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?
Du Chronicles d’une femme enamoure: Entre #12
I missed having moments like these. Alone together. Together alone. Relaxed. Talking. Mindlessly singing.
I feel silly though. I was going through my notebook and noticed only now that I am stumped once again with my writing. Stumped even with all the poetry I have surrounded myself with. Time lost its watch once again, the world its senses of direction and gravity. Nothing and nobody exists. Nobody but —
*sigh*
Why can’t I write about him, around him, while everything is still beautiful? I don’t want to end up writing only after the whole thing has blown up in my face again. Yes, the writings usually turn out better, but when they do, they give me heart attacks.
Being enamored does have its down side.
I wonder if Winterson wrote The Passion while her body was stiff with sex?
He is heartbreakingly beautiful under the porch lights…
and then, isobel asks me, “isn’t it dreary there? what ever do you two do?” i answer:
oh. quite a lot.
we kiss. we hug. we wrestle. we dance. we go to school. we declare our own holidays. we watch double features at the local cinema. we scour thrift shops.
sometimes, we just stay in his room. i clean the nails of his graceful fingers and he massages my heel-weary feet. i’d feign slumber so i’d hear him pick up his guitar and sing to me softly. he reads me neruda, i smother him with winterson. when tired of being literary, we throw the books away and just kisskisskiss. he makes me the best coffee and i make circles of smoke spin and diasappear around him.
on lazy afternoons, we sprawl on his bed, look out the window and watch the sky until it turns into the deepest blue hue…
i could go on, but then again, i’d rather not bore you…
Night-witnessed.
Your face – smooth, rough, glad; stars
in your hair – short, spiked, sweet-
smelling as your hands – long, swift, graceful
warm, your embrace, your circumstances
your contradictions, my reasons, my truths
my buttons, your switches, your collections
of stars, mine of moonlight, here in this
darkness, this room, your bed, soft, wrapped
surrounded – by all that we have lost to each other.
Lost. Given. Taken. Received.
Presented. Offered. Shared. Cherished.
We could be wound and salve, sky and sea,
lines in poetry. Two of anything in
romantic proximity. Yes, we are, that’s it -
you and me. Us. Now.
