Sunday was equally perfect.
Monday, I was stressing out finishing the 4 chapter long story I was writing. You seemed sad all day... I was supposed to drop it by your house next morning just to cheer you up. I worked hard for that, you know.
Dedicated to you, inspired by you.
But that very same Monday, you broke my heart.
I even remember the disclaimer I put:
I am no good at fiction. Funny how you inspire me to do things I normally wouldn't--You have, consistently, since the very first day we met. You gave me a goal; You were the sunshine in my
This story is dedicated to you, my baby. Thank you for inspiring me to put on my combat boots, fully equipped and ready to kick life hard in the ass. Had it not been for you I would have been lost in my safe non-achieving comfort zone for all this time.
You taught me two valuable lessons in life. I couldn't think of a way to put those epiphanies into flesh, but I think this story gives such morals due justice.
1) Life is owns a citrus field and a mass producing lemon factory: It will never EVER run out of lemons to throw at you and squirt on your sensitive human eyes. Things won't always go right. But baby, being with you has taught me that sometimes, things do go right. And when they do, the bliss is immeasurable. Life won't always go your way, but life will, somehow, go right.
2) Everyone is damaged; life has dented even the best of us. You just have to find someone who's demons and faults go perfectly well with yours, and it will all fall into place. It doesn't matter if your baggage is as heavy as a balikbayan box filled with useless non-sensible bargain purchases that have no business in Manila, you have to and will find that one person who would make sense of all those. And everything will be perfect, everything will be fine.
So much for all those.
But there's no reason to be so bummed: I still believe this is all a bad dream. I'm gonna wake up soon.
I pinched myself. I washed my face. Over and over again. I can't seem to wake up. We always talk about our dreams, baby. We even made such a nuance about realistic dreams--those that seem so real, they leave you wondering about them for the next fifteen minutes after you wake, those dreams who drown you such genuinely amplified emotions. Perhaps this is one of those?
The records on my phone don't seem to lie. The smudge in my nail polish looks exactly like how it did when I was awake. The emotions, to top it all, are so real, throbbing inside of me, outside of me, everywhere. My breathing is strong and heavy. Just like how you were when you had that bad dream about me, and I was lying in your arms, worried about what nightmare you might've been enduring that while I selflessly rested my head on your skin, enjoying the happiness I didn't expect I'd find.
Everything is so real. But baby, this is just one of those realistic dreams we talk about? Right?
You said I was your favorite writer. My favorite writer is Patricia Evangelista, don't we all know? And I assure you that even in my darkest of days and with the coldest of my heart, I could never do anything that cruel to Ms. Evangelista. So tell me, why did you do that to me?
I don't understand. I don't understand anything. But as a Political Science major, I am used to problems being thrown at my face and accepting the innevitability of finding absolutely no answers to those problems. It's important to know why--but sometimes it's more important to leave reasons behind and just try your best in damage control, fixing the mess is shoved in your face.
My cat is smart, though. He seems to understand. He sat on my lap all night, as if he knew that his dad was never going to come back.
My dad is smart too. He sent me a million long inspiring texts about how I shouldn't be bummed about you. I wonder how he knew. My dumb ass brother said he didn't squeal anything. All I told my dad was
"How'd you know? You haven't even seen me. You're creepy."
Tuesday
I wake up, still in the process of convincing myself that this is all one giant bad dream. I wash my face, but the dream won't seem to end.
Today I will go out. I will not stay miserable at home. I will not weep and wallow in self pity. I was smart and beautiful when I met you--I still am.
Today I will go out. I will not stay miserable at home. But I will not be miserable outside either. I will find my friends and be happy. Maybe I'll force them to wake me up.
This is still a part of one big nightmare, right?
This is all just a bad dream.
