Monday, November 12, 2007
We love charades
Ruchaligra people do, uh huh.
I always wished for a perfect person. No, not perfect in the conventional sense, but more like in the Patrick sense (nope, I do not imply that I am perfect). Somehow, I think life would be much easier (albeit enjoyable) when you get to pick people-bits you like from a buffet table, chuck them inside a huge pot, add water and leave it to stew. Then presto magic! Perfect, just the way you like it. Kind of like making your own coffee at Starbucks, choosing this and that, but more grandiose.
But life simply doesn't work that way. And besides, I wouldn't know what to mix and match. I can't even decide on what to eat for dinner. But I do have ideas on what would be good based on the few people I encounter everyday, give or take the few people that I don't, but still love and miss anyway.
And why so melancholic, Pat? It's just that I've been thinking lately (and eat and sleep and read and eat), and I've come to the conclusion that I still am attached to this person who has been a part of my life ever since I joined a cult of snobbish little kiddies I've come to love dearly.
We were so young then, wide-eyed and immortal, the rights of children. And you've been with me from the very beginning. And now that we are tattered at the edges, you are still with me. I know that now. But with this are the questions: How would we now be had things been different? How would we now be had we not jumped together? How would we now be had we been seasoned before... all those things happened?
I guess that these questions will remain as they are. But after connecting the dots, I can't help but dread the thought that our sufferings are borne out of innocence. Had we not clung tenaciously to each other, things might have been different. Better, somehow. We've been stuck with each other for so long, grown with each other, that once that bond broke, we scarcely knew what to do without the other.
I wish I could talk to you. Just for the sheer pleasure of it. I miss that the most. Funny how things become a trifle clear when you are aloft amongst the clouds, even if in the confines of a pressurized fuselage. And I now know with frightening certainty that we will never be with each other. But I do hope that you come to accept this someday and close the tedious chapter of your life that is 'Mr. Quezon.'
I wish we could talk. And catch up and laugh at all our silliness. But maybe we're not there yet. We're not at the presto magic stage. We're still busy licking our wounds. And no, I think I have not yet moved on. Because moving on does not entail revisiting the past with such clarity it's scary.
Or maybe I have and it's just the idea of you that I miss. The idea of the emotional dumpster that we both are for each other. One thing is clear though--I have to talk to you. Someday.