Cupid’s Corner
Ordinary Everyday Special Forever Love
Young love is dumb love, but it sure is prolific when it comes to writing. To a hopelessly hopeful romantic wordsmith, anything that has something to do with their “love”, no matter how tangential, insignificant, or fleeting, is a wellspring of inspiration. I was once that guy, spinning what are perhaps the most uneventful or even awful scenarios into Precious Hearts Romance scenes. A sandy, underdeveloped outreach town, a public hospital rife with childbirth pain screams and discharges – these places are/were more romantic than Paris or Venice. Don’t fight me in this; you’ll lose in the same way a thought-provoking indie film would be bested by a JaDine movie in earnings.
But now, looking back at the nine months of being together with who will be hopefully my forever (yes, I purposely used that; this post is meant to be full of jeje cheese), it seems as if I have written almost every little thing they had to do with me. With my girl, however, it seems as if I am not as compelled to. It’s not that I love her less; I love her more than all of them combined. If that’s the case, then to what – or whom – should I attribute the dwindling of love-related posts, especially those about her? I don’t want to peg it to my writing job that redirects my brain juice from romance to gaming-related corporate slavery. Instead, I suspect that it’s because I’m living and breathing the dream, and every breath needs not be chronicled.
It’s a noble thought to be the literary counterpart of the lovestruck millennial who documents even the minutest detail of their love-lives, but somehow…putting them on a digital “paper” would be too much. Because when you’re in a relationship, the amazing and ordinary become one. Nothing amazing about us being content in living small and being as happy in a MiniStop as we would be in Microtel a five-star hotel buffet; nothing amazing about her waiting an extra hour for me after work just so we can meet; nothing amazing about us still constantly texting and chatting each other even though we’re three months shy of celebrating our anniversary; nothing amazing about us talking about books, movies, anime, and video games, especially Pokemon, all the time; and nothing amazing about the infantile baby talk and pet names we already to have and continue to come up with in our texts, although they are amazingly embarrassing and cringe-worthy and therefore private. Nothing amazing about me finding a beautiful, intelligent, kind, colorful, and strong girl who’d love me for and despite my absurdity, nonconformity, and roughness.
Everything that’s sarcastically not amazing has become too many and too much of a part of everyday life already to even write about. That, however, doesn’t mean I’ll no longer write about the mundane. After all, they make up a grandiosity that is life and love. Our convenience store and Fastfood restaurant dates after work, our occasional and cherished meals on Japanese restaurants on BF Homes, our super-chill hangout sessions on each other’s house that I wouldn’t trade for anywhere else, our playtime with our dogs, our gaming sessions, our long walks that never get old despite being on the same roads, and many other simple things that elude me as I wrote this. All of these little things are, when they were lived in the now then that has become the past today, were big. And now, with all of them together, they are colossal. We are colossal, and will continue to grow even more so.
Not everything of everything – not even of the greatest of loves – can be written. That’s alright though, because writing, no matter how significant a part of my life it may be, is still not everything. You are. Besides, all that has transpired has already been written in the stars. Not of those in the heavens, but those in our hearts, with our love chronicling our past, scripting our present, and mapping our future. Our love, more immortal than the words online, paper, or even stone, second only to God’s divine scrolls. And it’s because of the ordinary and little things.
I love you so much honey. Belated happy 9th. May we make more good things happen, and vice versa, whatever their size and significance may be.
Writers: The Lover And The Beloved
“You’ve always written because you wanted to. If you don’t want to any more, why should you? Do you think your not writing is going to cause a village to burn to the ground? A ship to sink? The tides to get messed up? Or set the revolution back five years? Hardly. I don’t think anybody’s going to label that defection.”
-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
One who does not read cannot be a writer, or at least be a good one. So of course, I read, a lot. But when it comes to writing about Bernadette, reading can only teach me techniques; only my heart can tell me what things about her should be put into writing. Last week, however, I received a source material from my muse, one that she herself wrote. It’s a rather welcome change, a temporary reversal of role – I, the writer, had become a reader, and she, the reader, had become a writer. It also made me realize that my writing has become just as much for her as it is for me.
Writing, the kind that stems from the heart, is mostly a solitary, self-indulgent, and self-serving passion. No matter how good wordsmiths spin their motive for doing what they eponymously engage in all they want, that truth is inescapable. But despite the fact that the main reason behind the inception of most of these soul-driven pieces of work is self-satisfaction, there are some among them that are meant to be read as much as they are meant to be written, and they are more than meant to be about and for someone else than they are about and for the self. Such is the case with pieces centered on love.
A love letter – I just received one from my beloved. Rather, it’s more of an open letter, a blog post, if you must. It’s not the first writing I got from her, as she had given me two cards before, but I never received something as long and as telling of her soul as this one. And up to now, even though it has been a week old, I am still moved by its content, the crafting of it as an art, and the very gesture of putting words together not only to convey a message to me, but also and more importantly, to make me feel her love for me in a manner that she hasn’t done so before. I have already responded to what the letter is saying, but have yet to the act of her writing itself. And that is what I must do so.
Reading is the first and most important approach to a literary work; the next would be to understand the context: the setting the author was in when they wrote it, the life experiences they are going through, and the reason why they wrote it in the first place. I know all of them all too well. She wrote it at work, sneaking a few hours to make something personal – something I’d do; she’s in a rather interesting time in her life, as we’ve found love in each other, and at the same time wondering what she could do within herself to play her role in this theater of romance (the answer is nothing; I love her because and in spite of who she is); and she wrote it for me, for her love. Oh a girl, the one that I love, writing for, about, and to me – how dreamlike, manga-like.
Aya Toujo-like in many aspects – beautiful; kind; intelligent; esteemed in the arts, especially literature and film; and always so loving, understanding, and supportive of me. I, however, never thought that she’d share this one facet as that of the paragon of all romance-harem heroines: being a writer. Once again, that is. I remember her telling me that she had given up on the craft, saying that it’s not for her, even though she is just as capable a wordsmith as I am in my eyes – not as her lover, but as a writer, a critic. She has eloquent word choice and accurate usage; she’s able to get her thoughts and emotions across in the most beautiful way possible. And if she can craft such a wonderful and genuine piece that would move not only me but also others that would read it, then I say that she’s prematurely hanging up her dream.
That, however, is but a suggestion. It’s not my dream, but hers. She is the one carrying this brainchild of an ambition in the womb that is her heart, so hers is the ultimate prerogative to abort or give birth it. And whatever her choice may be, I will fully be behind her. But I, her partner and one of her potential inspirations, should she choose to dream again, would like to immerse myself into whatever life her words would bring. I can picture it – me, frolicking in beaches, jungles, deserts, cities, temples, planets, cosmic places; rubbing elbows with creatures of whatever kind in her creations; or me, being one of the many stars in in the universe of her thoughts and feelings – how enamoring, how…self-centered of me.
Berna once told me that it doesn’t matter to a piece from me is about, for, and to her or not; what does is that it’s from me. And that’s what I feel towards her writing too. No matter how impersonal and even though I’m no part of it, any work of hers is a gem, and any piece from her has a piece of her soul infused to it, so each and every one of them is worth the read.
So honey, like I previously said, whatever you choose to do with the dream is up to you, but I’d be happy if you pick it back up. And if you choose to write – to dream – once again but don’t know how or where, don’t know how or where, then think of your passion as a book that you haven’t read for quite some time now and have forgotten where you stopped. Well, just start anew again, so the parts you’ve already covered will have a brand new meaning, and eventually you’ll be on your way again. And when it comes to writing, it doesn’t have to be a short story or a poem; a letter or an essay about anything you want more than enough. In addition, don’t think about what others would say. Yes, getting read by others is important, but more important is that you quench your need to express what’s within you through words. Besides, you already have an audience, me, and I say to you, not as a lover but as a critic and fellow writer, that your writing is superb, and I wish I have more of it in my life.
I’ve always imagined what it would be like to have a writer girlfriend like Aya Toujo. We’d exchange writing, read them together, understand each other better, and engage in activities that would further enrich our love for one another and make great sources of inspiration. Well, now I have seen a glimpse of what a life like that would be. I’d say it’s amazing, because my two loves – my woman and my mistress, writing, both hers and mine – share almost the same space in my life.
But even if my mistress fades, I’ll still love my woman. I love her not because she writes, but because of love itself, and I write because it is a part of me, because of the things that are worth writing, and because of the things I love – and one of them is my woman.
I love you, Berna.
Bridge and Storm
Written by my girlfriend, Berna:
The very first time we talked, I felt that you represent everything I should have forgotten a long time ago. Books. Anime. Manga. Movies. Daydreaming. Dreaming.
And as we got closer to each other, my initial fear was confirmed. I should have stopped right then, but you opened up to me and I to you in a way that no one ever did before. I should have stopped but it’s too late.
It seems serendipitous, polar opposites meeting and being united by something so strong yet unexplainable and indefinable. It should be lovey-dovey from thereon but a time came wherein I ask myself how and why.
How to make this last? Because unlike what I’ve been through in the past, this is real. This is not some teenage dream that’ll eventually fade through time and trials. This is it for me and I hope for you.
Why now? Because I’m still moving on from the trials I’ve been through in the past. Not just from a petty boy but in life, since I’ve been bombarded by trials ever since. And when we met, I was still tending to my wounds and searching for directions in my life.
How to explain that I need time for myself? Because it’s been the way for me ever since. I don’t talk about problems, I brood over them. I think about them. I don’t want to talk; I just want to be left alone. I don’t need advice from other people; I just need time to figure things out, alone, by myself, on my own.
Why am I doing this to you? Because I don’t trust myself to make relationships last. I can’t even find a friend that is not suffering from depression or other mental health issues. All my friends are mental and I’m not trying to be funny; it’s a fact. All my life people leave, and some say that it’s not my fault, but it’s hard to convince yourself otherwise. It’s hard to say I’m not to blame when one day you’re laughing over silly things then the next they’re not talking to you for months.
Because I’m a coward and a liar. I tell myself I don’t need other people but you showed me how easy life could be if you have someone you can completely be honest with. You showed me that though problems can’t be solved immediately, having someone beside you makes them less hard to bear. You showed me that letting some people you care about know your struggles does not make you a weak person. You showed me that by letting others in, those peoplewho truly care for you, make it easy to conquer challenges and setbacks.
You are my bridge.
When I met you, life was so peaceful and serene. I want to stay and forget the noise of the outside. With you I am at my most peaceful and most vulnerable. You are my favorite place in the world.
You are my comfort yet at the same time you were my storm.
Before you, everything is just pitter-patter. Sometimes I get soaked but most of the time I managed to stay dry and wait for the sun to light my way. Wait for the light because I know it will come, it’s the same every time — it rains for a while, soft drizzle, and I wait just a little; sometimes the rain gets to me but not for long. Before you, everything was just a drizzle that I’ve foolishly mistaken for a storm.
Now that I’m with you, I get to know what it feels like to be comforted and swept away at the same time. Now I know how it is to know peace and when you get out, when I get out from the bridge that you are, everything is extremely close and incredibly loud. You amplified the rain, because of you, because of the force that you are, everything happen sall at once. It made me disoriented at firstmade me scared that I wouldn’t get through it,but you were beside me. And with you I feel like we can do everything if we are together.
I still have a lot to say and these jumbled thoughts are far from what I had in mind, but I believe this messed-up letter to you perfectly conveys the turmoil that you brought in my life.
Make Up, Not Break Up Part 2: Punches, Kicks, And Throwbacks
“They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do”-Lana del Rey, Video Games
Two Sundays ago, Berna and I have finally made up. We were sweetly texting each other, and our call lasted for hours. But come Monday, we were fighting again, and this time punches and kicks are involved, because nothing says “I love you and I’m glad we’re okay again” like the video game violence that is Street Fighter IV.
For casual gamers and fight game enthusiasts who have yet to get into the series, Street Fighter IV is a good title to start getting into the almost-thirty-year old fight game mainstay. It has colorful and lively cel-shaded graphics, easy combos and controls that make the game feel like the original arcade hit, and the roster includes familiar well-loved classic characters and fresh faces who will be future favorites. On the other hand, for long-time fans, other than those aforementioned reasons, it’s the nostalgia factor. I wasn’t born in 1987 yet, which when Street Fighter first hit the market as a token-operated arcade machine, but I can definitely understand what long-time Street Fighter players feel with this game, as there was a seventeen-year gap between this one and Street Fighter III, which was released back in 1999, making the game feel like the proof of the crossing over of the franchise’s mainline titles into the modern gaming world. And to me, Berna and I sitting together on a Chinese New Year afternoon, duking things out with each other once again feels like a return to the times when our romance was still budding, an early reset of the tone of our relationship to that of a happy one.
Before we became an official couple, we were like two teens who were playing a guessing game of feelings. But aside from that, we usually played Mortal Kombat X after work, pulling off fatalities until our wrists hurt. Our Street Fighter game felt like a return to those peculiar but exciting our pre-courtship days, except this time, instead of figuring out what each other feels, we now affirm each other of the love we share and the relationship we have. One thing hasn’t changed though, and that’s us bringing the virtual pain on one another. It’s what we needed, as we had been through a not-so-minor-but-not-so-major strain in our relationship last Friday and Saturday, as I seemed disinterested with her on our Fri-date, wherein we watched a boring-ass movie and fell asleep , then I even considered going to a drinking session even though she’s strongly advised not to because I’m already drowsy. Monday, other than being a throwback, was my reparation for the things I’ve done wrong, and a chance for us to do what she wanted last Friday. Not so surprisingly, I loved it a thousand times better than The Revenant. Fuck yeah, it’s geek culture over borderline pretentious artsy-fartsy crap.
We’re the type of couple who love talking. A lot. In fact, there are many times when we prefer to just chat rather than watch or do something. So after our rather zany Street Fighter session that left me wanting more, we hit BF Ruins, a nearby dry market full of stalls that sell clothes, toys, food, pirated DVDs, smartphones and their accessories, and vape-related goods. I bought an Arceus plushie, while she bought chili balls and dynamite for us to share while we sat on one of the tables at the middle of the place. As we ate our snacks, I remembered the first time we went there, which was when I was still courting her. We were eating quail eggs, I think, and we were talking about how I’d know when we’re already official. She told me that I should be the one to ask her if we’re already official. She then added that when I pop the question, it has to be a surprise and the mood has to be perfect. My crazy little mind thought that there’s no better time than that exact same moment, so I just let it rip in the middle of a place that’s devoid of class and atmosphere. Of course she didn’t answer my question, but she told me that she felt as if she was going to have a heart attack. Fast forward from that point in time to Monday last week, back to us eating street food there once again, except this time the question has already been answered with a resounding yes for almost two months already; and this time was no longer about us becoming a couple, but about us returning to being a happy couple after a day or two of conflict.
After our last hurrah at Army Navy, where we shared an eight-inch Starving Sailor Sandwich and Freedom Fries, we went home happy. And for me, even though the things we did were relatively simple, it was one of the best dates I’ve had with Berna. Maybe it’s because the dark days before our date forced me to put things into perspective. It reminded me of the things we’ve been doing right since day one, and by doing my part as she did hers, we were able to turn what’s ordinary into special once again, and bring back the magic of our first days and elevate it to an entirely new level.
It might seem strange that I’m talking a lot about the beginning even though we haven’t even hit two months yet. But for me, it’s not. I’m not missing that intoxicating feeling of newness; it’s just that our reconciliation allowed us to take ourselves back to our wonderful first few days and replace its former fuel, which is the thrill of the chase, with a new one, which is the assurance, consistency, and dedication of our love for each other. Just like Street Fighter IV, this is a start that feels both familiar and completely fresh, and I will always remember the awesomeness of it and our first days in mind. By doing so, I’ll never forget both the most amazing girl to ever come into my life, and the A-game that have made and will make me pursue and choose that girl every day.
I love you Berna. May our restored bond, the magic of our Monday date, the joys and struggles to come, and the times we’ve been and will be together make us last longer than Street Fighter. Let’s see how many sequels we can play.
P.S. I swear I’ll no longer play Blanka. 😛
Moment of Silence
“And baby
It’s amazing I’m in this maze with you
I just can’t crack your code
One day you screaming you love me loud
The next day you’re so cold”
-Jay Z featuring Justin Timberlake, Holy Grail
You’ll probably find it ironic, but I, a writer, hate silence and the thoughts it allows my mind to breed. In fact, when I write, I usually have a particular song on loop to set the mood, and it has always worked wonders for me (guess what song I used for this one). And to me, the worst kind of silence, which in turn creates the heaviest of thoughts, is not the lack of sound in my surroundings, but the interruptions of communication between us that are abrupt and happen without explanation.
She needs to tune me out so she can be more in tune with herself and gain clarity. I do too, but in a much rarer occasion than she does. She, however, avails of this necessity in an implied fashion. There are times when we are texting an hour or two previously, and the next five, six, and sometimes even twelve hours I get nothing. One moment I can perfectly picture where she is and what she is wearing and doing, then the next it’s as if it’s either the eye of my imaginations have been blurred, or that she was swallowed by the void of her much-required solitude and introspection. While I achieve the latter through different methods, I completely understand that she needs quiet in order for her to refine her thoughts. But despite that knowledge of mine about her, her silence still fills my mind still with worry and overthinking – electromagnetic pulses that either disable or severely hinder me from performing things I do on a regular day, and the worst ones to suffer are gaming and writing. As much as I don’t want my brain to be flooded with such insidious elements, it is an impossibility…for now. And as much as I want her to give me a heads-up when she’s going into stealth mode, I choose not to.
Maybe her not telling me when she’s coming into her shell is part of her inward-turning process, so I wouldn’t tell her to tell me “shhh…I’m trying to think” even though it makes me want to bang a concrete wall with my fists, as if the flat, beige, insanity-inducing white surface are my thoughts, which are so ridiculous that they are unfunny, and so baseless and far removed from reality that they seem like something that came from a work of fiction. “Maybe she realized that she doesn’t like you anymore”, “maybe she was just deluded in the first place”, “maybe somebody told her that I’m not boyfriend material, which is a completely sensible logic”, and worst of them all: “maybe some handsome, normal-ass guy who has a lucrative job is whisking her away from me”. These unnecessary and untrue ideas attempt to pervade my mind and destroy the part where the security I have towards Berna’s love for me is held. They never succeed, but they ravage my trust in myself, as I beat myself up for having such thoughts, which in turn stem from not having enough faith in Berna’s love for me. Damn it, I want to have so much faith in her love so that these ugly thoughts cannot have a foothold in my psyche. Through time and continuous love with her, that faith will be perfected.
But for now, as of this moment until the time I have that faith mastered, I want to have these thoughts whenever the lines that connect us lose their vibrations. For me, they are proof that I really do love Berna, that I don’t want her to go, because I never had the same thoughts I have with Berna’s silence with the girls I dated before. I can go for many hours or even a day without them talking to me, and I really didn’t wonder what ill wind blew on them that caused it. With Berna, however, I get plunged into a sea of fear, and hidden away at its bottom is the submerged artifact causes the sea to exist: the love I have for her.
There will be many more moments of silence between us. And as much as I don’t like them, I know that they are and will be there to make us better versions of ourselves and in turn better lovers, as well as to make us appreciate and give meaning to the times when we’re sending each other colorful and joyous noises.
I love you honey, regardless of how loud or silent you get.