Impossible Love

We've got it all wrong all this time. We thought love is something that we see in couples spending their Saturday night together at the mall, or enjoying some fine wine at a French bistro. We thought love is supposed to be what we see in romantic movies. But, well, this is reality. You're not Meg Ryan, and that guy, he's not Tom Hanks. Hell, even their own love stories weren't as beautiful as what they had in Sleepless in Seattle! (Let's face it. Sleepless in Seattle has one of the most impossible story in the entire romantic movie universe. There are coincidences, sure. But God doesn't work in such a way that's really... God-ish. If He did, no one would be atheist)

But maybe, just maybe, we have to see love in those old couples who have stayed with each other since they can't even remember when. "Oh, when was that... World War II? Hitler was still a mere journalist." And yet, here they are today, right in front of us, the entire population that has to view love as something that people play with. There are people who were married for less than 24 hours. Or 72 days. Or perhaps they've survived years of marriage, along with each other's philandering ways. Those facts; those bitter realities that we knew today in our generation, are what makes us look up to ridiculous romantic comedies. You know what, love isn't as easy as spending your summer learning Spanish in an exotic city near Barcelona. You don't find it right when everything in your life seems to be so good but you had your heels got stuck in the middle of the road. No. Life isn't all sugar and spice, and love doesn't always come to be the cherry on top.

I have seen some really old couples who still love each other, or at least one of them still love the other one the way they used to; perhaps even more. It's probably because they're older now, so they need each other more in times of sickness or something. But no, it's not like that. It's... it's literally loving each other unconditionally. Skins may wrinkle and beauty fades, but love? It's not physical. It doesn't have to age.

I know a husband, who has the same profession as his wife, and has been married for about four decades now, still talk about his wife as if he was a boy who just won a trophy. He still talks about her as if she was the greatest woman in the world, and no other woman, not even man, can do what she's able to do. He doesn't care if Marie Curie found radioactive or Angela Merkel still reigns as one of the most powerful woman in Europe, or that Oprah should be a monarch in America. He doesn't give a fuck. But he knows that his wife has a higher degree than him in his education. That she has achieved more awards than him. And that above all, she is his. The thing that's really rare in men, other than a bank account as big as Warren Buffet's, is that they can genuinely be proud of what his woman can do. That he loves to see her spread her wings and fly. That even after all these years, after all those opinions and negativity towards marriage and women and the theory about the impossibility of growing old together, he still sees her in the same way when he fell in love with her. That even after a lot of things have changed along the way, in the end, he keeps coming back to that point where they fell in love. Where they found each other.

Looking at him, at his type of man, would always put things in perspective for me. That some love actually works. That there is still love in a lifetime of marriage, not just the neediness of each other. That not every love has to be like in romantic movies. And that after all, the rain will only makes the flower grow. 

Love Story

You said you studied environmental engineering in college, but you write as much as Kerouac. Your words springs out of every pages you tore out of everywhere and they sound better than mine. It was a hot summer night at the park, we lied on the wet grass, gazing at the stars. You suck in astronomy, so instead of telling me if it was Orion or Centaur, you made up your own stories of the constellation with superhero names. And that's when you kneeled down and asked me if I wouldn't mind wearing a man on my finger for the rest of my life. Why couldn't you just say Harry Winston? My tears were flowing and I feel like such an idiot. You wipe out the tears off my cheek and whispered if I don't say yes, you'd run around this garden in your birthday suit. How terrifying. So I said yes. You smiled wider than the last time I saw Julia Roberts' genuinely happy photograph. And, my dear, that is how our adventures began. You took me to watch Russian ballet in Moscow and depart on a 7 days Trans-Siberian to Vladivostok. We took pop dance lesson in South Korea and taught ourselves to consume the disgusting Ginseng. We blacked out after blowfish sushi in a fancy Ginza sushi place, And I thought that was it. We die. But when I awake, you were holding my hand, walking the streets of Montmartre half-drunken of too much bubbles. We just saw the Moulin Rouge, you said, and I hated that no one looked like Nicole Kidman there. And then we jumped, to this magnificent place called Broadway. You love Les Mis, but I wanted to see something more cheerful so we see Wicked. I love Fiyero. But I love you more because you actually have some brains inside your head. You said you love Eponine, but you love me more because I don't have to die in your arms during the French revolution. Her fate sucks. The next morning, we were in Rio. All the beautiful beaches and girls who resemble Gisele Bundchen were so overwhelming, it feels more like a honeymoon. And you know what, when I took my sunglasses off, we were under the warm, slightly dim Tuscany sun. The children ran around making a big mess that their nannies had to clean up. And soon, our son flew to London to play football for a major club. And soon, his sister moved out to live with her girls and pursue a career as a writer. And the little one? Oh, I really can't let go of him but he really needs to go: off to the moon, in his astronaut's suit. We grew old together, my dear. We did it. We made it. We have loved and love has made of us. Let's grow even older together. We'll get there. We can do it.

Gratitude

I have this one old friend of mine who's really, really good at giving compliments to people, and I have to say, that is one of the best traits in her that I haven't really seen in a lot if people. For as long as I can remember being friends with her, I have almost never heard her hating on someone while I cannot count how many times she's been giving compliments to people who just seem so-so to me. I know you will be reading this, N. So let me just thank you for showing me how nice someone could be, in this corrupt times and world where compliments are as rare as a truly good #nofilter photo on Instagram.

And the thing with me is that I suck in receiving compliments. When someone gave me a compliment, I never knew what to do with it. Should I smile? Should I say thanks? Should I say "Dammit! I knowwww!" Or should I stay humble and honestly tell them that I don't think I deserve the compliment, so stop showering me with it?

Very recently, a good friend of mine had verry nicely written a post that was based on her experience findng me being very insecure with my own writing. She wrote a post about it, said she was inspired from that fortuitous moment, and the post she wrote was tremendously beautiful. I almost always fail at writing something nice in my own native language and I have to say hers was pretty brilliant. I didn't understand it at first, because, which part of it came from me being insecure of my own words seem oblivious. But those words have meaning. Those words hide something. Something that I couldn't see without further explanation. And that is the quality that is lacking in my own writing.

So my dear, this is me apologizing for not having understood your beautiful writing at first. This is me not knowing how to respond to your amusing reaction when you caught me red-handed. This is me doing the only thing that I know about: writing what was unspoken, what my lips could not say, and what my brain needed time to arrange. I didn't know how to deal with the fact that you wrote a post that was inspired by my action. I have never been the reason behind someone's writing just as much as I've never been the object of someone's poetry before. This is a first. This is me being a virgin at becoming the source of some's art. 

Thank you. I will not revert this to draft.

The fault

The problem lies not in my inability to move past the building of moments that you built for me. The problem lies not in the choices you made, and not even in the ones that's mine. The problem lies not even in you still talking the way you used to do 5 years ago. The problem lies in the universe trying to play with you, and me, and dragged me back to those years that felt so fun, and light, and easy; when you and I were still you and I, but more than a memory, or glimpses of how young we used to be. Those years when unspoken words became the thing between us. Us. Us never happened, but us felt even more real than anything else. I don't know how it did with you, not that I care. I have tried to sleep on it, but it was still there. It being, the fact that you still have all those qualities that were lacking in him. You are still this person who's easy to be liked. But what bothers me the most is this big fat 'why' in my head. I don't need an answer, but I need time to convince myself that sometimes people's path tend to cross, and this time it was you, and me.

What do I deserve?

First and foremost, I know you're not Paul Varjak and I'm not Holly Golightly and we don't live in the same flat in New York, but for all the love you've given me, I can only say thank you. And I'm sorry about that, I really am. Because maybe, well just maybe, I am a Bart Bass. I am incapable of love. So no matter how much love was showered to me, it didn't really matter. I am incapable of love, and therefore I was not built to accept the love you give me.

Or maybe I just don't know what I deserve, and what I don't. I don't know what's too high or too low for me, so chances are, maybe I do deserve your love, but I'll pass. Sad but true, because... Because once you're gone, I know I'm probably gonna lose you forever. This is not a great romance film, and I wouldn't fight for someone who could only thank me for all the love I've given if I were you. So, it's not our fault, really. It's not, so you can stop thinking what you did wrong and hate me forever. And when that day comes, that day when I regret the things that I have done to you, I would hate myself too. Even more than I already do.

Here's my ridiculous arguments. They sound really stupid and unnecessary and unacceptable, but they are mine. They are smart and essential and completely acceptable for me. And so just as much as I have always respected your choices, I hope you would respect them too.

I think I love you too. I think I feel what you feel. My heart beats faster when you came across, or when you called me, even when they weren't to say you love me. My days weren't complete without talking to you, without finding out what's in your brain. You're not my type, not in any way. But as the time goes by I started to think that you're not so bad. In fact, you are a good person, but you just suck in representing yourself.

But hell, I don't feel what I think I'm supposed to feel when I'm really in love. Yes I think about you most of the time (Alright that's a lie. Almost all the time) But I don't become obsessed with it, you know? I don't remember you when I see a shooting star. The rain doesn't bring me memories of you. And when I tried to write about you, I'm stuck. I'm a writer, for God's sake. They say if I'm in love I should be writing a full novel, but with you I can't even write a single post. Maybe I'm one of those writers who cannot write when I'm not miserable. But that's not fair! I need to write about love while it's growing, not when it's already gone to waste. I must be careful not to be involved with you or anyone else just to be the subject in my works. Love ain't no business and I'm not Taylor Swift. 

The Big S

Happy new year dear fellas! 

I have spent so many hours since the clock ticked 00:00:01 in 2013, thinking about my very own new year's resolution. I was thinking I wouldn't have any, BUT, that was wrong. I know exactly what my resolution is. In fact, this is probably one of the years where I have some really big resolutions to unfold and so many concrete goals I need to score. I'm going to be sort of a different person this year, and I hope it wouldn't shock anyone, nor would it ever make me bitter. And seriously, I wish you could all support me, sending me prayers or just simply believe that I would be strong enough (and good enough, hopefully) to achieve whatever it is that I'm aiming. And even if I couldn't get there, please believe with all your heart that I would be strong enough to deal wih it too. And I hope the same passion would be withn you also. After all, get that fucking title, you bitch.