Them, in Moments

(Post inspired by Chynna)

1. “I remember seeing her on the golf course,” he announced in between bites.  “And she was the most beautiful woman there.” The table was not silent.  The child was in tears, demanding food through her wails.  “You always say that,” she blushes like a schoolgirl, as he kisses her cheek.  “I wish that could have been enough to take away the stress, dear.” “I’m not here to relieve, but to speak the truth.” He calls attention to her radiance even in the noise, as if even in the unsettling cacophony, he still makes everything clear.

2. I held the album in my hands.  The day was surprisingly silent, as my fingers skimmed photograph after photograph.  He was dapper in his plain black suit, his bow tie neatly tied, and his eyes brimming through his glasses.  She glowed in her white dress, her smile emitting a kind of light even the sun would ask for.  Their solace radiated from the book.  They have not only become one, but settled into each other.

3. He shook my hand and said goodbye, just as I have done for the whole time I’ve stayed.  “Just in case I won’t see you again — it was nice meeting you.” He blended into the shadows and disappeared into his room, and I wondered if I could find that mirage again.

4. She kissed me goodbye, and thanked me for the cake.  “You are so sweet, such a darling.” As we set our luggage down on the front steps of the train station, we watched her drive away.  They deserve each other, I thought as the car disappeared into the forest.  It wasn’t like they were forced to be with one another, they chose to be.  I can live without you, I just don’t want to.

5. He hangs his coat on the rack outside.
Mein Engel (My Angel),” she calls.
And even without wings, he flies to her, as the baby joyfully cries.
“You’ve come home.”
No fireworks, no surprises.
Just them.


At The End Of The Day

This want to hold you in my mind, I — Isn’t that how memories work? You take it in, and it sort of floats around in your head.  Aside from it being instant entertainment, it allows you to revisit it constantly.  But again, you were made to be forgotten.  I try to hold onto it — rewind to the day you held me for seconds.  It was the first and the last, I’m afraid.

But as the night turns to day again, I am reminded of this: that your eyes are hollow, your smile is preserved in photographs, and the voice that rumbled in my head so ominously can barely resonate.  Not even an echo.  Hello? I can only describe the way my name rolled off your tongue so smoothly.

As I write you down, even I know that at the end of it all, these are just words — and we are all stories.  Stories end, unfortunately, and even if I wish it otherwise, I can no longer write about empty air.

I wish I could.
I wish I could.

Ten Realizations From A Three-Month Trip

(Photo taken from atop the Kanonenplatz; Freiburg Stadt)

I remembered that night when I was packing the last of my things in, and we had to rush at eight in the evening to beat the traffic.  It was already raining that day, as if the sky mourned with me.  I couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone — in a country with a foreign language, with no friends, and my family was definitely not going to be there.  I revisited that feeling when I arrived home, on the first day of my encounter with jet lag.  It still brought tears to my eyes, and my heart constricted the way it did on August the first. 

But three months after, I was back.  And while I went through some great and not-so great times when I was away, I’d like to think the great outweighed the bad.  I could honestly say so.  And I wish I had the diligence to narrate every single day that happened, but we all know that just can’t be (unless I write a memoir, hehe) so in classic internet listography, I present to you the ten things I learned while I was away.

1 People may have broken me, but the solution to that is not withdrawal.  It’s openness.
I’m not going to sugarcoat this.  March, specifically, was the most emotionally tumultuous month this year.  I promised myself that 2014 would be the year of happiness, and where else could I find that except in the circles I was familiar with? But imagine losing eight of the very people I thought I could depend on, both to betrayal and broken promises.  I have forgiven two, but those are about the only people I could really think of mending fences with.  What person wouldn’t go ballistic over that? And to think the dead was the only heavy real loss people go through.  No one ever talks about the death of the living.

My friends saw a side of me I never realized I had: withdrawal, self-blame, and self-pity.  All I could talk about was the boy who left me when he promised he wouldn’t, about the unexplained reasons why the friends turned their backs against me.  I would find myself crying in the night’s silence, wondering what I did wrong to deserve such treatment from the people I placed my trust on.  Even I was tired of that person I was becoming, but the thing about this kind of sadness is the wallowing is addictive.  It gave me so many excuses just to lie on my bed and to see the world in a darker shade of gray, as if the world punished me in some way.  But again, the world owed me nothing.  It has no debt to humankind except to rotate around the sun, in the same exact place for four billion years, and to exist.  That’s it.  It provides, but it is not my friend.  It is art, but it does not paint a picture for humans to enjoy. 

And when I was told I was going on this trip, I thought it was another way of letting me go, of breaking me off with the life I was familiar with.  I resented my parents, to be honest, I really did.  Call me spoiled, call me irritating but what I went through just mixed with a decision I did not make on my own.  But upon my arrival there, I met some of the greatest people — in Germany, in London, in Switzerland, in France, and in Italy — who taught me different things.  I was caught between the extreme age groups: the seniors (the elders) and the young ones (babies to almost-teenagers).  The young ones taught me to run around, to get off my phone, and to see life through the natural lens — my eyes.  And the elderly ones taught me that while I had seen a lot life had to offer, it’s still not enough.  It will never be enough.  Life was too much to quantify.  There’s just so much to it.  And instead of withdrawing in my room, I began to open myself to whatever these countries had to offer.  Let me tell you, there was beauty beyond Snapchat.  At least when you stare at the sun, it doesn’t delete itself instantly after ten seconds or so.  It slowly sets and rises, as is its purpose.

2 There is peace in solitude. 

I can never be left alone — I can tell you that.  I actually shake and hide away when I am not in the company of a friend.  It was pretty difficult doing things by myself during the first few weeks of my stay, knowing that I was constantly watched over and accompanied by the people in my life. But I never really appreciated the peace behind lying down in my bed alone, reading the next chapters of my novel or cleaning my closet with acoustic Taylor Swift on.  There was a silence that wasn’t so haunting.  It was a silence that pushed me to relax, to let go of any negative thoughts that were sinking me slowly at the back of my mind. It was a silence that begged me to shut my eyes and to shut off the words that hurt me, that woke me when I was not supposed to. 

It was not loneliness, but solitude.  I knew the difference slowly, when I began to go to the gym by myself, when I ran errands, and when I went to my different classes.  It was the biggest test I had to go through, and yet as the months turned to weeks, I appreciated the moments when I was by myself, when I could finally silence the mind that wouldn’t shut up.  It was a slow process, and I still cling onto certain people, but at least I know I’m capable of being by myself now.

3 Vicarious living is beautiful if it were in books, but a vicariously lived life is not a life that is worth living the whole way through.

Imagination is my strong suit, and is a place most people would run to in a heartbeat.  But even words cannot fully describe the beauty of a place or the experience of running after a punctual train or a bus (12:47 is 12:47, after all).  Words are beautiful by themselves, but are limited.  It isn’t enough to read about the punctuality of the Germans or the clear-as-glass lakes of Switzerland, you have to see it.  You have to experience it.  You have to experience life that is not found on the screen.  And coming from someone who has her nose in a book constantly, this totally rings true.

4 All the pills in the world do not have a 100% cure guarantee.  At least not in the way time does.

If I could take a Paracetamol or something legal that could have taken the hurt away from me, I could.  If I could do what was advised of me — to move on and to forget — I could have.  Although, everything is always easier said than done. 

“Move on, man.  He’s not worth it.”
“Sure, yeah, moving on.” I reply, as I scan his Facebook profile for the 100th time.

“Why are you still so hung up? He clearly does not care about you.  Stop talking about him.”
“I know, I know,” I bury my head in my hands.  “But remember that time he…”

Advice, like pills/tablets/medicine, are taken in doses.  Everyone can give me an A-Z list of recommendations on how to get over this, how to move on from a mistake, etc but why does it take more than the recommended time I set myself on? It’s because while time moves too fast, it is the greatest healer.  At least for me.  No matter how many times I tell the story of him, it does not bring the dead back.  No matter how many times I try to find the reasons why, my answers will always be echoes.  It’s because I’m talking to dead air. 

But soon enough, I realized that the story I used to love telling made me lose the passion that once colored my words.  It was because time made me see that while I could tell the story of him and I, it was always just going to be coming from me.  Not from him.  And the wounds that used to hurt me have now become scars.  Just because I’ve moved on does not mean I have forgotten. 

5 Pride and Prejudice may have been Jane Austen’s greatest achievement, but it’s not a trophy worth holding onto.

My aunt said that “travel is the enemy of prejudice.” And traveling to Germany? Cue the long list of pre-judgments I made.  Let’s not even get started with their history.  And add that to the growing resentment I had.  But three months of being surrounded by these people have erased what I have thought of them: cruel, rude, and cold people.  Yeah, they can be unfriendly but only because they’re not the most open lot.  But once you really get to know them, they can be the warmest people.  I still can’t appreciate their humor though, but we can get to that later.

6 The strength you have been searching for does not come out by beating yourself up, but by restoring that belief within yourself.

Refer to the first realization: I constantly blamed myself for the things that went wrong. 

“Why did I have to do this?”
“Was my attitude the reason why they went behind my back?”
“Was I too into it? Maybe I was.  I shouldn’t have.  Ugh.”

(Repeat cycle 100x.).

I lost that confidence I had before March happened, and I thought I would forever become the person who loved to sink in self-pity, begging for compliments and flattery left and right.  I was too traumatized by the words, the repeating insults of my incapability to do anything that it suffocated that smidgeon of self-belief I had that could have gotten me out of that quandary sooner. 

But being alone taught me that I can do things, that I can accomplish tasks as needs be.  I can become who I am without anyone treading upon what I thoroughly believe to be true and right.  I may still not know what I truly want, but knowing that I can is strength enough for me to get to that next step.  How? I know so.

7 Words may destroy you, but they can also mend the pieces.

At The Guardian, our memoir class taught us to always tell the truth.  And while I loved to pepper my writing with some slight exaggerations, I knew that writing always had to go back to its roots, to what really happened.  Lo and behold, our first assignment was to write about the saddest event of my life.  Surprisingly, I picked the backstabbing bit over August the first.  I thought I moved on from the pain, but revisiting the events for the sake of my piece stung me again and instructor Mark McCrum (and the rest of my classmates) saw the sadness within my words.  They too were crying because of their own work.  Thank God I had enough strength to hold in the tears, but it goes to show that while the pain has diminished, the scars still exist.  They remind me everyday of the capabilities of the person and at the same time the consequences post-mistake.  But as the weekend came to a close, the last piece we had to make was a profile of an antagonist — and I wrote about the boy who broke me.  Instead of having my classmates break down with me, we ended up laughing about the event.  I injected some thoughts I never thought I could realize until I read them out loud, and over lunch my classmates told me how mature and hilarious I was for a twenty-one year old which I gladly took with stride.  Just like in my intensive writing class, a classmate I have never spoken to pulls me by the arm and says, “you’re a damn good writer.  You better make sure you continue it.”

The words I thought would betray me became the very bandages that healed me.  Some stories may have outlasted their expiration date, but some still last on to be the very things that bring us back together again.

8 A place does not have to be the most popular to be the most beautiful.

When I go on trips with the family, we always make sure to go to Tripadvisor’s top 100 cities (or a list similar to that).  Aside from us having this internal code of WE SHOULD NOT MISS SEEING THIS PLACE EVER, it also gives us some kind of security that “hey, at least this’ll be worth it.  I mean, the whole world says it’s pretty awesome.  Let’s have a go at it.” So, hey, New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, Prague, etc!

But being with someone who was more or less an expert in Germany showed me the places that were not as tourist-y, such as the Black Forest panoramic tour that was really a couple of bus rides that showcased the different areas of the Schwarzwald in all its tree abundance.  Or riding the cable car up to Feldberg to see the Swiss Alps covered in snow.  Or that time when we went into the St. Beatus Cave for an hour! I could name more.  It was the same in London when my aunt and her husband drove me through the countryside of England, and showed me the castles, lakes, forests, and the golf courses.  Who could forget the villas and the expensive towns? And believe me, they were even more beautiful than the top 100.  Even the quaint cities, wow.

Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder, but it takes a great deal to search beyond what is the world’s definition of beauty.

9 It is in fear that makes you question.  It is in fear that eventually gives you the chance to open your mind.

London is a city that I love, but traveling alone for the first time there depleted some of that admiration. After all, my parents were almost rattling their heads off with their concern of safety and sketchy people and places.  Their concern almost got me to want to cancel my flight.  My fear worsened on the day itself when I was shaking in the bus station on the way to the Basel-Mulhouse airport.  On top of that, the airport didn’t even have any wi-fi.

Just get me through without any problems, I prayed to God as the landing announcement came.  The city was glowing — bright lights, big city — but my fright topped my excitement.  I rushed through the crowd, went through immigration, hurriedly got my luggage off the baggage claim, and panted all the way to the Gatwick Express Station where the kind train conductor said, “Platform Six, love!” Even if I had to stand up the whole time I was on the train, I shakily sent a Viber message to everyone concerned that “I survived.” And believe you me, that was just the beginning of trying to.

London security was at its peak, when threats came in about bombing a major train station there.  It happened once, it could most definitely happen again.  Guards swarmed the areas with big guns and that to me was fear staring at me in the face.  When I decided to go out after my class, I told myself, ‘Be back before the sun sets.’ It was still early September so the sun was to set at about 8:45 or 9 in the evening.  My goal was to check out the nearest Waterstones’ and the one I remember distinctly was the one in Trafalgar Square.  So instead of sitting in my room, I set out at 7:30 in the evening and wandered off into its center.  It was like I was back in 2011 again, when I was here with my parents.  But when I moved a little bit to take a photo of the traffic, I saw the Big Ben staring back at me.  And before I knew it, I ran down the roads until I reached Westminster.  I quickly photographed the clock in its dusky glow, and proceeded to run off again.  I found the Trafalgar branch and lost myself in there for a while, realizing later that it was 9 in the evening.  It was pitch-black.  Whoops. 

But my fear dissipated as I explored more of the city more, even when I was living in Bracknell in my aunt’s house.  I would take the bus to the city, explore the parks with my Google maps and my portable charger, and go back home.  I got to explore Windsor too, and I did that all by myself! The biggest test, though, was taking the Tube and the trains to get to my The Guardian Masterclass.  I was avoiding the trains the whole time, but once I got the hang of it during the bootcamp weekend, I did it! It got a little crowded on Sunday going home (which was surprising?), but I s u r v i v e d. 

If I hadn’t questioned what was beyond my hotel, if I hadn’t questioned what was beyond that corner, I wouldn’t have seen what I saw.  And even if my fear of my phone battery running out wholly existed, it never would have made me explore different parts of the city I never had access to on my first visit.

I walked, I took the train, I took the bus.  I commuted.  I commuted in London.  Oh my god.

10 There is such a thing as a good bye.

What made me realize this was during the last session of French class.  Honestly, I really wanted it to end because not only was there no existing structure of teaching, it was taught to us in German.  I was learning French in German.  Don’t even get me started on the umlauts.  But as I said goodbye to my professor and my classmates, I realized that I have been saying goodbye to every person I met during my stay in Europe.  I said goodbye to friends, to strangers, and to cities I know I will only visit once.

David Levithan said that there is no such thing as a great goodbye (or a happy goodbye).  It simply does not exist.  And I thought that to be true (as I am in complete agreement of most of his beliefs) for a long time.  But as I hugged or beso’d these people, made my peace with the walls and streets I could never touch again, I never felt this aching sense of longing or attachment.  It was as if I was made never to hold on for so long, a feeling I was slowly getting used to as the days passed. 

The only constant in my life there was my aunt in Freiburg, and that to me was the only not good bye I had to make.  But the others? It wasn’t that I wanted to say it, but I had to.  I was just glad that it didn’t hurt too much, as I was always in transit.  I was a nomad for three months, and consistency was not something I should get used to.  But having felt the feeling of a detached farewell was something I needed to feel.  It was not because I needed to be distant, but because I needed to feel that such a thing existed.

On Taking That Chance

I don’t know how I jumped over the edge that one time before, and gave all that I could to a dead end. Sometimes the living can hope for a life in the heart of the ones who left us. Not the ones in tombs, but the ones who choose to bury themselves alive, to hide from the sins they have yet to confess.

I wonder where that rush of adrenaline had gone, the one I had whenever I waited for him to walk with me to class. “Yeah, I can walk with you. I have time.” No one can hold time in their hands, they don’t have the power to. But they can choose to bend it for the ones they care for — is what realized. He became that very person who gave me his time to the one who begged for more of it.

(Wealth is not only measured by money, but how much you can spend on other aspects that need to be afforded as well.)

‘What if’ is the principle I basically built my life on. Even if the universe owes me nothing, I still bank on it handing in a few favors. After all, I had been nothing but kind to it except for a few tricks to bend its string of fate. I take chances on it as much as possible — not in all aspects, but with people most especially. I took steps forward and shone myself under the light instead of behind it. I could never afford to lose someone because once you did, to seek is a whole other journey I prefer not to undergo.

It’s not that I’m scared all over again, but it’s the gamble behind it. This new person is someone I’d like to bet on a little bit more, and in the process I would not like to lose. We may have a fence between us but I wouldn’t want to jump over it and find myself falling alone. I can trip over a few words, but never fall farther, deeper. I dove once and I drowned, and I wouldn’t want to lose my breath so fast again.

Never mind that I long to recall him like a story. Never mind that his voice is a song I long to find. Never mind that I wish we found ourselves on the same cobblestone steps again. It’s not good to yearn so much, to love with all your heart. Losing is normal if not forgivable, but giving all your guns up is a whole other story and I wish to hold on to that beginning rather than a terrible ever after.

It Ends At The Start

If I could write a story about us, I would start at the beginning. And that beginning ends there, just there. Some people call it a cliffhanger, I call it a missed opportunity.

The first time I saw you, you didn’t see me. After all, before you knew my name, I was a ghost to you when you weren’t one to me. But knowing a name isn’t the same as knowing the face, the body, and the mind. Who are you? How are you? What are you?

“Hi,” you took my hand quickly, in our effort to be formal. “Hi,” I whispered back, your voice rumbling at the back of my mind. I fall behind as you strode forward, the sun at your back.  I wasn’t shaken at first, maybe because you didn’t scare me in the way others usually do. You were distant all on your own, but as the seconds turned to minutes, even the coldest person bathed by the sun turns warm. And even if we didn’t see eye to eye the first time, I knew that you were something. Not just something, were.

“How is this city treating you?” I piped up, as I felt that familiar feeling of fright in me. Your eyes flickered in my direction. “It’s all right, but it’s not the dream most people believed it to be.”  I don’t know what led me to believe that you were even a possibility, even if I know you usually have to treat every person as an opportunity to connect. But even some beliefs are proven strong by faith, and I’m glad to know that later on, we would find common ground in some aspects at least. We existed in the same space, but not necessarily together. There was a slight fence between us, and no one reached a hand out until I did. And you took it with openness right away, your stories spilled onto the table and flowed towards me, like your words yearned to come out. But that was your personality, that was who you are. You flowed, you flowed right into me.

But I wish we didn’t stop with the stories, because I had questions on my own that I wanted answered. “What’s your favorite television program?” “Do you read?” “If you were the last man on earth, what brand of beer would you want to keep you company in your solitude?” Even if I didn’t ask, your eyes crinkled with a refreshing innocence that doubled as “been there, done that” and as I watched you color your world for me from the sidelines, I knew that maybe this could be. This could be– I don’t know, a question worth asking? Someone worth?

“So, yeah, nice meeting you.” You said, as you took a stride forward and your arm took me in. I fell into your ten-second embrace as I wrung my arm around your neck. “Good luck with everything.” I rubbed your back a little, like I wanted a wish. A wish for you to stay longer, a wish for you to ask me to stay.

I knew that the story was already written. Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, as Shakespeare said, but we weren’t anything. We just met, and the journey already reached its end.

I wish I knew it was the epilogue right there, so I knew how to say goodbye. But some endings were meant to be put there. And now as I stare into the blackness that is the ceiling of my room, I try to remember your crinkling eyes, your deep, throaty laugh, and the sound of your voice (or admittedly, the way your eyes would briefly flicker towards me), but instead I only remember you in stills and in faces I have associated similarity with. It was as if you were a memory made to be forgotten.

Dear Mr. Munich,

Aside from the fact that you were clad in one of those cushy, velvet sweaters I liked, you were a prime example of a chance that I overlooked. Smoke billowed from your mouth as you laughed and turned to face me. “Prost,” as we clinked glasses. “Prost.” before you turned away.

What could I have said, seeing as how we were seated inches from each other, and the words could have sealed it. “Hello,” as I could have tapped your shoulder. “Wie heißen Sie? (what is your name?)” was what I should have said. But again, almost is never enough.

Could those words have began a story of how we met? After all, distance does not have to be reached by transport, but only by pushing yourself from where you are. Only in this case, the words could have done enough, so much in fact — that I didn’t have to be afraid, that I could have known you and the rest of it falls into place right after.

But again, there is no hoping in the almost. It is after all, a bit to where it’s right, but only a bit. And a bit may be just a bit more, but again, it’s just a bit and therefore not yet.

A Sadness I’d Never Admit To

I’m not usually one to delve into sadness, or at least I don’t like delving into things that disturb me.  This is one of them.  It’s not the on-the-surface one with the obvious tear tracks and red eyes, or where my head is on the shoulder of someone else’s.  It’s a sadness that misaligns with the personality my world knows, the personality that I came to be.

After she arrived from her seminar, my aunt asked me if I wanted to explore Freiburg even more.  “Go around the city.  You have still so much to discover — behind the Munster, or at the back of the Theater.” Don’t get me wrong, I love to explore, I really do.  If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have scoured through London three weeks ago with my eternally out-of-battery phone.  My feet will never know that kind of pain I went through.  But instead, I replied with, “I have explored enough.”

Lately, this has been rippling within me for the past few days, and the vigor I used to have back in August waned.  I’m not nearly as cheerful as I liked to be, or at least I still am but more measured and more restrained.  It’s like my growth is measured in seconds instead of days and everyday I am bound to the one thing I hate to explore: my mind.

I can’t even compose this thing properly because I am torn between wanting to share this truth with the world and wanting still to hide it.  I am surrounded by people, the very ones I love, and yet I feel as though I am imprisoned, like I owe my happiness to them or something to that extent.  And I am bound to them through the words they say, and their opinion matters too much to me.

Words are what I love, and yet somehow all I want is for them to go away.  Everywhere I go, my mind tells me otherwise, and I perceive people silently watching me as I go about my routine.  I wish I could make them understand what it’s like to be lonely, to be trapped by your own mind into thinking that people have to like you or treasure you and that their opinion matters so much it’s Law.  I wish– I wish that they didn’t matter.  I wish that the strangers who are supposed to serve their purpose of being people I shouldn’t have to know stay that way.  Yet what they say matters so much to me, and I hate that.  I hate that I have to depend on them all the time, that I have to harp on their words and praises.  Why do I have to be praised to feel secure? Because my own mind does not do the same thing.

I try so, so hard to be the person I have to become, and in the process the saddest thing is I don’t even know who I am anymore.  Nomads do still exist, and I’m not talking about the ones that leave their homes.  My soul is an undefined state and all I want for it is to go back home — home in a sense that it is finally where it belongs, and it definitely is not in this city at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I have met so many lovely people here, and I have changed in some way or another but I’m still finding it so difficult to be restrained.  I have to because people don’t understand the way I live and breathe, that I have to have someone beside me not for the sake of having someone per se but because I want them to be.  But again, it’s not the people’s fault.  They, of course, see me as an outsider and I, in turn, have to adjust to them.  When they throw labels at me, it’s okay.  They just can’t find a single word to describe my personality and it’s their attempt to understand who I am, even if they don’t at all get it.  But I wish they did.  I really wish they did,

(I don’t know what this entry’s about at all, but I’m just spewing thoughts.  This is what it’s like to be in my head.  It’s kinda hard to figure out.  I just hope someday that I will finally be content with what I have because I just yearn for something I have yet to seek, and in the process, all I want to do is hide.)