I just finished writing something on MS Word, explaining everything that happened. It ran ten pages. There were movie references (even screenshots), from Shoplifters and Anomalisa to Chungking Express and Comrades. For I-don’t-know reasons, Castlebeat – I Follow from this YouTube channel “i’m cyborg but that’s okay” also helped me throughout the process. (I love those fusions of movie clips and music.) There were songs as well—everything’s centralized heavily on Alan Isakov Gregory’s “Words.”
But
I chose not to because it can be useless at this point. I guess Sufjan Stevens
is right. Words are futile devices, especially when it comes to what just
happened.
I’m
sorry. I take everything as my fault. It’s easy to say the fact that you’re the
first person who’s able to enter my apartment room—all the more narrate the
rise and fall of the whole story—but it’s more difficult to tell you what’s
happening to me, which I think I should do. If you will really stick to your
promise that you will be my friend, then you at least deserve this explanation
from me.
I’m sorry. It took a while to reach out to you more formally because I lingered on three things I heard from you: (1) “You’re lonely”; (2) “But you arrived too late”; and (3) “What do you want?”
(1) It’s been a while of admitting to two of my closest friends that I’m tired of being Andrea. When one of them asked what’s wrong with being Andrea, I just told her in the simplest sense, trying not to emulate Woolf (“Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more. The poet will die, the visionary.”): “Her self-awareness robs her of happiness. She’s heavy. She always almost dies when she confronts all the pain. She would like to believe there’s beauty in catharsis, but the end of the line seems to always be underwhelming. Crossroads feel like edges, and she concentrates on seeing and treading even if it hurts. That’s her wiring. She knows herself so well and she can see through people that it’s getting so hard to function. She sees through people’s nuances and intentions to hurt as if she hasn’t had worse.”
I’m resigned, not lonely. Troubled, not unlovable.
For a person who fights for her happiness each day, it can be unfair to be described as lonely, but don’t worry. I don’t take it against you. I wasn’t at my best shape that night, so it’s okay.
(2) For a Chinese girl who grew up with one-hour-advanced living room clocks, this is funny, arriving late. Tig-abri man kos Chinese school namo sa una. I’m accelerated, skipped Kinder Two after taking this assessment test. I went to college at fifteen, worked before turning twenty. Ana ka-early. But okay, I’m sorry, self, for arriving late. I’m a disgrace. Kidding. It’s all right. I’m happy you’re happy. Happy is such a cheap word. I’m just glad you are in a better place. I find an old, wise soul who is still in touch with his inner child. I can sense you survived something—a lot of things—in the past; I sense enough hope in you, in the way you talk and weave your words, even in your silence.
I can manage.
(3) That’s the termite-like question that eats me inside no matter how high-functioning I seem to be. I have an answer, of course. It’s in that MS Word file, but it’s a kind of answer that’s scarier than my past. It becomes real if I say it. It has to be contained if I don’t want it to be the real thing that can kill something in me. I want us to be friends. I find you cool, and I think we read and watch movies a lot. There are these pieces that fit. I’d rather stay that way. The kindness and respect you can give me will never save me (no one can), but it can let friendship thrive. So I’d rather, I’d rather, I’d rather accept that than ruin something nice.
I’m sorry. A person can’t save much and it is not even one’s job to do so, but I am indebted to your kindness that night (or mor-night); I decided to not face life alone, at least for a few unholy hours, and I thank you for deciding to stay for a bit even what I did to you was way uncalled for.
I’m sorry. More than anything, I’m apologizing again because I’m trying my best to feel too guilty, but at twenty-three, right and wrong become more of a spectrum, and sometimes, the colors change places. I feel heavier than ever, but it’s not because of my choices that night. It will take more time for me to fully understand this, but perhaps it’s true that there will never be this straight-up right and wrong sa ubang mga butang sa kinabuhi. Only what is and what isn’t. So I will keep that MS Word file; making sense of an eternal fondness or, let’s say, a kept empty room just in case, is then again futile when two people just can’t.
I’m still aware, however, that we will still never be excused from the real-life consequences of our decisions. Whatever weight I’m carrying? It’s the remnants of the aftermath, obviously of the absence of what I can’t have and the choices that only count for one side. The last thing I want to happen, believe me, is to overstep boundaries. Even after doing so. Obviously everything sounds contradicting. I just hope we’ll turn out fine. I don’t know what to say anymore. On a lighter note, I also hope we can talk over coffee because you also need to see for yourself my kind of humor, ha-ha-ha. I mean this. As a peace offering, I’ll give you a book. If you want to read some of my published poems, feel free to ask. There’s this Chinese poem I wrote, and I think—just think—you’ll like. (Also, Chapter 1 sa akong MA thesis, ganahan ka? Ha-ha-ha.)
Don’t worry lang rin about me. So what if morning and rain came and nothing’s washed away for me? I’ll clean unsettled dust myself, rid me of myself, and breathe acceptance myself.
July 13, 2019
Andeng 