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She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms, and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. 

— Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

It's what chocolates are for anyway

At the height of my colds, cough, and fever last week, I decided to write a letter to my 28 year-old self, which I will read through a reminder to be sent to my e-mail (less than) five years from now. I've been meaning to do it for a long time - write some sort of a time capsule that I will unearth after a few years, in the hopes that I will be in a better place when I do, compared to where I was when I wrote it.

And it's the longest thing I've written in a while, finally enabling myself to outline my thoughts and worries. I don't know if it's because the only audience I was thinking of writing it was me, or that I knew nobody would be reading it in the near (foreseeable) future.

Why am I so keen on keeping what I really think to myself? Why, even with all the means available at my disposal, I still keep holding back? Why am I so apprehensive of disclosing my emotions, even to people who I know care for me and wouldn't judge me? Do I still care that much about maintaining an image for people to see? Why am I so filled with inhibitions that it took writing to an imagined version of my older self for me to express my thoughts?

Over the past few weeks, I also got to have personal conversations with a few people in the workplace. We do have bonds that transcend the professional realm, but it's very rare that we share more than a few snippets of our personal lives over lunch or a few minutes of break-time. As we jogged around camp, surrounded by trees, or during lengthy barbecue-and-isaw dinners, I (mostly) listened to childhood memories, gossips, and alternate versions of tales I already know.

Listening to their stories, I came to a couple of conclusions: That, by default, people will always try to talk about themselves; and that, most of the time, people will paint a picture of themselves as unaffected, unfeeling beings. And this picture is hardly ever the real one.

I realized that it's not only me who's afraid of showing any sign of emotion. Most of the time, people will try to suggest that they are above the others simply because they care less, because they are untouchable, because they don't get attached. 

Before, I might have found wisdom in this. Why show vulnerability when it only allows you to get hurt? Why care at all?

I used to be a huge cynic. Maybe I still am in some ways. I don't even know where I got it - I have an amazing family, a wonderful set of friends, a relatively positive disposition. I guess it comes from years of being an observant most of the time. I don't get to feel the positive sides of things when I see people go about their business. I only get to see the stumbles, the struggles, the hurt. And to an outsider's point of view, these seem more trouble than they're worth.

And yet, it's beginning to dawn on me now that caring and trusting is not equivalent to blind naivety, not by a long shot. And not showing and telling people how you really feel is not equivalent to deeper meaning or profoundness or... or, I don't know, wisdom, maybe. It only deprives you of the chance to see the best in the people and the world around you. It's trite, and I've only realized this now.

This is why I'm trying my hardest to express how I feel towards people who matter from now on. It's a first, in many ways. And I still don't know where it will get me. Yes, I will still have my walls, but maybe I could raise the portcullis from time to time. Yes, I will still exercise a bit of caution, but there are people who deserve to know as much as I have the right to trust.

If things crumble, at least I'd know I tried. And, perhaps, this is what my 28 year-old self would have wanted to tell me right now anyway. 

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And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting,
I am pretty damn naive.
But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
It can crumble so easily.
But don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. 

 — Sarah Kay, B (If I Should Have A Daughter)

Other people's words, other people's worlds

Tell me a piece of your history
That you're proud to call your own
Speak in words you picked up
As you walked through life alone 

 — Bastille, The Silence

Secondhand pleasures. Secondhand agonies. Secondhand mistakes and realizations.

I looked back at the most recent entries in this blog and they all seem to be excerpts lifted from books, films, and songs. I don't know if I live such a dull life that can not merit such beautiful descriptions, that my experiences will always pale in comparison to the adventures people have in distant lands. Or maybe I just haven't found the right words, because things are still not in place, because what I know now are just disjointed pieces of a great whole. So maybe, maybe, I should just continue learning what I can, take what I can get, from other people's conjured worlds and beautiful words.

A whisper, a sigh. Stolen kisses and tough goodbyes —
When did it begin to be yours? When did it begin to be for you?

Or perhaps, firsthand wonders are beginning to present themselves already. All the universe is asking me to do is notice, and feel.