Letter-writing is therapy.
Today, I did something I haven’t done in a while – I wrote a long letter. It was a reply to someone whom I suddenly “disappeared” on about three years ago. Since there was a big gap in the communication, he had many questions and I was obliged to answer. His biggest question was why, after all the support and encouragement he gave me- the books, e-mails, free thesis advice, everything I could possibly need- he suddenly didn’t hear anything from me.
Answering his question made me realize a few things about myself which I have almost forgotten. Particularly how I have always had this tendency to go deep or go away – whichever kind of escape comes in handy in certain situations. I do this without warning. Sometimes, I don’t even realize I am doing it until I am in another place or until I have lost all touch with the rest of the world. Now, almost three years since that disappearance, I actually feel silly that I have done it and glad that we are back in touch.
Some of his questions also made me realize how much I have slacked on my reading, writing and China-exploring. Why haven’t I been reading as much as I did before? Why am I not exploring China the way it is supposed to be explored? Have I actually been that lazy and uninspired? If it is because I am currently with someone- would that be a valid excuse? Or would it be that I am with the wrong person because a partner should not hinder any of my passions? But I have to hand it to my partner who, thanks to our regular fights, has caused me to go back to writing, even if it is only in journals and emails.
Anyway, this entry is not about the partner, this is about me, and how responding to one letter has made me quite introspective. Now I can’t wait til I write my next long letter.
I haven’t.
I haven’t been sleeping well lately, which is weird. It is a good kind of weird, but, sigh, I want my regular slumber hours back…
I also haven’t been writing anything lately. Not in this journal, not in my notebooks, not in the pc. Nothing. Nowhere.
I haven’t been smoking lately either. Half-sticks on a need-to-smoke basis. Maybe it’s the heat because, nothing, and I mean, nothing, beats the Tuguegarao sun.
I haven’t bought anything new for myself. I haven’t been hearing from my friends back home. I haven’t visited my lola’s grave yet. I haven’t been able to restrain myself from grinning like a total idiot for the past two weeks now.
I haven’t had the heart to kiss the-boy-with-the-cream-coloured-baseball-cap since I got back here. Now this deeply troubles me. If I did, who would I be betraying? Him? Or myself?
To betray with a kiss…
The moon at the window. How many times have I seen it? How many times do I stop and look as if I had never seen it before?
heart failed.
two moons spanned and suddenly things are missing. like that sparkle in my eye. the familiarity of your touch. that almost-automatic sense of completeness.
and what are we to make of the heart that failed to skip the required beat at the nearness of you?
right now, right beside me are long-stemmed white roses (never red) and heart-shaped balloons– arbitrary things meant to serve as reminders. reminders reminding me that i still belong to you and you to me.
do you? do i?
do forgive me for forgetting.
tomorrow, don’t forget to remind me to remember not to forget…
one sure thing amidst this blanket of incertitude.
b.-
my body misses yours.
-g.
