I was supposed to go on a mini-vacation two days from now. A trip to a highly-praised “paradise” that offers beautiful scenery fit for photo holiday cards and breathtaking beaches to satisfy my lifelong fascination with the sea. As it turned out, this will have to wait for now. My sister, who is supposed to be my beach buddy, had to go on a business trip and bummed as I was that I won’t be able to travel albeit domestically, I am happy that she had the opportunity to see the Grand Canyon in Arizona, in addition to her California and Las Vegas getaways. No, I’m not bitter. Really. A bit envious, of course, of course. But I’m still bidding my time. It will come. Fingers crossed.

I have my dead and I have let them go,
and was amazed to see them so contented,
so at home in being dead, so cheerful, so unlike their reputation.
Only you return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock
against something, so that the sound reveals your presence.
Oh don’t take from me what I am slowly learning.
I’m sure you have gone astray if you are moved to homesickness for anything in this dimension.
We transform these Things; they aren’t real, they are only the reflections upon the polished surface of our being.

-from Requiem for a Friend by Rainer Maria Rilke

The poem talks about a literal, incorporeal ghost. I’m thinking about a metaphorical ghost – something the life of which have been long extinguished but is making its presence known, further proof that you can never get away from where you’ve been.  As you go through life, you go through phases and chapters, some of which are more significant than others. The significant ones can either be good or bad.  Whatever experiences that left marks, that affected how you view the world or how you deal with yourself and others, those are the memories that will forever haunt you (if it’s bad; if it’s good you’ll probably never want to let them go). Until you get your closure. Then they will just be memories;  ink on pages you’ll return to at will.

I wonder how many people never get closure. With every beating heart in the world, I am tempted to suppose that more than half of them are broken at any given time. Not romantically broken. Well, I mean not only.  Just think about how many sad songs have been written. Or why people love soap opera.  Moving on is one thing.  But closure is something you can never find on sale.  It will come on its own, in its time.  I was recently given this gift. I realized that there are some things in this world that you cannot explain. That there are some things that are meant to pan out exactly the way they did. If I’m wrong, then I’ll consider myself lucky. If I’ll tell you this story, none of you will agree with me. That’s why I’m not going to. Besides, I’ve made my peace. That’s all that matters.

Have you ever wondered if you’re living a double life? I don’t anymore. I’m pretty sure I am. Oh, don’t feel sorry for me. Life’s too short, right? If I’m right, then I get to live mine in double measure.

You get this feeling sometimes that you are meant to live your life one way but then as you move along you’ll find yourself being pulled to a different direction. You thread this line of  living up to expectations while trying to get hold of yourself in a way that you trust that you are the one holding the steering wheel. But sometimes you ask yourself if life isn’t just a big brainwashing session, and that whatever you do to your belief system as you grow up and grow old, none of it is yours. You will believe one thing; another person will believe another. Both of you will convince yourselves and others that you know what you know. Then someone out there, if such misfortune befalls you while you can still open your eyes to view the world with discretion, will prove that you have both been fooling yourselves.

When I talk in the third person, it makes me feel like I’m not sure about what I’m talking about. It also makes me feel less responsible for it – like I’m taking myself away from my own line of thought.

I feel kind of neutered sometimes. It’s my safe place. But one can’t always be safe. The classic paradox of the “unstoppable force meeting an immovable object” will strike you in one way or another. You just don’t know when you’ll get to be the force and when you’ll get to be the object. What’s worse, you’ll never know when you’ll get to be the bystander as these things happen to those around you.

There’s no such thing as complete neutrality. I can’t be drawn to the hustle and bustle of the city life with all the lights & sounds and steel buildings and yet long for the tranquility and simplicity of the countryside. At some point, I’ll have to decide to settle somewhere. No, it’s not about identity. It’s about acquiescence and where to place it without causing your heart to protest too much.

Oh, no. I’ve said too much. Yet, why do I feel like I haven’t said enough?

People have disagreements all the time. Even the kind-hearted ones meet people who get to their nerves and never quite crawl out of their skin. I’ve been listening to stories of less-than-serious bouts and general bitchiness. They go on and on. They never stop. Some cracks will mend almost as soon as other bonds break. The problem is, everyone’s messed up if it’s not yourself. But you sidestep the issues because it’s more fun to fraternize and then do some backstabbing while your at it. Sometimes I wish people will just face each other, say f- off! once and for all, and be done with it. The problem is, I can’t do that myself. No, I’m not talking in the specific.

I’m talking about misbehaving. How the mere idea of it can have a potent excitability at times. I’ve listened to normally gentle people wish another bodily harm, not really meaning the words but exulting in the power having uttered them affords. I’m not the Mary Sue of this story. God knows I’ve cursed one too many times in my head to ever be worthy of the “good girl” label. I know people who draw a very defined line between black and white; I’ve lived with them all my life. These are the very people who will recoil in horror if I tell them that every night I go home, I look at the packs of cigarettes being sold in the streets and contemplate about buying them. It will not even matter that I stop myself, every. single. time. I believe that there are genuinely saintly people around. I’ve met some of them and I hold them in the highest regard, if I can’t be the same.

It’s one thing to try to be virtuous and quite another to be faultless. As the old adage says, “to err is human.” But compassion and respect are ingrained facets of our humanity as well. So I say hate if you must: feel the rage, shout it out; just stop yourself short of clawing at your enemy’s face.

I think the operative word here is restraint. There’s always a line you cannot cross and then wish to turn back. Everybody’s searching for the light at the end of the tunnel. I know I am.

… and older.

I never thought I’ll ever be 30. I was brought up in such a way that I believed I’ll never have to worry about getting old. Maybe I got that one wrong - doctrines get lost in translation every so often. So today, when I finally did reach that milestone, as I call it, I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t leave the house. I wanted to skip it, this day that shouldn’t have mattered to me if not for the fact that it gave me the number I’ve been dreading for all superficial reasons.    

What difference does it make, really? Am I fundamentally different yesterday than I’ll be tomorrow? Of course not. I don’t know why I can say that “It’s a good thing some things never change,”  but I did write that to myself. Two years ago, I used a site that allowed me to write a  letter to myself that will arrive today. Amazingly, it did; among other things, here’s what I wrote:

How’s your life now? …
Do you have someone to put a smile on your face on days when you’re thinking  every place  is a crappy place to be in? …
I could quite see the look on your face while reading this…

You can’t say I’m not that insightful. I just know that the look I had when I opened that forgotten letter is the one I’ve been expecting myself to project. Oh, it wasn’t that special. It’s not as if I expected that much nor did I particularly write a heart-wrenching prose to self. On the contrary, I knew then that two years wouldn’t make that much of a difference. It makes me sad just a little. I think now I should’ve expected more or maybe felt that I deserved a little more.

It doesn’t matter now. If ever I can start over, clean slate and all, I’ll start tomorrow. I may be fooling myself but, hey, nothing gives me more satisfaction than that (I am such a liar).

You know sometimes I stare blankly at spaces. Then I don’t see anything else besides the space. Like everything else are swept aside to a corner that I cannot touch, that cannot touch me.  Ergo the numbness.

I hear you but I do not let you in. I cannot stand the noise because hearing it would make me feel again. Sometimes I prefer to be outside, not belonging to any thing, or any one, or any place; I am free. I am solitary. A little less alive but a little less concerned. A little less hurt by whatever’s thrown my way.

It doesn’t mean I don’t care about anything. It doesn’t mean I’m whining about my life again. There’s nothing more to whine about that hasn’t been covered. Someday, I’ll collect myself and make a stand. Someday, I’ll tell you why I turned my back from the that which I am supposed to uphold. Now is not the time.

Everything is fragmented.

I think I’m slowly having a grip on things. On what they mean. But it’s not always a good thing. I wish for structure, some semblance of an aim – a goal or a destination.

I can see me now. It hasn’t always been that way.

One day I was looking out the window and saw the leaves of a tree swaying to wind. Slowly, in the mild heat of the day. It was like an epiphany, a clarity that strikes you when you least expect it. When you weren’t even searching. My life now is imperfect. There are times when I barely feel alive. Going through the motions, wasting time, erasing memories, breathing just because there’s nothing else to do. I no longer fear fear; I don’t fear solitude. I only fear that the things I hold close to the chest are dwindling. Now I anchor myself as I hold the ropes for others. Someday I’m going to have to pass the reigns. And it will be all right.

I don’t wish for perfection. I already feel complete. Albeit fragmented.