Staring at the blank page of this document, I hesitantly began typing what ought to be the synthesis of all the many whirring thoughts in my head for days, weeks... months even. I popped into my music player a record dubbed as "The Most Romantic Piano Album in the World Ever." Sure, I thought, that should perk me up and get me going while I throw away my inhibitions, and finally discern what I really feel but have haplessly been ignoring and denying even to myself all this time.
And yet, I hesitate still.
What is this really? Why do I try so hard to convince myself that this is nothing? I know am not cut up for this ridiculous sentiment. But no matter how I push them at the back of my mind, you keep springing up in my thoughts.
Who would have thought I'd give you more thought than I should? I who in her more than a couple of decades of existence never really liked somebody in a romantic sense? I who believed she'd never be fit for anyone because she's never ever even been satisfied with herself and with what she can do? I who prided herself in being stoic and purely
But, here I am, writing about it. Writing about you.
Perhaps you are my antithesis. You seem to be ruled by emotions, while I try to see through things objectively. I could be extremely apathetic at times, while you know how to assert yourself and your opinions. I am the kind to take the days as they come, while you cling on to things and never really get over them as one should. Your world revolves around the beauty and precision of technology in the form of sleek gadgets, while I delight in sniffing old books and read about fantasies and the histories of lands far away. While I inform myself of the latest news in the political or economical arena, you'd be up-to-date with the team standings of the NBA. I'd rather listen to Beethoven and Chopin, while you'd rather sing along to the newest RnB songs. You have told me to watch "chick flicks" time and again, those romantic comedies and dramas, and I just couldn't tell you how I'd rather watch a Wong Kar Wai or a Hayao Miyazaki instead.
I disdain all your forlorn sentiments about the loves you had and lost, the clichés in the romance movies you so like to watch, the mushy love songs you play during work. I shudder at them all, because to me they could never be real, they were all silly. But you probably know already how I hated those formulaic love stories.
And you probably know more than what I'd care to admit: Know that I appreciate how you cared and asked how I am during a night-out (the kind I've never been to) when everybody was preoccupied and nobody else took notice of me. Know that I really couldn't finish my drink anymore no matter how the others egged me to, so you took the shots for me instead. Know that no guy has ever shown much concern for my welfare and so I am completely devoid of the notion of depending on others, yet you still insisted despite my resistance and annoyance. (I have guy friends but they are all idiots and my love for them is unquestionable anyhow.) Oh, and that birthday surprise? Thanks.
Neither the melodious concertos of Tchaikovsky nor Mozart's symphonies in the background could help ameliorate the heaviness in my chest when I think of you. I could still remember the time when I couldn't care less if I don't see you, when I could say I miss you, sincerely but just platonically, when it doesn't mean anything to me if we would romp around and you'd hold my hand just for fun, as in a game, in front of them. Because it was just a running joke among our friends, among us. And completely naive about such things, I played along. Peeved and clueless and annoyed, I just played along.
They kept pairing us up. I used to snicker inwardly, he likes somebody else. I am not at par with them--all pretty and prim. Besides, I thought, I'm too tough to fall for someone just because people around tell me we suit each other, just because he shows kindness I've not experienced before, just because he's funny to be with and he makes me laugh, just because we could banter and punch each other's arms and it's like we're in our own little world, just because he'd hear the first few notes of "A Hard Day's Night" and he'd see me perk up and he'd sing along and I would, then, too, just because he plays the drums so well and I couldn't help but listen to the beats he does on his table, just because he's fond of the moon and the stars as well, just because he'd snigger knowingly when I mouth the words to the song I'm listening to and ask, "Linkin Park?" and he'd be right, just because he'd see through my hardheadedness and demand that I take the food he's offering or get inside instead of waiting for a friend outside alone, just because if he's around I'd feel safer because I know there's somebody else dependable since I've been so used to being the one to act as the eldest sister, just because he'd tell me to rest already when it's already during the ungodly hours of the evening/morning, just because he'd encourage me to do my best in my school requirements, just because he'd open up a little about his personal life to me like no guy had, just because his presence is constant... No, I said. It's a trap and I wouldn't fall for it.
I know it was just a running joke. I've come to know my friends aren't really fond of your character, and pairing me up with you was just that... for fun. Not that anybody else has been affected, or has anybody been? You seem to have finally found a person for your legitimate affection, and we're not what we used to be anymore. I acted strange, didn't I? I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. I'd tell you I tried mightily hard to be my normal gay self. But I had to shut off for a while to negotiate the facts at hand. No, I'm not mad. Just... sigh, feeling pathetic, is all.
I'm so silly to blow it out of proportion. I know I'm not pretty and I'm flawed all over, but dammit, why would I have wasted my thoughts on you--you're not even half a percent of my Sho or Toma or... or Ryan Ross! (Though you play the guitar well, too.)
I have not dared to venture further into whatever it is that I feel. I resisted. I still do. I have been meaning to ask my friends if the symptoms I'm feeling are indicative of that elusive emotion. But I couldn't ask them nor tell them. They'd think it ridiculous and utterly funny. Especially coming from me? For you? Oh, that would make them ROFL.
But what if? What if instead of being defensive and en garde at the slightest provocation when it becomes the topic, I told T, yes, maybe I liked you a bit. Would she tell you? What would have happened? Of course, that's just me assuming, but dense as I could be, I felt a little tiny something between us, too, as they have often told me they observed from us.
Oh, bloody hell. Nobody'd like me, I'm not good for anyone. I'm not even good for myself. (The sunflowers are waiting, hey!)
And so I wouldn't give this feeling a label. No, I wouldn't dare. Not yet.
Not if I already know how it could be this tricky... and sad.
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P.S.: This is what those artics (1, 2) of the Opinyon section of Kulê could do to me. I felt like a wreck after reading them, so I had to write something along those lines, too.
P.P.S.: I wish this was another lame attempt at fiction-writing. I sincerely do.
P.P.P.S.: Hi, gheis. I could feel your seething eyes judging me already. :))))
