Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Let Go.

Nothing's changed, darling.
I changed, you changed. But nothing has. We still sip our morning coffees, read our papers, get ready for classes, and carry on with our lives as if everything is back to normal. But I've really moved on; I've moved on from giving a fuck. I've moved on from trying to make you stay. I've moved on from trying to push you forward. I've moved on from talking about our future together.
How you failed to notice is beyond me. You said you won't just let me slip from your fingers like that. And yet I flowed through, like murky water, right through your unclasped fingers and chewed fingernails. The "I-love-you"s stopped being muttered aloud, the visits shortened, the quietness hanging like a velvet curtain, my hints elusive, your oblivion ever present. Always present. Never gone. It was like your oblivion and I were competing for your attention, and I guess it won.
Your work won.
Your brothers won.
Your school won.
Your friends won.
And all the while, we sat across from each other and I bullshitted my way through our morning coffees and evening meals and bedtime sex and post-cuddling.
I smiled and I guess that was enough.
Never enough. It's never enough.

Update, almost.

My posts have depressing story-lines. Maybe because I write when something is really bothering me. I'll play slow, depressing songs and pour out whatever is in my head. Call it a cure for writer's block, one which I suffered for nearly two years. My old blog just depresses me, so I don't even bother re-reading the posts anymore. Maybe, someday I'll move some of the stuff from there to here.
Question is: should I?
My past was pretty depressing, hard, and angry. I put myself in situations where I could get hurt or ridiculed. I went from being a happy-go-lucky child to a sad adolescent. Sure, I grew out of it. But there's a reason it's the past and maybe I should let the demons sleep peacefully. My old blog is almost like an old wooden box where I stashed all my past, locked it, and hid it away until I grow up.

I don't think you need to know how to write abstractly to be a good writer. Just helping readers walk through your emotions, the scenario, the circumstances is good enough. I try. I've done better many times before, but the circumstances back then were different: I could write. And I could write well. I guess I wrote too much, and I stopped writing then.

Zy. You remind me of the old me. So I won't comment with sad faces or "It will get better". Nothing that fucks up gets better, no way. But there will come a point where it won't matter because you have more (depressing) important things to focus on. And then some time later you'll stop caring about reacting negatively to things because you'll just tire of depression in general.

This post is pretty random. I'm sleep-deprived, depressed, and need something besides parties to happen in my life. I need someone to show me that I can run around in the sun and have fun.

Unfortunately, it's never sunny in Amherst.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Everything Trying.

It's a nice house, yours. With the spiral staircase and the portraits on each wall. The grand ballroom, and the golden corners. The shabby servant stairs, and the unwanted junk. I specially love the balcony. When I'm overwhelmed with all the lies, I like to go out there and smoke a cigarette. We know what the other knows about what we know. Yet you stay as quiet as the night that keeps me company.
When the smoke unfurls, and you whisper careless things in my ear, I watch your lips moving. I watch the pink of your tongue hitting the crookedness of your teeth. I watch the thin flesh make an O. I watch the edges attempt to break into a smile to keep me smiling.
And I know you're lying about it.
When the lights go off and you pull me into bed, I feel your hands exploring - hungry, telling me they've missed me. I feel myself drown in your kisses. I feel your legs wrap around me, entangling me in your web.
You're lying, still.
When I hear the static over the phone, I pay close attention to the emotions you pour through the phone 50 miles away. I hear you tell me things I wanted to hear months ago, I hear you making excuses. I hear the happiness you put in your voice.
And I still know you're lying.
You're just And I'm expecting too much by being me.
Yet I always find myself back in the same shabby house with the spiral staircase. The beautiful architecture and the beautiful art that you are keeps drawing me back. It's nothing personal, darling. It's everything and that.
Tried my best to be guarded.
I'm an open book instead.
I may have lost my way now.
I haven't forgotten my way home.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

What now?

We're gonna go our separate ways in a few years time.
No matter how much we laugh together, how many times we hold hands, however many secrets we share. The number of drunk nights we have together won't matter, the hugs will be forgotten, meals no longer joyous, skin crinkles of laughter will turn into lines of worry and I will forget you as you will forget me.
I will forget your brown eyes and matted hair. I will forget a protruding stomach and muscular legs. I will yearn to remember musk and the smell of old books. The overworking will take over and I will slowly erase you from my life, from my story. I will get lost between the sea of black clothes in a metropolitan city, waiting for my life yet to begin; and you will be a face I see every day but never recognize.
You will have a story of your own. In my little book, with my story, I will have a small chapter dedicated to you. How you failed to notice us both slipping away, forgetting that we had a home to come to, a person to come home to. How you failed to stay in love with me, as I failed to with you. Our story will fade away with the dust that grows on the mantelpiece of what was once our home.
When once I thought I could bury myself in your body and never forget your smell, I will substitute you with my work and my books and my oblivion. I will forget to cook meals for two people sitting and sharing their successful lives; you will fail to remember that you have to come sleep on the same bed as me.
There won't be any good morning kisses and cups of coffee made for the other, there won't be any mid-day update phone calls, there won't be any restaurant reservations. We won't drift apart. We'll just stop running into each other in the same house, we'll stop thinking about each other.
And soon we'll just...forget. That you exist. That I exist.
But I would rewrite our story all over again, if it came to that. I would meet you at a fraternity again, I would spend sleepless nights full of sex again, I would ride on an emotional roller-coaster again, I would fall in love with you all over again if I had to.
I would do it just for you.

"And I would sail back to you
I'll be sailing on your deep blue eyes..."

Shine on forever.

Major events start off with the tiniest things. And he started off with a pink camera.
I hate pink.
And my cousin. I hate my cousin.
And the sea. And I hate the sea.
And the smell of musk and cigarettes. Rough hands and a rugged stub. Boyish grin and playful eyes.
You falling in love to Empire State of New York. Watching me dance; sing happily, carelessly. Laugh at you not knowing the lyrics. In my short dress and long legs, in the whispers, in the hot summer night we spent at the party.
Me falling in love at the beach. With the waves crashing on your body, the breeze threatening to blow my skirt away, the untouched food and half-finished cigarettes and beer.

There was no love-at-first-sight, no stealing glances, no small talk. We barely noticed each others presence. All I knew was that he was driving my favorite car. All he knew was that I was his sister-in-law's cousin's friends cousin. Too much to memorize, we moved on with our lives.
If only 12 years of schooling had prepared me for what was gonna hit me next. Hit me like being slammed onto a brick wall. If only I had not left a stupid, pink camera in my favorite car, his car, I would not have had to meet him again and pay attention to the chiseled lines on his face, not notice the dimple on his left cheek, his slight stub, his locks (longer than mine).
6 hour long phone conversations, a supervised date, and a lecture later you made it official. I remember fighting against all odds to make it work, I remember feeling self-conscious because we hadn't had our first kiss for 2 weeks. Getting approval from friends was one thing, getting approval from mom was another thing, but getting approval from my entire family was a completely unexpected discovery. He achieved something none of my exs ever could have.
Short-lived, it was. I hated all the circumstances that brought us together. I hated him for not having a plan in life. I hated having to sacrifice every time. My love story turned into a confetti, paintballed mess. I watched the story I had perfected in my head crumble before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to keep it glued together.
It was my fairytale turning into a nightmare. Like a bad trip, the last 3 months were the worst I have ever experienced.

But I'm glad you existed, I'm glad it happened. Cause now I have a plan in life that doesn't involve a love life, that doesn't involve settling down, that doesn't involve anything except the path I carved out for myself. I party. A lot. I mess up every now and then. Who doesn't? I make the most of my life, now. I don't hold back, I don't let politics come in my life, I don't let anything stand in my way to success.
And thanks to you, I found someone who shares the same ambition, drive, and stubbornness as me.

So goodbye, my lover. This is where we part ways.

"'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,
Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won."