of aloneness and the peace that comes with it. Happy Christmas, indeed.
Only in memory can I touch you
Your strong, reassuring hands
Your warm skin
Your consoling lips
Our love only dwells in memory,
Or dreams. They are never real.
They exist only inside our heads.