Girl Talk
Born For Me and You: A Birthday Message
Twenty-three years ago, you were born, and I didn’t know or care about it. Of course I was three back then; I didn’t give a rat’s ass about who hopefully my soulmate will be. Many years later, after passing the age of sixteen, I still didn’t care about your birth, for I was too busy finding my soulmate in other girls, and despairing every time I lost the chance with each one. Little did I know that my running around in the fields of love was but a prelude and preparation to what I pray would be eternity. And it all probably began when you were born.
The idea of being born for someone is poetic, to the point of cheesiness. But even though pop songs and novels have reduced this romantic and spiritual phenomenon into mere cornballs, to me it’s still as true, powerful, and wonderful as ever. God’s fingers, weaving the threads of love as early as the womb, and binding the fate of two souls together – what a beautiful thought. But what is more beautiful is that God leaves it to the lovers to write their own tale, and my girl is a Pulitzer Prize winner at it.
Fate couldn’t pair me up with a better lady, for who I got is a beautiful face and soul and brilliant mind who leads a simple yet inspired life. She finds and cherishes the good things; she even makes a lot of them herself. And when struggles come along, she goes through them gracefully, as though she sings along with the tune no matter how sad it may be. Whims, she has a few, but they are not the center of her life. Dreams, on the other hand, she got them big and by the loads, all of which are noble. And last and definitely the most important of all, she got love, so much of it, and she shows it in ways only she can, for God, for her family and friends, and for me.
I am thankful for being a part of that love. And even if that ceases I will still continue to be thankful, for at least there was a point in time when I was a part of that love. But hopefully, with prayer, hard work, effort, and of course, love, that is not going to happen. I pray that I will always be part of that love, that the day when we will tie the knot and confirm that we truly are born for each other will come, and that not so far from today, we will celebrate not just our birthdays and monthsaries and anniversaries, but our marriage – and our love for each other and our future family – every day.
But despite all this talk about destiny and love, today is, first and foremost, your day. It’s the day you become a year older, a year wiser. It’s the day you look back at the tumultuous yet wondrous years behind you, and look forward to and set goals for the upcoming ones. It’s the day you reflect on the joys and pains that come with being part of the world – both the real one and of those who you love. And last but not least, it’s the day you celebrate not just what we have become as a couple, but more importantly, who you are as your own person; not just as my woman, but as a woman, your own woman. It’s the day you celebrate who you are now, and contemplate on what you want to do and what kind of person you want to be.
It’s your special day, you special honey you. I love you so much.
Happy Birthday and a Happy 10th Monthsary to us, Tsundere-hime. More birthdays for the one and only you, and more monthsaries and anniversaries for the one and only us.
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.
My Eternal Summer: Forget For A Moment And Remember Forever
In the scientifically correct sense of things, it is the meteorologists who determine when summer begins. And according to our state meteorologists, it has been summer for almost a month now, maybe a few weeks more. But in my self-centered universe, summer has just begun. Its arrival is rather late as compared to the past years, but it’s never tardy, for it is my heart, not the climate, no matter how hot it gets, determines its advent. And yes, summer – no, Summer – is indeed here. She has finally come. I thought she won’t, and I don’t mind if she didn’t, but I’m glad she did.
For the past few weeks after summer’s official start, it didn’t feel like it despite the killer heat that has reached 42 degrees centigrade. I didn’t feel like going to what is summer’s greatest symbol and official mecca: the beach. There was no desire for pristine, soft, and fine white sands; for azure and crystal seas; for towering palms whose leaves sway with the cool summer breeze; and lastly and definitely, for beautiful and sexy summer girls, especially chinitas in two-piece swimwear. Maybe it’s because I have Berna now, the best girl I could ever be with and the best girlfriend I could have, so the sea of feminine eye candy, while still sweet on the sights, is no longer as succulent as before. And maybe it’s because I’ve been employed for only a month, so I’m not jaded enough yet to want coconut trees and coastlines in lieu of the palm streets and skyscrapers that line Ortigas.
Case and point: for the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking for Summer, and it mystified me. I wanted to want Summer, but the same bliss and longing she once evoked wasn’t kicking, and I feared that it’s because I’m growing old. Those hot feelings I used to hold for the season has been extinguished by age and worldlier, more “mature”, “serious” concerns – normie bull. That was until Summer came running to me, looking for me, like a woman wondering where her ever-devoted lover spirited off to, and why. Now she has found me, locked away in a world of work, words, smartphone and office glass, and games, so she, through the help of my friends and my girlfriend, has finally dragged me by the hand and started running, so I ran along with her, and what I thought were bygone emotions from a bygone era came rushing back like a wave.
Yesterday I was in Bakasyunan Resort in Tanay, Rizal. It’s a mountainside resort with a mediocre pool facing a mountain with windmills at the top. It was okay, good at best. And thankfully, something better will be coming along: Laiya, Batangas in May 7. Yes, the quintessential beach trip for some much-needed Vitamin Sea. And while the beach will forever remain as a slice of sandy, salty, and sunny paradise, it has been, thankfully, stripped of what I realized is a fun but nonessential element.
Girls. To me, summer is flirtation, the search for love, or at least the beholding and experiencing of womanly beauty, especially by the sea. And this year, things have changed, as I have already found a love. While there is still the novelty of the idea of checking out and getting to know girls on the beach, it has become rather insipid and infantile compared to what I have now. I’m not renouncing the fantasy that I thought was the greatest part of summer just to tell my beloved what I think she wants to read; she’s not the jealous type anyway. Rather, I’m saying this because it’s true: summer playing is nothing compared to summer loving. Oh my dream come true, to sit by the beach with the girl you love the most, with an Aya Toujo, full of loveliness, goodness, beauty, and emotional and intellectual understanding, looking at the world’s oldest waters, the most accurate physical embodiment of depth, mystery, and eternity, talking not only about love and our past, present, and future time together on Earth, but also of the higher things in life, that of and beyond the sociopolitical sphere, the human condition, philosophy, the heart and soul, nature – I don’t know; the ocean of our conversation is just too vast, and there is no other place that is more appropriate to be the birth of those discussions than the very amniotic fluid of all existence.
But love and summer is not just purely discourse, but a series of seemingly unrelated acts that are actually anachronistic steps of a sun-blessed process. And by that I mean the things we’d do other things than talk: swim, frolic by the sand, sleep, and other obvious things couples do when they’re in the waters from where all life sprang forth. That life evolved and gave rise to the only spiritually beings able to love – us, and it is in that love that affirms the Creator, the author of life, whose reason for the birthing of flora, fauna, and us are a much higher form of the same sentiment Berna and I have for each other.
Or maybe that was a bit too transcendental or existential. For is not love for both woman and nature reason enough? To spend time with her beautiful outer shell and innermost soul at the beauty of God and Mother Nature’s architecture and feel the love and happiness of it all, that is all that matters; anything else is an excess. Like I said, I already have what I’ve always wanted; and to spend time with her at the beach would be to parallel the same manga scenes I’ve always envied.
There is, however, more to the beach than all of those metaphysical objects and female soul(s). To find this essential element, the hallowed place where earth, sea, and sky meet must stripped down of those excesses: the long, fun, and cathartic road trips to it, its correlation to God and the entirety of existence, the girls, or even the girl, and then you will find it: the beach itself and everything it stands for. The usual calmness, beauty, and depth of the ocean is always a relaxant and an inspiration; and its rare instances of violence are testaments of its power. Underneath its sea-green glass mass is a submerged forest whose water skies are filled with colorful scaly birds, or a desert with grotesque living spiked orbs and wayward soft-bodied beings. The way its waves never tires in crashing onto the powdery sand are reflections of the recurring plain but enthralling things in our day-to-day lives. We try to see if the answers to our questions, problems, and wonderings about the future are beyond its horizon. And a day – or hopefully, everyday – at the beach is to taste a simple slice of paradise.
Then again, the beach is a related but a sometimes standalone entity. And summer, while epitomized by sandy seashores, isn’t limited by it. Summer is also about road trips, cool drinks on a hot day and beer by the night-time, road trips, climbing mountains, dates with my girl, blockbusters, and many other things that make life good. That is why summer is eternal, for all these things are with us throughout our lives. And maybe that’s why I forgot about Summer: all her offerings, I get to enjoy the whole year round, unlike back then when I was still in school, jobless, and too stoked for the season. But of course, there is still nothing like enjoying the season during its peak instead of diffusing its essence throughout the course of our lives. After all, a summer in one’s heart means moot if it’s stormy outside. That’s why I’m glad Summer reminded me of her at the right time: her time.
When life rearranges itself, seasons and months can slip out of our immediate recollections. But these things, like people, refuse to be forgotten; they have their ways of returning to us – or maybe it is they who make us go back to them. Well, who found and took back who and how, it doesn’t matter; what does is that even though so many new elements have come – a new job, a girlfriend –into my current sphere, Summer, my seasonal mistress, and I are still together. We’ll always be, as long as there is the sun and a beach. And even if I get married, have children, reach new career heights, and become consumed with work, Summer and I will forever be locked in each other’s arms. And should I lose my grip, like this year, I know she’ll pull me back to her warm embrace. Even though there may be moments when I forget, she’ll always remember.
(Not) A Damsel In Distrss
One of my favorite fiction tropes would be the damsel in distress. A woman, trapped in a dire situation, is saved by a dashing hero, and in doing so she falls for him. It remains as one of the most romantic clichés ever despite its overuse, but I learned recently that no person in the right mind could and should romanticize such an event if it were to happen in real life. And the reason I arrived with such a conclusion is because that’s the predicament Berna and I are in, and reality is so much harsher than fiction. I wish that it weren’t happening, as it’s taking a toll on her. But no matter how many coins I throw on a well, fairies won’t wand-wave our way out of this. Heck, there isn’t even a way to do what fictional heroes do, which is to vanquish the chief antagonist, thus freeing the girl. All I could do is be beside her in her fight against the insidious spectres that are haunting her, until the night when she can fight them off herself,= and close her eyes without fear or worry finally falls, for that is the only way I can truly be a true hero and save the damsel in distress.
In works of fiction, the hero encounters many petty and easily vanquished scum – robbers, goblins, trolls – along the journey, and at then he finally reaches the damsel’s chief abductor-tormentor – a powerful witch/wizard/warlock, a highly advanced alien race, a ferocious dragon, a wicked ruler, an obscure cult, or an ancient evil entity – which he battles with all his will and might in order to prove his love and dedication for his lady. But in real life, a robber, which is usually but a minor nuisance on the road in fiction, is more than enough to be the big bad villain. In real life, the damsel isn’t trapped in a tower; instead, she’s in the safety of her own home, and that sense of safety was dispelled when that stealing bastard broke into it, attempted to steal some of her family’s hard-earned possessions, and stabbed her mother on the forearm. His robbery of material things may have failed, but he has stolen the security of my woman and her family towards their own house and neighborhood. That means she had to be on a lookout on some nights; that means she now has to come home early or sleep at the office. He has stolen my woman’s peace; now she fears that a strange, malevolent man is lurking at the place where she’s supposed to feel the safest, standing beside her bed, looming at her as she sleeps. And while I, because of some strange reason and God’s help, was able to somehow get her smile back, there is still much work to be done.
Last Friday, hours after the incident, she just kept on crying over the phone and recounting what happened. Last Saturday, a day after the incident, I met her on KFC, and she didn’t say a word at first, and instead just held me tight, as though I was a living, breathing distress ball. At first I thought she’s going to be silent during the entirety of our date, except she wasn’t; she managed to smile, laugh even, which meant that somehow the warmth, joy, and lightheartedness I was sending her was getting through the dark and heavy shroud of her troubles. However, happiness won’t fight off filthy criminal lowlives, so as an additional measure, I lent her a wooden club, and Father lent her his steel baseball bat; both of which I carried on my back as though they were swords I would swing against anyone who has harmed and will harm her, especially that disgusting, evil crook. Imbued in those weapons is my wish to have peace restored in her heart, home, and family, and my passing it on to her was a symbolic gesture – the turning of that wish into a reality. So yesterday, I somehow thought that aside from the fact that she has to go home early or spend the night at the office, everything will start to slowly but surely return to the way things were in her life. And it does. But to me, it’s not fast enough.
Last night she texted me, telling me that she’s finding it hard to sleep because she’s still thinking about what happened, so I promised her that nobody’s going to hurt her. Thankfully, two texts after that, she had probably fallen asleep already. Of course she is still frightened; it’s only been a few days. I, however, wish that she no longer were instantaneously, not because I miss the times when we were carefree, or because I no longer want to deal with what she’s going through, but because I no longer want her to feel so frightened and haunted. If only there is no battle going on in the shadows of her mind, but oh there is, and wishful thinking going to cut it, so as her hero/warrior/guardian/knight/ninja, I will fight alongside her no matter how long, and certainly we’ll win. And the proof of that victory? My princess and her royal family will regain what the thief has stolen – security, serenity, and joy. And in their minds, the memory of that fearful night with that thief will be nothing but that – a memory.
Dear Berna,
I want you to know that I am with you, and God is with us. It’s alright to fear, but I know, and you should know, that deep down within you is the strength, courage, and peace that will allow you to fight it, and I will fight alongside you and awaken all those things. We’ll destroy all the ghosts that thief left in his wake, and we’ll live victoriously and happily ever after. For this is not a story about a damsel in distress, but about a war-goddess and her wargod.
Make Up, Not Break Up Part 1: Sleeping, Silence, Waking Up, and Forgiveness
We usually hurt the ones we love. And whenever we do, we usually do not intend to. We neither wish nor go out of our way to inflict pain on those near and dear to us; it’s just that we either fall short or do whatever we think is right but is actually wrong, and those things are what gets them. I learned this truth the hard and unexpected way, as I thought I was pressing all the right buttons with her, when in fact I was messing up our chain. That’s alright though, because I’ve picked up some new right moves, and now I’m back in the game.
What I thought would be the beginning of the end began with a bad decision, a succumbing to my weakness, and another bad decision. I should’ve played fight games with her on Playbook, a PS4 rental near my previous (and her current) workplace, but instead I chose to watch The Revenant, a slow-ass movie written by a pretentious ass of a director. The movie, which could’ve had a lot of events and elements excised from it and it wouldn’t have made a difference, was paced so sluggishly and devoid of both riveting conversations and any plot development that an average people would find as interesting and relatable, so I was unable to fight my drowsiness, causing me to catch z’s for a few minutes – a faux pas that’s disrespectful for my date. But according to Berna, she kind of understood why I dozed off, as to say that it’s a very boring movie is an oversimplification. Still, I know it’s not wrong and she was disappointed with me because of it, and what happened and what I did next made it even worse.
I got some shuteye in front of the person who I should be awake for and giving my attention and enthusiasm to, then I entertained a message from my BMJ friends, which was telling me to drink with them at 1AM, right when I woke up, and I seemed so stoked about it. In an attempt to dissuade me because I’m putting myself at risk by drinking until God-knows-when even though I was already sleepy, she took me to McDonald’s to have a chat with me, except she didn’t talk much, as she was already in a not-so-good mood, as she thought that I wouldn’t listen, that my decision was already set in stone. However, it wasn’t; I changed my mind before I got on the route to where my friends are. So when I got home, I texted her, telling her that I did take her advice, but it was already too late – I have already scorned her by not swaying when we were still with each other. So, as punishment for my insolence, I had to spend twenty-four hours with zero contact from her.
When I got home after our date, I sensed that I have majorly tripped her. After Literary Translation class, my suspicion was proved right, as she sent three long texts telling me why she was hurt by what I did, and the worst among those reasons was the fact that I told her that I missed her even she didn’t feel like I did during our date. That’s when I thought that it wasn’t an ordinary misunderstanding that won’t be resolved easily, and I was unfortunately right. I replied three long texts to her, explaining my side without justifying myself, but she didn’t respond. Six hours later, I sent her a long apology text, but, as expected, she didn’t respond. Because of our radio silence, I just felt so damn heavy because I know I grieved her heart and my words of apology could not reach her, as her pain was preventing them from mending the crack in her heart and the rift in our link. And when I’m disconnected from her, the little things that make me smile just cannot. Even DoTA loses its charm, as the joy of battle becomes a burden I have to put up with instead. And just like horseradish leaves over a bowl of bitter gourd, defeat made the taste of disenchantment a little bit worse, and even a sweet GODLIKE streak on our last game with the Windrunner wasn’t enough to mask it.
After our game, Paolo and I talked about my problem with Berna during our post-battle dinner and walk home. He gave me some advice, and he told me that it’s going to be okay because even though they have yet to personally meet, he can see and feel that my girlfriend loves me very much, and that he misses having a lover’s quarrel. I took everything he said by heart and decided to fight the distress I caused her so I could go back on her side. I texted her a really long message once again for the third time, to which she didn’t reply. To some, sending one long text after another in the event of a fallout is either annoying because it means I’m not giving her space to think, or it’s a sign of my lack of pride. I, however, don’t care about whatever I come across as, because what I care about is her and how we are, and we’re both not doing okay. With that thought in mind, I texted her again, asking if she was still awake because I wanted to call her so that we can talk about the problem. Expectedly, she didn’t reply, so I went to bed with a heavy heart and a troubled mind.
That sleep, however, wasn’t much of a break from the awfulness I was feeling, as I was only able to get four hours’ worth of shuteye, and when I woke up I just felt a sickening chill inside me – that’s what happens when things between me and my sunshine are not good. I tried going back to bed, but it was just too hard with all my cares about Berna and our relationship. I tried writing a blog, but the crippling emotions inside me were interfering with my creative flow. As a last resort, which should’ve been the first, I asked Mother to pray for me, for us, so that God would mend the crack in our connection and give us understanding, open communication, forgiveness, and love – the important things in a relationship whenever something like this arises.
After that, I somehow felt relief and was able to go back to sleep, as I had faith that God would work His way in both our hearts. Such a faith was well-founded, as my prayer has been answered when I woke up around 8AM. There it was, what I was waiting for the entire day last Saturday – a long text from Berna. And from that everything – love, forgiveness, and understanding – just flowed so naturally, and we were back to our usual constantly, openly, and crazily communicating selves.
In the end, everything panned out for the best. According to her, what happened wasn’t really that major, and I somewhat agree, but to me it was an important milestone and eye-opener. It made me realize that I can hurt the one I love accidentally, and I definitely will in the future. Of course, not on purpose, but it’s not an impossibility. However, even if I do, it’s not about what I’ve done wrong – except the ones that are so wrong that they are relationship-breaking – but what I do to make things up, how we reconcile with each other, and return to us loving each other and going through the highs and lows of life together.
But of course, making up over the phone isn’t enough. So come Monday, it was game time.
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. 😛
Ah! My Human Girlfriend
Last Sunday, for some strange reason, and fittingly, of all days, the theme of my girl and I when we were texting is that of Greek mythology. And now I realized that this blog post is long overdue, two months ago to be exact, as it was back in the 18th of December that I found my goddess, Bernadette. So here I am, in my atelier once again, writing about the most recent chapter of my personal saga and mythos, of the fairly new and hopefully endless age of a monotheistic pantheon and the religion of its sole faithful. Welcome to the third realm,
There are women, and then there are souls who share the same physiology and behaviors as them but are echelons above them. At first I thought they were angels, and I have been chasing after these beautiful beings ever since my first sighting of them. This world, which revolved around romanticized unrequited love and was set in a four century-old academe, slowly unfolded until it lost flight, hit the ground, and became broken, as one messenger was plucked after another. Then came the second – a colorful and expansive realm that spanned workplaces, cityscapes, beaches, and the plane of cyberspace. It is teeming with mermaids, faeries, and nymphs, and hiding among them is the goddess. I chased after them, these candidates for the divine, and when I was starting to feel tired of all the running around, ghosting, and friendzoning – both in my end and that of the false deities – the true one has finally descended. Bernadette.
Bernadette, the chief and only goddess of the Jamesbayotian Romantic Mythology. Some facets of her are opposite of what I have envisioned the goddess to be, as instead of being a fair-skinned chinita, she is a pure Filipina type with big and deep black eyes and smooth olive skin. Standing at around 5’2” or 5’3”, she’s definitely not petite, and instead voluptuous. And rather of being the sweet moe type, she is a sadistic tsundere, a blood goddess, Aztec-like in nature. However, some aspects of her have a commonality with how I imagined the goddess. Because as much as she hates to admit, her tsundere-ness is only the surface of her psyche; deep down she is a benevolent and warmhearted goddess who loves and is concerned with her one and only devotee, an Aphrodite whose love goes beyond that of Eros. She is also a deity of wisdom, as our deep, seamless, and seemingly unending conversations – proof of our beyond-physical connection – are filled with dialogue about cultures, ideas, dreams, passions, the arts, knowledge, and so much more. That is why she is now the goddess; she is now the world; this world, which is hopefully the last and everlasting.
She is the earth beneath my feet, warm and solid but not too hard. In her richness, inspirations take root and blossoms for all the world to see. She is the sea beside it, known yet still holds mysteries, a timeless old soul who is full of colorful life underneath a beautiful blue exterior. She is at times calm, at times unsettlingly silent, at times mercurial, and all the time a sight to behold. She is the open, endless sky above us all, and beyond that peaceful azure is a universe of possibilities rife with celestial bodies, forming figures and foretelling our futures. And this new cosmos, which is her, is shared by the two of us and the people and things integral to our mythos.
The first world was patterned on Evangelion and Judeo-Christian symbolism, the second one was an all-myths-are-true New Age Spirituality hoopla, and this current one is its continuation. This is the Age of Transcendence, of New Enlightenment, and Love. She sits on her throne, above and beyond the time-space, looking down on a nearly-infinite number of multiverses, watching her beloved warrior-poet hero – I – attempt to achieve greatness by following his passions and profess his love for her by offering her words, deeds, artifacts, and sustenance. And in my adventures with and for The Goddess, I am aided by equally important men and women: the wise prophet Fernan and our other brothers-in-arms Paolo, Nico, Nhel, and Ivan; the wordsmiths of La Salle – Kei, John, and Joyce; crafty rogues of SEO Hacker; my family, which adores the Goddess; the now-diaspora that is BMJ; and my loyal canine retainers Tala and Chase. As our journey continues, we discover bizarre beings: five-legged cows that live in Sky Ranch (we haven’t been to Sky Ranch), coffee-drinking giant humanoid rats and lizards, magma drakes, and unnamed dragons, just to name a few. And in our path that leads to the altar and the fulfillment of “The Prophecy”, there are those who will stop us: the Green Sea Monster, the Woman Who Changes Her Face, and Archangel Lucifer AKA “God Himself”. But through our love, understanding of each other, maturity, and giving each other freedom to grow, we will prevail, this glorious age will last forever, and we’ll continue having adventures until we ascend to the next plane, where we’ll still walk hand-in-hand side by side and continue conquering brave new frontiers.
Putting a girl on a pedestal is wrong. While treating a woman as a goddess make her pure, powerful, and smooth, it would strip her of her important right and ability to have weaknesses, break down, and ask for help, find rest from expectations, and become who she truly is and wants to become. So of course, Berna is never truly a goddess; she has flaws – some of which I already know, and some I am still discovering – and I would never take away her God-given right to have them. But the thing about love is that, according to my professor, it is imagined. I don’t fully agree, but I don’t fully disagree either; it just means that we love the one we love because the real fits the mold of the ideal. And Berna, while not exactly the latter, possesses many traits of the latter. And in this written realm, one of the imagined and ideal, Berna is glorified and ascribed divine properties to, turning her to the goddess Bernadette. However, she is far inferior to the mortal she is derived from.
As long as I love Berna, Bernadette will exist, but only in my head, and I will love her, but only as a symbol of the perfect love for a perfect existence. And I love Berna, a beautiful yet flawed flesh-and-spirit fusion of a female who exists in the plane of reality, for I can love her, and she can make me feel the same love. And although this life of love with her will have times of sadness, pain, worry, and fear, it still bests a self-serving fabricated romance between me and Bernadette, for it is felt by the body, the mind, the heart and the soul.
I love you, Berna. You are the myth and the living legend. 🙂
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.
Reality, Nightmare, Dream, Love
There is a part of me that hates reality because I’m different. Well, everybody is, except I’m the kind of different that most of the people around me find problematic and therefore don’t like because what sets me apart makes me difficult to understand and deal with. I move so peculiarly that it’s hard to exactly describe how, I speak about even the simplest of things with pauses and stutters, I don’t always maintain eye contact, I’m almost always somewhere else whenever and wherever I’m somewhere, and to follow my own train of thought means to go against almost everyone else’s.
Because of my eccentricity, that I had almost given up on one of my dreams – finding a girl who will understand, accept, and love me for who I am, for in reality women usually never go for awkward and strange men. I had already reconciled with the fact that more likely than not, the women I will date will try to change me, fail, and leave, and then I’ll end up with “the one” – the one who will foolishly feign acceptance of my weirdness, marry me, tolerate me, and end up hating me. Until Berna, that is.
In all honesty, I still find it hard to believe that she finds the things that make me weird and therefore undesirable for a lot of people as adorable. Feels like a dream, and rightfully so, for I have always dreamt of a girl like her. Yet she is as real as she gets, for I talk to her about the things I wouldn’t even dare bring up to my mother, brother, and closest of friends; look at her deep brown eyes; feel her soft, smooth, and even morena skin; run my fingers through her short and silky brown hair; hold her reassuring hands whenever we walk; and do the things people usually think are infantile and wastes of both time and money.
But the thing about dreams is that they are either accompanied by nightmares – or turn into one themselves. And I fear that this dream might become one, that she might wake up one day and find my passions, actions, thoughts, and words as intolerable pains, that she might one day become “the one”. Or worse – maybe I, not her, would be the one to wake up as a completely different person and hurt my dream. I, the one who wanted someone like her to come along, would let her down, neglect her, grow tired of her, have differences and fights with her and resent her for them, and what is perhaps the worst – be tempted by another dream that is nowhere near as wonderful as her.
These fears are real because they are very possible, so I fight these nightmares off, work hard, remind myself, and pray every day so that both of us would stay as understanding, accepting, loving, supporting, and faithful with each other as our first few days. Because more likely than not, I will never chance upon a dream as beautiful, vivid, full of life, and as fitted for me as her. Because more likely than not, I will never find a girl like her again, whose love can make reality feel like a dream and turn dreams into reality.
I put the I in the UNIVERSE. I hope I can put U too. 