tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86188062024-03-07T14:40:41.543+08:00citybuoy x city songs.citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.comBlogger312125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-91848943313970680242024-01-01T22:33:00.006+08:002024-01-01T22:33:54.563+08:00happy new tears<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigitUXolwOd7-hK65k7rfQjQpgHEmwfSoro8h8ydj6x_C5PLpLUTEl5zlzkqJYCQFJxV-FricHyYTXEAZn1r9yBWCfJYohvS3-NVKz2SbVFSgEBgkr9B7mZ4c-m17lgLpySDnqHBomLMhzD3P_ZOilbf4FYmjXmhqBcE1RFfY6KOq25MfOXXWp/s1600/blog.jpg" />
<b>Confusion.</b> It starts like a tickle in your throat. You clear it, hope it goes away but it comes back, even stronger than before. I couldn’t shake it. It followed me around all day. A question – are you cheating on me?<div><br /></div><div>I get home close to midnight and you’re not here. I send out a three-word SOS. <i>Where are you?</i> No response. My phone says the message was delivered. But was it really? </div><div><br /></div><div>I wash off the day’s stresses and for a second, the warm water on my skin soothes me. A song comes on the radio, something about a lover’s lying eyes and without me meaning to, the thoughts have returned. It’s late and I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I… don’t know… who you’re with. I keep it at bay. No. I push it away. I turn away so I don’t see it. But here it is. Here she comes. The question – are you cheating on me? </div><div><br /></div><div>You’re probably working. You probably forgot to have dinner again and stopped by a fastfood joint for a quick bite. Maybe you’re out with your friends – you barely see them anyway. Certainly there’s a perfectly logical explanation as to why you’re still out at an ungodly hour. Maybe you’ve found someone. Maybe he’s kinder. Maybe he’s better. Maybe he’s a good little boy content living in <i>your </i>shadow. I promise I won’t be angry. Just tell me. Are you cheating on me?</div><div><br /></div><div>You get home and it’s almost 3. I have to get up and work in 2 hours and yet, my mind won’t lend itself to sleep. You tell me you had a long day at work, some crisis only you could solve and I wondered how long it would take for you to see the crisis in my heart. You undress and lay down next to me. My heart rate slows now that you’re home. I close my eyes and try to wind down as best as I can. In the darkness, your hands creep through the sheets to find mine. You pull me closer to you, kiss me sweetly on the forehead, and say good night.</div><div><br /></div><div>That could have been where the story ended. I wish it could end there but when you moved close to me, I caught a faint whiff of something alien. It took me a second to identify it. It smelled like dark roses and deceit. That’s not your perfume, nor is it mine. Whose scent is this? Who left like an indelible mark on your skin? Whose hands were you holding just hours before? Does he know you’re here with me? </div><div><br /></div><div>And just like that, the sliver of doubt that crept into my heart reveals itself to be something bigger. Damn it, he’s cheating on me.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Confirmation.</b> It is morning and you’re still in bed. I creep out from under the covers as quietly as I can. I glance at you as you lay there sleeping, your eyes closed, mouth slightly agape as you snore. You look so peaceful, I am tempted to hold you. For a second, I consider forgetting the thoughts in my head, abandon the seeds of doubt in my heart. If I don’t water them, they’ll never sprout. They could just stay there, waiting, watching for the next crack so it can rear its ugly head.</div><div><br /></div><div>I put my arms around you and you grunt gently. I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not awake. My hands creep under the pillow for the truth – I know if there’s anything happening I would find it in your phone. With some more reaching, I find it. I run downstairs like a dog coming home after he’s found a bone. With the curtains still drawn, I sit in the dark wonder if I should cross this line. This is it. This is the point of no return. Once I open this, there can be no turning back. Do I risk everything to know the truth? Is it better to be happy than to be right?</div><div><br /></div><div>I scroll through photos, of random selfies and food you’ve eaten. Some I recognize because you sent them to me. Others, I assume were left in your drafts. I check your phone logs and find the usual suspects – your mother, your friends, a few people from work. I check your messages and see nothing alarming, save for a very persistent telemarketer offering part-time jobs. This can’t be it. There must be more. I’m not crazy, am I? I was just about to call it a day when a notification sends a chill down my spine.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Hey,” he said. “I hope you got home safe. I’m still a little sore but it was so worth it. Till next time?” There was a winking emoji, playful and innocent. I wanted to scratch out its semi-colon eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>The notification opens a messaging app, one I haven’t seen or heard of before. As I scrolled through the dozens of messages, some from months ago, I swear I could hear the sound of my heart breaking. There, in countless sweet words and images were all of your indiscretions, all of the times you turned your back on me, on the life we have, on the future we were building, on the men we were going to become. Like a masochist, I found myself going through each message. Your boys talk about your body like it was a country they visited visa free. You lead them on with kind words, with sweet nothings I thought you had reserved for me. They send you photos of themselves, disheveled selfies in the morning, erect manhoods at night. You sent them cute photos of yourself, the same one for every boy, and they treat it like it was a goddamn prize.</div><div><br /></div><div>I scroll up to the sore bastard who you met tonight. I read some of your messages today. </div><div><br /></div><div>U alone?</div><div><br /></div><div>At work. </div><div><br /></div><div>U free? </div><div><br /></div><div>You mean time, or otherwise? </div><div><br /></div><div> I don’t know when or how it happened but somewhere along the line, my love – once a fine cushion you could lay your head upon – turned into shackles that tied you down. I would never ask for your freedom, only your loyalty and your love. I’m sorry that’s what it’s become. I’m sorry – whatever it was, I’m saying sorry – wondering if you ever will.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Collapse.</b> It is almost noon when you awake. I spent all morning spinning, spiraling into doubt, chaos, and despair. I sit patiently as you make your morning coffee, smoke your first cigarette, and retreat into the bathroom. It is your morning routine that I’ve watched for seven years. I can almost set my watch to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>You emerge from the bathroom, relieved but with sleep still in your eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>“We need to talk,” I say quietly, the warmth all but gone in my tone. You stop in your tracks and look at me, look around at the house we called home, checking for obvious damage. Finding none, you take a seat on the sofa. There is confusion in your eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>“What’s wrong?” you ask and I say to myself maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe this is a Pandora’s box I don’t need to open. I didn’t know where to start. It feels like I’ve stepped onto an open field and around me are a hundred landmines.</div><div><br /></div><div>I start with what makes sense. “Are you happy with me?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Oo naman,” you chuckle, dismissing.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Where is this coming from?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I just want to know if you’re happy.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I am. Of course, I am. Ikaw ba?” </div><div><br /></div><div>I pause to ponder the question. “I thought I was.” I look up to meet your eyes. There is a kindness laced with sadness in them. “I thought you were happy. But maybe I was wrong.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“That’s ridiculous. No relationship is easy, but we make do with what we have.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Do you feel trapped here?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Where is this coming from?” you ask. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Did something happen? You can tell me. You know you can always tell me.”</div><div><br /></div><div>This is it. This is the point of no return in this conversation. My feet firmly on the landmine, it becomes increasingly clear that no one was coming to save me. </div><div><br /></div><div>“I’m giving you one last chance. Is there… anything… you need to tell me?” My breath shaky, I barely get the words out. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Nothing. There’s nothing. We’re happy, aren’t we? What is this? Tell me, what’s going on.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Is that what you tell Noel?” He looks up at me, a burrowing in his eyebrows. He recognizes the name, of course but looks confused as it leaves my lips.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Who?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You heard me. Does Noel think you’re happy too?”</div><div><br /></div><div>He sits across me, realization slowly washing upon his face. </div><div><br /></div><div>“You checked my phone.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You changed your passcode.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Still. You checked my phone.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You’re missing the point.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“And what is the point?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“How can I love you when I… I can’t trust you?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Are <i>you?</i>”</div><div><br /></div><div>“No, that’s not it. That’s… that’s not it.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Then what is it?” </div><div><br /></div><div>His sad eyes burst into tears. He breaks down, turning into a crumpled sheet of paper as his arms reach out for me. He holds on to my side, his tears soaking through my shirt. I tense up, my shoulders frozen as he holds on to me. Through muffled tears, he says he’s sorry. And it takes all of me not to comfort him through this storm.</div><div><br /></div><div>“You know what’s sad? Of all the bad shit we’ve been through, I never thought this would be the most painful. You, sitting there, lying straight to my face.”</div><div><br /></div><div>He sits up and I wipe the tears off his face. A cacophony of apologies still bursting out of his mouth, I push him away. </div><div><br /></div><div>“You could have just said you fell out of love with me. Instead, you made me feel like the biggest idiot in the world. Sana niloko mo nalang ako. Hindi yung ginawa mo pa akong tanga.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“So what does this mean?” he asks. “Are you breaking up with me?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I don’t know. I… I feel like I’m done.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“What does that mean?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I…” The words barely come out of my mouth. “I think we’re done.” </div><div><br /></div><div> That day, I learned the sound of a seven-year promise caving in on itself and nothing was ever going to be the same again.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Compromise.</b> They say what’s meant for you will never pass you by. I think of all this as I stand in the rubble of my world collapsing. Everything I thought I knew no longer is. Surely there were warning signs. Was I so happy that I didn’t notice the first few hairline cracks?</div><div><br /></div><div>And maybe it was simpler when we were younger. Maybe before we had a home and promises to keep, we had the time to focus on just being… us. I don’t even know. Somehow, in the middle of paying the bills, getting groceries, making a life, we lost touch of each other. Maybe in the pursuit of living a life together, I failed to see that he’d let go of my hand and found solace in someone else’s.</div><div><br /></div><div>It’s been a few days since we broke up. And though I’ve been brave and strong, rejecting all advances, I feel my resolve getting weaker by the day. We walk through these halls like ghosts although what exactly died, we were too chickenshit to figure out. Last night while he was sleeping, his arms slithered through the sheets to wrap around me. And while the previous nights, I pushed him away, last night I just let him. I lay there, equal parts sad and angry, and wondered if it was me he wanted to sleep with tonight or was it someone else.</div><div><br /></div><div>He said they meant nothing to him. That I was still the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. And I could just close my eyes and let that wave take me away. Surely, I could forgive. Surely, there’s enough love here to see us through. But what would that say about me? How many times can I look the other way before I realize I’m not the same person anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>A scuffle upstairs. My lover is awake. He is taking things from the closet. I tiptoe up the stairs to see what he’s up to. I see folded clothes on the bed, a suitcase A cold sweat flows from my brow to my nape. I ask him what he’s doing. He doesn’t say. I ask him where he’s going. He doesn’t say. I watch as he sorts the dirty laundry, picking out his shirts, his jeans, his boxer briefs, and towels. I didn’t know it was possible but my broken heart shattered into even smaller pieces.</div><div><br /></div><div>“What are you doing?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I’m leaving.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I can see that. Why?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“What’s the point of staying here when we aren’t together?” I couldn’t argue with that logic. </div><div><br /></div><div>“You don’t have to leave. I said you could stay for as long as you wanted to.” </div><div><br /></div><div>Tsk. He scoffs, like <i>I</i> was the one being ridiculous. “So I can be a freeloader? So you can be right, and pure, and blameless while I’m the one who ruined everything? You want to rub that in my face?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“No. No, that’s not it.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Then was it? Huh? You want to break my heart but you don’t want me to leave?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You don’t get to leave, okay? You don’t get to abandon be in this house we built together. You don’t get to shit on the life we had then leave me here to pick up the pieces.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Is that what you want? You want me to suffer because I hurt you?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yes? No? I don’t know… Look, I don’t know what I want. I only know this isn’t it. I can’t see this. Please stop.” He stops folding dirty laundry, puts the basket back in its corner, and sits on the bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>He looks at me, sees the pain in my eyes and motions for me to sit beside him. I do as I’m told and he holds me.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I’m sorry I wasted the last seven years of your life.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“It wasn’t all a waste. I mean… we had our moments.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I never wanted to hurt you, even though that’s all I seem to be doing lately. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I thought I was ready to see you go but seeing you here… seeing this. I… I don’t know if I can do it.” </div><div><br /></div><div>“Listen to this,” he says, his hand on my heart. “What is it telling you? Do you want me to go? Because I’ll go if that’s what you want. But something tells me, this isn’t over.”</div><div><br /></div><div>They say what’s meant for you will never pass you by. Please… don’t pass me by.</div><div><br /></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-42546013464178898992023-06-05T03:15:00.006+08:002023-06-05T11:03:36.533+08:00the man who stayed<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvp8VNxnvUWfXJRQTcAlXG4Mp_35nRTdp-5P5ptG1ekG8FBUQz5JAEX3Q1jpkMYAXGiDVTPac2ikQcHGriF6e1g0vrlVA6RKYXT57XsN4k8y7FQJjwvCsd4bsyhQG-qL4j_OLB6eDvUOgpLOwEoczhXjAlf1KbciZAmWCZNHPWRrf7YhZ5Dg/s1280/01_blog.png" /><div>I ask if he wants to meet up. He says he’s busy, that he’s got a million things racing through his mind and he just doesn’t have room for one more. <i>I’m sorry. My hands are tied.</i> I smile at him and say that’s okay. <i>We’ll use our mouths.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I arrive at his apartment a few minutes after midnight. He opens the door, sleep in his eyes, and motions me to come in. It is pitch dark and so my hands are on the wall feeling for the light switch.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Leave it,</i> he commands. <i>Everything’s a mess. It’s embarrassing. </i>From the light that filtered in through the hallway, I could see pillows and clothes on the floor. They form a line into the queen mattress in the middle of the studio, like a lazy pigeon’s nest. I turn on my phone’s flashlight so I can take my boots off. He plops down in the middle of the bed, turns on the TV, and asks me what I’d like to watch. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Anything, really. </i>I tell him. <i>I don’t have a preference. </i>He puts on a playlist of music videos. I walk over to him slowly, like he’s a cat I’m trying not to startle. He rushes to take his shirt off and unbuckle his belt. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Easy, tiger. What’s the rush? I’m here all night. </i>He looks at me with a pained expression – like he was hoping for a quick tug but I was taking my time. He picks his shirt up from off the floor and puts it back on. I sit beside him on the bed. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Do you kiss on the mouth? </i>he asks and I wonder – what would bring him to ask me this question? Who could have turned him down once so harshly that it would alter the course of all future intimacies? </div><div><br /></div><div><i>With consent, </i>I say. <i>And only if you want to. </i>He brings his face closer, tentative, and I can tell despite the darkness that he’s been crying. He kisses me gently at first, like the first drops of rain building up to a ravenous crescendo. His mouth tastes like stale cigarettes and broken promises. I place my hands on his cheeks and he begins to cry.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Are you okay? Is something wrong?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>He shakes his head. <i>I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m a mess. I’m sorry. </i>He looks down at his feet, refusing to meet my gaze. It was clear that we were here for two very different things.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Did you ask me to come over so I can fuck the hurt away?</i> He looks up at me with sullen eyes and rests his head on my shoulder, embarrassed. <i>C’mon now. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.</i> He wraps his arms around me like he was trying to fill a void inside him. I squeeze his body closer to mine, so tight I could feel his heart beating.</div><div><br /></div><div>He places his hand on my crotch again and I ask <i>Is this what you really want to do? </i>He shakes his head, mumbles an apology, and lays his head down on a pillow.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>What </i>do <i>you want to do? </i>He stops, considering the question. He turns his back against me and whimpers out a request.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Can you just hold me? Please. I’m sorry. I just – can you please hold me? </i>I lay down beside him, wrap an arm and a leg around his frail body. We marinate in our silence, like two spoons from unmatching sets, and I can feel his body tremble as he weeps. His breaths, uneven, begin to slow. His tears are soon replaced by quiet little snores.</div><div><br /></div><div>I gently pull my arm from underneath him, carefully as to not wake him. I get up and out of instinct, I begin to tidy up. From the garbage around the apartment, I don’t think he’s seen sunlight in about a week. I find clues on the dresser – a breakup letter scribbled hurriedly, an oncology report for a woman in her 70s, a discipline notice from HR. This boy’s been through the wringer. I empty the ash trays and take out the trash. I pick the clothes up off the floor and clear the dishes on the table. I get a glass and some water from the fridge and set it beside him. Even in slumber, he looks disturbed. Lines form between his eyebrows as he curls up into a ball for comfort. His lips move like he was arguing with someone in his dreams. I kiss him gently on the forehead and the lines, they melt away. He stirs awake. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>You know, my life’s been a mess these last few weeks, </i>he tells me. <i>I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting all this on you. I know we just met but… it feels like you’re the only calm in my life. Would you… would you mind staying the night? Just for tonight. I just really need someone to hold me.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I turn off the lights and climb into bed. Like clockwork, he slinks over to me and snuggles into the crook of my arm. I run my fingers through his hair, making circles out of curls. I look over and for once, he looks at peace. </div><div><br /></div><div>It’s a strange situation. You show up to a hookup and find the one place in the world you’re supposed to be in. I don’t know what ails this broken boy but if I had to spend the rest of the night figuring it out, I wouldn’t really mind. He says I’m the only calm in his life and it feels good to be needed. My arm falls asleep under the weight of his body, heavy from carrying the world on his shoulders. It hurts a little but I don’t dare move him. I want him to stay right where he is. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Sleep well, you sweet boy. You’ve had a rough time. I know it doesn’t feel like it but one day, you’ll look back to find you’re no longer in the dark. You are bigger than your problems. You are stronger than you think. There will be dragons to slay but that’s not till morning. For now, you can rest in my arms.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Lykke Li | Time Flies (2008)</span></div><iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="152" loading="lazy" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/6KaGJcoTpfMcXDUsIiMbe7?utm_source=generator&theme=0" style="border-radius: 12px;" width="100%"></iframe><div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">We grew up with fairy tales, colorful stories of damsels in distress, fair maidens locked in towers or attics full of ash. Why did we find them so plausible then but so impossible to believe now? The mythical creature isn’t the mermaid who turns into a woman or the girl banished to sleep after eating a poisoned apple. No, the real fairy tale is the man who stayed. </span></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-73261171787632391122022-09-28T15:35:00.000+08:002022-09-28T20:48:26.748+08:00all that we were losing (2)<i><a href="https://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2022/09/all-that-we-were-losing-1.html" target="_blank">Continued from all that we were losing (1)</a></i><div><i><br /></i><div><img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhwY894SAbXHXqXBBWeauxYan-rbd--CFtnNDaLut7gvj2J9F7jasqAeB84588_C-9h2EzSatanrNZWqlpMcwrfluYx4rKLRODl0Qn4WBbuVUA7eUA-7awA5MRh0X82zpxwgphN3HvrDHkB9OyymXUxsG-i3DhgHwXhYln3LSyRX_GFe1hw/s1200/30_2_blog.png" /><div><div><br /></div><div>Our feet take us to a small bookstore down the block. It’s a small, independent shop. We met the owners once and they agreed to stock Anthony’s books before he found a major publisher. He grabs my hand as we make our way through rows upon rows of books.</div><div><br />“This, this was the first book. I’ve come out with so many others but nothing beats the first book. And on page…” He flips through the book furiously. “Seven, on page 7 you see…”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Me, in a hoodie.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yes, and then…” he puts the book back into the shelf and scans for the next title. “This came out the following year. On page 14, you see…”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Me, in another hoodie. Yes, I’ve seen all this before.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You say you knew I stopped loving you when I stopped drawing you. I offer irrefutable evidence that I never stopped.” He puts the book back and scans for the next one. It’s sealed so he looks around for a bit then tears the plastic off the cover.</div><div><br /></div><div>“You can’t!”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Oh yes, I can.” he says, an alarming amount of confidence in his voice. “Whatever, I’ll pay for it. Here, what comes after 7 and 14.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“21?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Turn to page 21.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I’ve seen this before,” I say, leafing through the book. “I know I’m not…” </div><div><br /></div><div>“Look again. If you unfold it…” All of a sudden, it felt like someone threw a bucket of ice water over me. There, behind an inconspicuous fold in the paper was something that wasn’t there before. This drawing in this book that has been sealed in a box in my attic all these years, that has haunted me in my dreams for years, it was here all along. There, in the corner of page 21 was someone I never thought I would see. You’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention but if you lift the flap you will see what was hidden – a little boy with sullen eyes, sitting all alone in a black hoodie.</div><div><br /></div><div>“What? How did this happen? I saw the drawings with my own eyes.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“There were revisions and I added that in before we hit press.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Wait, no. That doesn’t make sense. We had broken up long before the first copy was printed.” He nods, eyes wide, lips spread into a closed-lip grin like he was saying <i>I know</i>. He must be so happy to be proving me wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>“What can I say? I never stopped.” There was something about the way he said that. It made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Stopped what?” I ask, shaking in my boots. “Drawing me or loving me?”</div><div><br /></div><div>He looks me straight in the eye and for a second, it felt like he was home. “When you love somebody, truly love somebody the way we did, do you ever really stop?”</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div>We make our way to the counter in silence. The person at the register barely looks up, scans the book and upon recognizing it, he offers a signed copy. </div><div><br /></div><div>“No, that’s okay. This copy’s fine,” he says, a knowing smile on his face. I offer to pay but he waves my hand away. “You’ve bought enough of my books. Think of this as a gift. For my number one fan. Thank you for supporting me.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I thank him, put the book in my bag, and we make our way out of the bookstore.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Looks like it’s starting to rain again,” he tells me. The first drops of rain begin to fall.</div><div><br /></div><div>“This awning won’t fit the both of us.” He takes his phone out and I can see he’s booking a ride.</div><div><br /></div><div>“That’s okay. I need to get home anyway.” He opens his bag and brings out a bone-dry umbrella. “Here, take this. You might need it.” I look up, confused.</div><div><br /></div><div>“You mean you had an umbrella all this time and you didn’t say anything?” He smiles at me, that reassuring smile I used to know when he was mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I wasn’t stranded, I just… didn’t want to waste the reunion.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“So you… You mean… Ugh. You’re crazy.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“No, you’re crazy,” he says. “That’s my ride. Catch you later?” He runs across the street, waving at the driver, his boots making large splashes on the concrete. He nods one last goodbye as he gets in the car. I stand there under the awning with a borrowed umbrella, all of my feelings, and some of the blame, with only one thought in my head. </div><div><br /></div><div>I practically run home, the wind feeling fierce between my legs and in my lungs. I had to see it. I didn’t have a second to waste. I get home, drop my drenched things on the living room floor, and fly up the stairs to the attic. There, in a box marked <b>Do Not Open</b> was the answer to a five-year-old question.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 7 of the first book, a boy in a black hoodie watches some kids playing.</div><div><br /></div><div>One page 14 of the second book, the boy in the black hoodie cheers for the winning team.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 21 of the third book, behind a hidden flap, the boy in the black hoodie sits all alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 28 of the fourth book, the boy in the black hoodie is walking away.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 35 of the fifth book, the boy in the black hoodie is barely in view.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 42 of the sixth book, the boy in the black hoodie is almost a shadow but you can still make out his figure.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 49 of the seventh and final book, the boy in the black hoodie is waving goodbye. In my head, I can still hear him. <i>When you love somebody, truly love somebody the way we did, do you ever really stop?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I sit in the middle of my dusty attic, surrounded by a circus of plastic wrappers, books, and memories. I’m not crazy. I know this ship has sailed. But I also know that because I once loved him, truly and with all my heart, there’s no way I could ever stop. </div><div><br /></div><div>I never really stopped.</div><div><div><br /></div><iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="80" loading="lazy" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/21WYgbVZkF0lKwi7Nlsgjf?utm_source=generator" style="border-radius: 12px;" width="100%"></iframe>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Carly Rae Jepsen | Roses (2016)</span><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div></div><div><div><b>🎉 HAPPY 100,000 STREAMS!</b> This episode is out a few days early because I’m celebrating a milestone for this show. As of this moment, tsiwyh has been streamed 100,000 times! This was just a little project I started in my bedroom two years ago. I know you have a lot of choices when it comes to podcasts out there so every time you stream, tweet, or tag me in an Instagram story, it really means a lot to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you for always being there. I hope that I can continue telling you <a href="http://link.chtbl.com/tsiwyh" target="_blank">the stories i wish you heard</a>.</div></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-16951505978175371432022-09-26T06:00:00.030+08:002022-09-26T13:16:23.710+08:00all that we were losing (1)<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrDf_EEfaNUHQUS1M-kjSwyZ5kQ9n1ITf4p2VV4MjWrrqALeQbWqyw2WbSoPA3RImD1-gmGIsmcL_rNxw1oNP0UZeNlsJ2Jh4YuGqNtGF4tbRgkN0qhPpGsb05Rbjy59jgdGdpPdh_Y_SxcdBVPMLGNAGG8h4LufDOMtcOXUVusB_Az4o1w/s952/30_blog.png" /><div><br />I could feel it in the air as soon as I stepped out of my apartment. The skies were heavier, like a darkness was looming. I went about the rest of my day trying to ignore it but as soon as the first raindrops fell, I knew I was out and about yet again without an umbrella.<div><br /></div><div>I found shelter in a small café. It didn’t look too crowded and most of the people inside were, like me, looking for shelter from the rain. A waitress shows me to my seat but as I was about to sit, I see a black messenger bag on the table.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Miss, I think someone’s sitting here.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“That’s okay,” the stranger says from behind me. “I don’t mind sharing.” I freeze. I know that voice, too well in fact. It’s one that I’ve tried to forget for the last five years. He continues talking, saying he was supposed to meet a friend here but then he cancelled because it was raining. “It’d be such a shame to hog this table when there’s a perfectly good seat right there.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I am still frozen in place. I don’t say anything. My lips try to move but the most I can let out is a pregnant exhale.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Anthony, <i>pare.</i>” I can almost imagine him with an outstretched hand, that handshake he does for clients. My back turned to him, I figured maybe it wasn’t too late to Google “How to disappear when your ex who left you for someone else five years ago suddenly appears and offers you a seat at his table.” At this point, I had two choices: I could cower away like the blubbering idiot I feel like, or I could face this awkward situation head on and just confront this ghost from my past.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I know,” I tell him. “It’s me.” I smirk, raise my shoulders in a shrug. His eyebrows raised, he is as surprised as I was. “You sure you still want to share?”</div><div><br /></div><div>He stops to think about it then he returns my non-committal shrug. “Of course, why wouldn’t I? Plus it’s not like either of us can go anywhere.” His lips point towards the window where in full view, the rain has cast a gray filter on the entire street. He laughs, and if I didn’t know every fiber of this man’s being I would have been convinced. He sits down, his black coffee spilling just a little as he set the cup down.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Thanks,” I say. “It’s been a while.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“It has. Maybe 3-4 years?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“5, but you know…”</div><div><br /></div><div>“2020 doesn’t count,” we say at the same time. I smile, and get up to order, leaving my bag on the chair to save my seat. It’s strange how after all this time, this man who once lived in my heart and in my home, can still complete my sentences. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div>“Look, we don’t have to talk or anything,” I offer. “I’m perfectly happy just to sit here in silence. I’m just waiting for the rain to stop. I swear I don’t mind.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I would! I haven’t seen you in years and you want to sit here in silence?” He scoffs so convincingly that anyone watching us would have thought that we were childhood best friends reconnecting.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Okay,” I say, resigned. My ex, the eternal extrovert, would of course find a way to talk through this awkwardness. He says we don’t have to sit here in silence but neither of us knew where to start.</div><div><br /></div><div>“So…” we say at the same time.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Go ahead,” I tell him, a polite laugh in the undertone.</div><div><br /></div><div>“No, you go.” He smiles, that goofy adolescent smile that made me fall for him and for a second, I am disarmed.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I was just gonna say you look good.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Oh, thank you!”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Your hair looks nice that way. Makes you look younger.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Thanks, I made it myself.” I laugh, and I think it’s real this time. What a preposterous thing to say.</div><div><br /></div><div>“So, how have you been?” he asks. “How’s your family?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“They’re good. We lost <i>lolo </i>to COVID but everyone’s mostly fine.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I’m sorry. I remember you were close.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yeah, we were. But that was a while ago.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“When did he pass?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Like early 2020? Before the vaccines or anything.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“That sucks.” He takes a sip of his coffee and looks outside the window. I had forgotten how brown his eyes were. From this angle, they almost looked hazel. His aura hasn’t changed but there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there the last time I saw him. He starts fidgeting with a ring, a discreet silver band on his left hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Is that…” </div><div><br /></div><div>“A wedding ring? Kind of.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You’re married?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“It’s a promise ring,” he begins. “You know we can’t get married here so it’s a promise that when the courts allow it, I’ll –”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I know what a promise ring is,” I say, interrupting him. We sit there in silence, both of us seeking shelter from the rain outside the café and inside our hearts.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div>I finish my coffee, so quickly my head felt a little light. The rain wasn’t letting up, that was for sure. I could hear thunder in the distance. But that was nothing compared to the storm brewing in my chest.</div><div> </div><div>“You know, it wasn’t all bad.” I say, breaking the silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>“What wasn’t all bad?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Us? I mean, yeah we had some rough times. And the way things ended, I… I don’t think I’ve fully recovered but… it wasn’t all bad.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“That’s good to hear, I guess? I have very fond memories of you, too.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Maybe that’s all we get, you know what I mean? Maybe we just get these moments of happy, sad… and to try to make sense of it would be to believe that none of this is random. That there’s some order to things and… I don’t know if I believe that anymore.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You think this was random? Of all the dates, times, and places, we found ourselves stuck in this same café in the middle of a storm without umbrellas. And after years of not seeing each other. That can’t be random.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“So what is it then?”</div><div> </div><div>“Whether or not it’s clear to you, no doubt that the universe is unfolding as it should.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Okay, come through Desiderata.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“No, seriously. None of this is random. I’d like to think that at this date and time, God or some other deity decided that we should meet again. Let’s not waste this chance.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Okay,” I say, disbelief leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “What would God or some other deity want us to talk about?”</div><div><br /></div><div>He sits there, lost in thought, like he was trying to figure out a crossword puzzle in his head.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Was I good to you?” he asks me, a sadness in his eyes and voice.</div><div><br /></div><div>“<i>Oo naman,</i>” I say. “Like I said, it wasn’t all bad.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“No, but was I <i>good</i> to you.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You were good to me but you weren’t good <i>for</i> me, if that makes sense.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Tell me more.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“When I was with you, I felt love for the first time. I had been in relationships before but never with the breadth and depth of love that I had with you. And I guess that’s strange?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Why is that strange?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Because there are moments where… I wonder if that was love. Because…”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Because of how it ended?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yeah… yeah.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I think it was love. And if it counts, I’m sorry.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“It’s ancient history, you don’t have to---”</div><div><br /></div><div>“No, I do. I have to. You didn’t deserve that ending. I’d say I was young but I really wasn’t.” he chuckles, mostly to put me at ease but I think he was letting out a heaviness in his chest. “Yeah, I should have known better.”</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div>I order another cup of coffee and a slice of cheesecake. The weather report said the rain should let up soon but from our view of the window, it didn’t seem like it was going anywhere. The barista asks if I want one fork or two and I hesitate for a second before I tell her. Two – one for me and another for my unresolved issues.</div><div><br /></div><div>“You know how I knew that there was someone else?” I ask him as I set my tray down. He looks up, a little taken aback by my question.</div><div><br /></div><div>“You know there was no overlap.” He begins to fidget with his ring again.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yeah, for sure.” I slide the plate towards him. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Seriously. I think we both knew we were over before I met him.” Like a dance we rehearsed a million times before, he takes the spare fork and shares the cheesecake with me. “We had problems and maybe we swept them under the rug too many times that one day, it just became this large lump in the middle of the living room and we couldn’t ignore them anymore.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I knew we had problems. I didn’t know we were over. I <i>did </i>know there was someone else.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Okay, I’ll bite. How?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“It was when you stopped drawing me.” I wanted to sound cool and casual but there was a lump stuck in my throat. “You know I still have all the books you gave me. You don’t know what that does to a person – to know that your face is permanently drawn into a book.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You were the one kid in a hoodie even when it was sunny out.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yes, it was a background role but I was in every book. I was in every book until one day, I wasn’t.” I have some more of the cheesecake, the sweetness and tart tumbling around my mouth. “You remember that day you left your laptop in our apartment and your prints were due? You asked me to send the files to your publisher. What you didn’t know is that I took a peek. I looked at all your drawings. I scanned through every page and I wasn’t there. I couldn’t find myself anymore. And that’s how I knew.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Knew that there was someone else? Or knew that I didn’t love you anymore.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yeah. And yeah.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I’m sorry.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I was in every book until one day, I wasn’t. I was in your heart every day, until one day, I wasn’t.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I… I’m sorry.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I still have all the books you gave me, you know? And I have bought every one since. I guess I was doing it out of habit? Or somehow, despite everything, I’m still your biggest fan.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I don’t even know what to say except… I’m sorry?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“You don’t have to keep apologizing. It’s all water under the bridge. But I guess I wanted you to know that even before you left, I knew. I knew you’d stopped loving me because you stopped drawing me.” I looked out the window and noticed that the rain had stopped. People everywhere were putting away their umbrellas. Pretty soon, the streets will be dry and it’ll be like it didn’t even rain at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>“You say you bought every book?” he asks.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Yes.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“And did you read them?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Oh God, no.” I laugh. “They’re in a box in my attic.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Let’s go.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Where?”</div><div><br /></div>“Come. Just follow me.” He stabs his fork into the last piece of cake, scarfs it down as he puts his things away. He grabs a glass of water to wash it all down. He was in a hurry to get out of here and without thinking about it, I started following his pace. I shove my phone, wallet, and book into my bag and we make a beeline to the exit.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>To be continued.</b></i><br /><div><br /></div><iframe style="border-radius:12px" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/21WYgbVZkF0lKwi7Nlsgjf?utm_source=generator" width="100%" height="80" frameBorder="0" allowfullscreen="" allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" loading="lazy"></iframe>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Carly Rae Jepsen | Roses (2016)</span><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-39095532727851177142022-09-19T06:00:00.001+08:002022-09-19T06:00:00.153+08:00good at goodbyes<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6MdTbBhtKPkoM-tR7eIsOKlQUVqNv0k6pY1bAaQRLywvxrW9s0EOeLIApnkqKGJrybVzP7IyyUfSWH8NyILvBKhgF8_mbqktCTWoRinbFUWPH4xGoFgbcNnwt_klCvn8kbCEHkWYXoA93RWw9PUzTcwefrNEPH8mNlOmm2Fw7q10V37wCDg/s1280/photo_2022-09-19_05-44-05.jpg" /><div><div>It comes to me most in the morning – this stark clarity that only comes with a fresh sunrise. I am nowhere near where I’m supposed to be. I look at this boy sleeping beside me. I am nowhere near who I’m supposed to love. This feels wrong. This <i>is</i> wrong. But I’m in too deep and these things, they’re complicated. I can’t just pick up and leave. There are feelings invested, books and CDs borrowed and lent out, countless complications that arise when two people get into bed and start something new. Yes, it was early in the relationship but early too can be complicated when one of you is still nursing a broken heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to end it, that much was clear. The question is – how do we get out of this without any scars?<br /><br />The morning picks up and we both get ready for the day. He hasn’t moved in. That makes things easy, but he has a toothbrush and some movies in the apartment. That’s easy. I can just pack it all up and ship it to him. Right as he leaves, I tell him to meet me for dinner. Somewhere nice enough that we can talk in private, but not too pretty that it would cause a scene. He stops to think about it and nods as he leaves. I clear breakfast and coffee cups off the counter and move on with the rest of my day.</div><div><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div style="text-align: left;">I was lucky to meet him. That much I know. It was about a week after the break-up and I was drinking my sorrows away. I stumbled out of the bar looking for a cigarette. I had a bottle in one hand and my phone in the other as my arms felt my pockets for a stick. I was sure I had one left but like most things in my life, my last cigarette eluded me and so I sat on the curb resigned.</div></div><div><div><br /></div></div><div><div>I put down my things and fish out my pack from my front pocket. My lighter fell to the street. I flipped the box open to find that it was empty. <i>Just my luck, I guess.</i> Just as I was about to spiral into self-pity, I started smelling the familiar scent of tobacco smoke. I looked up and saw this boy, probably in his early 20s, looking nervous as he stood dangerously close to me. I got up, smiled, placed my hand on the wall, pinning him. Our faces close to touching, he handed me a cigarette and we smoked until the pack ran out. We talked shit, our fiction mixing with reality. He told me he’s in college but with pores like that, I knew he was lying. I told him I was a nursing graduate looking for a job. We bullshit each other some more then he asked if I wanted to go somewhere quiet.</div></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div>The restaurant is empty, save for a few patrons filling the early dinner slot. I had planned on being a few minutes late but figured since I was going to break his heart, I might as well save him the trouble of waiting for me. The waiter comes by and asks if I was ready to order. I choose a few appetizers and tell him we’ll order mains when my date arrives. He smiles then leaves me alone as I wait for the boy whose heart I was about to break.</div><div><br /></div><div>How should I do it? I couldn’t tell him the truth. No one deserves that kind of heartache. I couldn’t tell him there was anything wrong with him because really, there isn’t. He’s a good kid and anyone would be lucky to be in his life. But I’m not anyone, and I couldn’t convince myself to love him – just as I couldn’t stop myself from still being in love with my ex. I could say it’s not him, it’s me but… even if it were true, that seems a little played out.</div><div><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;">The cracks started to show as early as that first morning I woke up next to him. I had gotten used to waking up beside somebody for the last four and a half years. I hardly even thought about it. Half-awake, I reached over to his side of the bed to hug him. He moaned, signaling he was awake. He says <i>good morning. Isn’t this a nice way to wake up?</i> My eyes flew wide open realizing my mistake. I was in bed with someone else. </div></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div>After about fifteen minutes, the appetizers arrived. I pick up my phone to ask him where he was. The messaging app said he was online but my message was l eft on sent. Maybe he’s stuck at work or in traffic. It would have been nice for him to let me know. I retraced and decided I would call him instead. My thumb starts dialing, muscle memory briefly taking over. A familiar name pops up on the screen as the line rings – My ex. I had dialed my ex. In a panic, I hang up and turn off my phone. Cold sweat trickles from the back of my neck to the small of my back. How could I have been so stupid? </div><div><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;">Last night, while I was in his arms, he noticed I was crying. He stopped dead in his tracks and asked if he had hurt me. It wasn’t the angle or the timing. It wasn’t how soft or how rough he was. None of that caused me pain. How could I tell him that nothing he was doing or will ever do could compare to the hollow throbbing in my chest? How could I tell him that I had gotten used to the same man, to the same touch, to the same breath on my nape for years and I was just then coming to terms that that was never going to happen again. What would he do with that information? How could he hug that away? He held me closer to him, so tight it felt like he could crush me with his sinewy arms. And we went to sleep just like that, like two jigsaw pieces that didn’t really match, forced together by a fate too cruel to be patient.</div></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div>The waiter asks if I was ready to order. I look at my watch and see that I had been sitting alone in this restaurant for over an hour. I tell him my date’s just stuck in traffic and I didn’t want to order without him. He refills my drink with a pained expression in his eyes. Could he see something wrong in me? Could he tell I was there to break someone’s heart?</div><div><br /></div><div>I realized I didn’t even have this boy’s number. We’ve mostly communicated via messaging apps and so I never really had the need to know his actual phone number, at least until tonight. I scroll through our messages – he must have left it here somewhere. I find his number in one of our first messages and I realized it’s been a while since I could scroll to the very top of a lover’s thread.</div><div><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;">There was some fighting at the start, mostly from him – small fires here and there like most new couples have. The beginning of any relationship is a test. You learn how much pushing and pulling you both can take before you start actually hurting each other. I wasn’t too worried about it, or perhaps I wasn’t as invested as he was or the years have made me more forgiving. The boy mistook my patience for apathy. He thought I didn’t fight as hard because I didn’t love as hard. I apologized. <i>I’m sorry that the men I loved have made me this way.</i> He looks me dead in the eye and asks me, <i>why do I have to pay for their crimes?</i></div></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div>The waiter makes a final stop at my table and says that the dinner crowd is about to come in and so wait times for entrees might be a little longer. I realize I had nursed this glass of water and these stale breadsticks for an hour and a half. I call the number he gave me. No one picked up. I tried again, and again, and by the fourth time I realized what was happening. The boy whose heart I was about to break had beaten me to the punch. The waiter asks if I was ready to order and I don’t know what came over me but I just started to laugh. Here I was thinking about how to break up with him when he… stood me up. Here I was afraid of how his heart was going to break when it was my heart, mine all along that was in for a shock. My laughter subsides and I apologize to the waiter. I ask him for the bill and he looks confused but does as he’s told. I make sure to leave a nice tip. I mean, we can’t all be heartbroken today.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I get ready to leave the restaurant, two messages pop up on my phone. One is from my ex who asked why I called him. I struggle to formulate a response. <i>That was a mistake. I must have butt-dialed you.</i> Bullshit, he’ll see through all that. What do I say?</div><div><br /></div><div>The second message is from the boy. It’s a thirteen-minute voice message. I make a mental note to listen to it at home. Perhaps this is the best outcome I could have ever hoped for. I walked away from this car crash of a heart with barely a scratch. Sometimes, you love and you get hurt but sometimes, the fates aren’t so cruel.</div></div><div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Carly Rae Jepsen | Store (2016)</span><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-86898395336255030192022-08-22T06:00:00.006+08:002022-08-22T06:00:00.168+08:00if you stay with me tonight<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek-A_e0wpgYN6q6eVFt0AO118UUxdek3EDUxco70Ha9gyh7d1qq6yg0DXvdT7jp35DHWE2DMmyEeRxlK3Ff5X6Z8IQVrDKxVazd1R029QOHBqIKTn5DX3d_y9h341EgXzcjgP_YCU-VS3zExrLn_Sf_NTTYYAjCJCFHEWsiJs7C-I7ctZ1w/s1600/27A%20blog.png" /><i>If I wake up before my alarm, I should text him.</i><div><br /></div><div>You can say I’m tired of words. I’m tired of how flimsy they are, how easy it is to misunderstand them. I’m tired of the truth being too blunt. I’m tired of thinking of the perfect combination of phrases to understand whether this boy likes me or not. Right now, I am making the decision to leave it all up to the fates. So if I wake up before my alarm, I will text him.</div><div><br /><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:3l4eYYvCzqd2Q37KkOBZGC" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>My eyes fly open and it is morning. I feel around the bed for my phone and it is nowhere to be found. I check around the usual places – the bedside table, the bathroom, that space between the couch. I trace back to my bed and find it under my pillow. It was looking to be a good sign – no alarm yet so I guess I could text him. But I quickly realized the error in my logic – my phone died while I was sleeping. It was 7:30. My alarm should have gone off 30 minutes ago. So I may have woken up before my alarm but since it never went off, this would be too close to call.</div><div><br /></div><div>I make breakfast for one and if I crack this egg open successfully with one hand, I should text him. I heat up the pan and in one swift motion, I crack the shell on the side of the pan, ball my hand into a fist, leaving just enough space for the egg to slip through. The egg is picture perfect on the pan, yolk intact, whites bright and gleaming. <i>Okay, I can text him.</i> I tell him my new Criterion movies have arrived and if he didn’t have anything better to do, we could watch them together. He starts typing and I watch as his three dots taunt me. One whoosh and my blood feels alive. He says he’s got to run to the bank in the morning but he could come over after lunch. I eat my breakfast with a stupid grin on my face.</div><div><br /></div><div> Feeling brave by letting the fates take the wheel, I think of the next sign I’ll ask. I wanna know if I should tell him how I feel about him and I think it’s pretty clear I like this boy but we’ve never really used words to talk about it. <i>If he shows up wearing green, I’ll tell him I like him</i>. That seemed simple enough. <i>And if he brings something to drink, maybe I’ll kiss him.</i> I clear the dishes and pop a pizza in the microwave for lunch. I vacuum the sofa and put out a fresh blanket in case it gets cold. I run a mop along the bathroom floor and take out the trash. My house and my intentions are clean. </div><div><br /></div><div>At 1:30, he arrives – looking freshly scrubbed and dapper. Milk tea in hand, he says he tried to text me for my order but I wasn’t replying so he just assumed. <i>Why so glum, chum? </i>he asks, like it’s a joke he’s been sitting on. How could I tell him I was confused? He brought drinks so I could kiss him but I couldn’t tell him I liked him because of one simple fact. The fates have decided – there would be no confessions today. The boy standing in my front door, milk tea in hand, was wearing a black hoodie.</div><div><br /></div><div>We watch a movie, and then another, and another. And by the time he reaches for the fourth DVD, I feel the day wearing heavy on me. He asks if I was good to watch another and I say I’ll just rest my eyes a little but he could go ahead. He pops in Happy Together and I lay my head on his lap. The apartment is dark now, with only the television illuminating our faces. I close my eyes and listen to his breaths. They are deep and shallow at first but then his heart begins to race. I open my eyes and see two men in their underwear, making love on a dirty mattress. I hear them moaning, their act both tender and violent at the same time. There’s a constant pounding, a bass line formed by hips thrusting. I feel a gentle poking behind my neck. His arousal was apparent, but my acknowledgement of it was not.</div><div><br /></div><div>He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I sit up to give him some room. He grabs the blanket and throws it onto his legs, covering his crotch. He says his leg fell asleep and he hits his right thigh with a fist a number of times. I offer to help him stretch his legs out. <i>That’s always helped me in the past. </i>I sit on the floor and put my hands on his feet. I push the arch forward, slowly at first but with force at the end. He grimaces, sucks air in between his teeth, but then smiles in pleasure. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t know what it was, perhaps it was the way the silver light reflected on his face or the gentle moans I could hear on the television but a strange confidence took over my body. I began to rub his feet tenderly, deliberately, with strokes to ease, to please. He looks me in the eye and though it was just a flash, I saw it – desire. </div><div><br /></div><div>I continue massaging his foot as he moans quietly. He pauses for a quick decision, takes the blanket off, giving me full view of his arousal. His body had said what his words could not. He slides the zipper off his hoodie slowly, as though a loud noise or sudden movement would kill the mood. And that – that was all the sign I needed. I abandoned all caution when I saw what he had on underneath. Under the black hoodie that I had cursed when he arrived, the boy was wearing an olive-green shirt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Within seconds, I am back on the couch – neither of us paying attention to the movie. There was a fire in my eyes, desire in his – I help him unbuckle his pants and take off his shirt. As I wrapped my arms around his waist to help him undress, we fall into an embrace. His mouth next to my ear, his breaths tickled sparks down my spine.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Are you sure you want to do this? </i>he asks, hesitantly. <i>This feels like a line we can’t uncross.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>I’d like to. I… I like you.</i> And that was all he needed to hear. He hits mute on the TV remote, tosses it aside to ravage my body. His fingers danced across my skin. His lips claimed ownership from my neck to the small of my back. His hands told me truths I had never known. And when we became one, it was pain and pleasure, heaven and hell, fire and ice all rolled into one. He played with my body like it was his to use and abuse. I had never known the depths of his desire but as though they were a deep lake, I knew I would gladly swim in those dark pools. He kissed me as though my lips were made of oxygen and he would suffocate if he were without. And when he came, he let out a grunt so guttural, it felt prehistoric. He collapsed onto the sofa beside me and I listen as his breaths draw sharp and deep, slowing from a crescendo. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hold my breath so I can match his – inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, ex---</div><div><br /></div><div><i>It’s getting late,</i> he says, breaking the silence. <i>I should go.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Oh. Okay. I tell him. Yeah, go ahead. But you know… you could also stay. If you wanted to.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I want to but you know I can’t. Someone’s waiting for me </i>– I put my finger on his lips to shush him. Maybe if he doesn’t complete the sentence, it doesn’t have to be true.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>You know… I meant what I said. I like you. I don’t know what you’d do with that information but I figured it’s best to get all the details now that we’re past a line we can’t uncross.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>I know, </i>he says. <i>But nothing has to change. It’s just love. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>It’s just love. Only a hollow chrysalis could know the pain of nothing changing.</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>♫: Carly Rae Jepsen | Body Language (2016)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-91382837911594187762022-08-08T06:00:00.029+08:002022-08-22T04:36:18.272+08:00happy birthday<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NX_SLrDgEcYfWTAzRx2xaCKaC0EddAz7CF4WlN2T8oKK6ugLWBNc7vM0Sk0UUHd-ugMFHdCaM6dDvUSULjsu1gHtuPWe4Zy1nwBYAcMA9AidSm7GIHJTRwMaID4suQV2K8cyiW7HZwhEJuXo5h3_XM9ZrwThuBnS0Q1I9oq32mtQ9c6A4A/s1600/Happy%20birthday_blog.png" />
At midnight, the first of the greeters begin to post messages on my wall. The HBDs from grade school classmates and internet acquaintances are empty but they come with good intentions. So while I tell myself every year that I’ll take my birthday off Facebook, in a weird way, I like the comfort these greetings bring. My sister sends me a voice message saying it isn’t my birthday yet in her time but she wanted to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. I send her a quick thank you and check my messages before turning in for the night.<div><br /></div><div><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:4HOryCnbme0zBnF8LWij3f" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>It's not that I need him to greet me – after all, it’s not like we’re official or anything. I remind myself that I’m not like other boys. I’m cool. I don’t need a label. But what I could use was a birthday greeting from the boy I’ve been seeing. It was a small thing but I’d like to think he would be happy that I was born on this day many moons ago. A gentle stirring wakes me at 3AM. More greetings filter in, some from people I only ever speak to on birthdays and holidays. Still nothing from the boy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I awake a few minutes before my alarm and for a second, it felt like any other day. Until my phone beeps, perhaps I can pretend that today isn’t special. It’s just a regular day, just another 24 hours in the dizzying tapestry that is time. I check my messages and my mom has left me a rather sweet video message. She tells me she’s proud of me and in the background, I hear my father asking me if I have anything special planned. I send them a quick thank you and get ready for the day. It’s almost 9 and still nothing from the boy.</div><div><br /></div><div>At work, people are extra nice to me. There’s a card on my desk which everyone’s signed. My teammates pitched in on a nice cake. They sing me a song and we have coffee with our cake over first break. A report was due but my boss said I could take it easy. I turn it in after lunch and she thanks me – rather earnestly. She says happy birthday, and out of habit, I say <i>you too</i>. We burst into laughter. I know it’s supposed to be just a regular day but it felt nice to be treated special. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of the work day, a few people invited me for drinks. We go to the bar down the street. The bartender gives me an extra shot, winks, as he says happy birthday. <i>You don’t look a day over 26, </i>he tells me and it may have been the alcohol but I think I blushed. The band invites people to sing with them and I croak out an off-key Time After Time. My friends cheer like Simon Cowell just hit the golden buzzer. The singer shakes my hand as I leave and I slip him a crispy Ninoy. He mouths happy birthday and continues with his set.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back at our table, the day begins to wind down. I check my messages. Friends from school, church, and previous workplaces all come out of the woodwork to wish me a happy birthday. Still nothing from the boy. A co-worker asks why I looked glum and I tell her I’m just tired. I stumble back to the bartender to pay the tab and he says it’s been settled. I glance back at the table, my boss raises her glass and smiles and I say thank you out loud even though she was too far to hear me. I say my goodbyes and hail the first cab I see. It starts to drizzle like it does in August and I’m happy to be safe and dry in this car.</div><div><br /></div><div>The cabbie tells me it looks like I had fun, perhaps he can smell the booze on me. I tell him it’s my birthday and he stops the car, looks behind to see me, and says it was his birthday too. I laugh, a little too forcibly, and say what are the odds that we’d find each other tonight? He pulls up to my building. I had him a bill and tell him to keep the change. He thanks me, wishes <i>us </i>a happy birthday, and drives away.</div><div><br /></div><div>The drizzling has stopped and I should be happy but if I can be honest, I’m feeling a little blue. I check my phone and the greetings have begun to peter out. I scroll to the boy’s profile and hit message. Still nothing from the boy.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I got ready for bed, I realized that he didn’t owe me a greeting. He didn’t really owe me anything. Maybe he forgot, or maybe he was busy. I guess I just thought it would have been nice to hear from him today. But I shouldn’t feel bad that he didn’t greet me. We were, after all, just friends who occasionally spend the night together. It’s not like we’re married or anything. I check my phone one last time. Still nothing from the boy. I turn out the lights, hop into bed, and try to forget my forgetful boy when I hear what sounds like rocks tapping on my window.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sleep in my eyes, I lift the window and see him on my street. He has a paper bag and a guitar with him and he beckons me to come down. I check the time – it’s a quarter to midnight. I put on a shirt and run downstairs.</div><div><br /></div><div>We walk to the park across my apartment and he sets down a thick blanket. He brings out the guitar and starts tuning it for show. I ask him what was happening. He puts a finger on my mouth to shush me and starts singing a slow Happy Birthday. He takes out a cupcake and plops a comically large candle in the middle. He fishes out a lighter from his coat pocket, lights the candle and tells me to make a wish. I close my eyes and blow the candle out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tell him he had me worried for a second and he says how could he forget a special day like today. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>So why didn’t you greet me like a normal person, </i>I ask him.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I didn’t want to be the first,</i> he tells me. <i>I wanted to be the last. Happy birthday, my love.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I set the cupcake down, the icing getting on my thigh. His face moves towards mine and the entire park begins to blur away. He kisses me and it’s stupid, I know, but it feels like all is right in the world again. What a happy birthday indeed.</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>♫: Billie Eilish | Getting Older (2021)</span>
citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-58755813778481161712022-07-18T06:00:00.002+08:002022-08-22T04:36:46.351+08:005. A part of me never left. (2012-2022)<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmxBZz6JWWBkV-jZPbPBPDsAe46Iv7tC96mWMN_LV9AN7igmnco8gMyoOyufbmVKWFW_-r856r-sTdOFPcjKZP8A-KteKdVjpcPNlBuuJvPqrkKrAkTCmIyQaoLsw6XJI8f2o7Xulds6AZIURx0XN9xCwSej0Alnf-J6uzaZ7tKjO2OutVA/s16000/05.pn" /> <blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">I arrived at the bus station a few minutes before midnight. I shouldn’t have come but I couldn’t help myself. All the while, I prayed over and over that I wouldn’t find him there. That he got on the 8 o’clock bus like he said he would. The station was still packed and it was hard to see through the crowd. I closed my eyes, placed my hand on my heart, and listened for a heartbeat that would match.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I opened my eyes. He was a few meters away from me in line to get on the bus. His face lit up when he saw me, like he’d gone without sunshine for weeks and woke up to a beautiful sunset. But the same light quickly drained from his eyes when the crowd parted and he caught me in full view. I was there without any bags. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish I had the courage to talk to him. To tell him my reasons, however feeble. I wanted to tell him how I wanted nothing but for him to be happy, but that I knew I could never really meet him there. I wanted to kiss him one last time, hold him so tightly, it would feel like his bones were breaking. I wanted to wish him all the luck he deserves. But I just stood there, chickenshit and in tears as I watched him flash a half-smile telling me it’s okay, that he was glad to see me one last time. A part of me never left that bus station. <span style="color: #eeeeee;">But then again, neither did he.</span></div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t come here every day, just on days when I need to remember. I am back on my bench as people board the last bus for the night. The driver is behind the wheel tapping along to a song on the radio. I check the time and I’ve got a few more minutes before the guard will ask me to leave. I plug my earphones in and let a song fill my last moments here.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>All the money I make can’t buy the life that I made. Spending it away again. Throwing it away again.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Physicists and sci-fi aficionados believe that entire universes could exist parallel to ours. Right now, at this very moment, a million different versions of us exist. In one universe, I’m a gazillionaire in some obscure island sipping mai tais. In another, perhaps I am discovering the cure for cancer or the flu. In some far-flung reality, millions of light years away, perhaps I live simply on some farm where the work is hard but the problems are easy. In this universe, I’m about to be kicked out of a bus station.</div><div><br /></div><div>The conductor looks at me with a pained expression and all the strength I’ve been fronting melts away. He’s seen me here before. He knows this part of the story but he asks me anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Last chance, sir. Are you getting on?”</i> I hand him my ticket. Like the dozen times before it will go unused. He gets on the bus, mock salutes me as they drive away. I hear Laoag is pretty this time of the year but I’ve never been.</div><div><br /></div><div>Physicists and sci-fi aficionados believe that entire universes could exist parallel to ours. If that were true, I’d like to believe that there’s a version of us out there where we end up together – where we’re happy and in love and we have all that we need. In the daytime, we work our fingers to the bone to put supper on the table. But at night, he holds me in his arms and sings me to sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>We’re safe with me. </i></div><div><i>We’re safe with me. </i></div><div><i>We’re safe with me. </i></div><div><i>We’re safe with me. </i></div><div><i><span style="color: #444444;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #444444;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #444444;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #444444;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #666666;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #666666;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #666666;">We’re safe with me. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #cccccc;">We’re safe with me.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #eeeeee;">We’re safe with me.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Postscript:</span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><i>What’s wrong? C’mon, you know you can tell me.</i></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">I… I don’t know if I can do this.</span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><i>What do you mean?</i></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">It’s just… I guess if I can be completely and unabashedly honest, I’m scared. </span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><i>What are you so afraid of?</i></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">I don’t know. That we’d run away chasing after your luck but it still wouldn’t work out? That you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t who you thought I was and you’d leave?</span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><i>You think I’d ever leave you? Not in this life.</i></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">What about the next one? Or the ones right after?</span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><i>No matter where you are, or who you are, in this life or another, I promise I will always find you.</i></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">And if I don’t come to you?</span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><i>Then I will wait for you. Until the last bus takes us home, I will wait for you.</i></span></div> <br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Cavill | A Way (2022)<br />Photo: <a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/person-walking-on-street-during-night-time-11154308/" target="_blank">pexels</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-73078684793371615442022-07-11T06:00:00.001+08:002022-08-22T04:36:46.352+08:004. But I guess I failed. (2022)<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT021E-GHqZnNHB6G4a4n6mIvV7sPpW6HI6db3Fx8zophsUmY4_kshRt3lzPUuf9dWemB9h2Y7eHyYxAIxnojeEaYFl7ebyih__9NDZHskwogQ9Vuj8PT6GC3Xm-McbNEYRjeTDPTjV_Ywnwjzj9ZNMsd5Wf1LKP-DjGM_F17IKXl_Syfwtw/s1200/04.pn" /> I don’t come here every day, just on days when I need to remember. It wasn’t easy but over the years, I found a way to be true to myself, to be proud of myself. But if I’m being honest, all this is is comfort in hell. I remind myself that I should be happy. There are people in this world who barely get by, surviving on much less. I should be proud of this life that I’ve made. But I look in the mirror and in the lines, I see all the compromises I made to buy this life I’m living. On nights when my mind won’t lend itself to sleep, my feet take me to back to him.<div><br /></div><div><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:4qAHuJq5T4Q97EQZG47H0P" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>I sit on the same bench I sat in years ago. The wood hasn’t aged much but my spirit has. There’s something very comforting about bus stations. I like watching people all rushing to get somewhere. The names and faces change but the profiles have not – there’s still that old lady with way too many boxes. I watch her count her balikbayan boxes wrapped in duct tape, barking orders at the porter tasked to push luggage into the bus’ side. I see vacationing friends in their flip-flops and shorts. They take selfies on the bus because youth is fleeting and you only get so many beach trips with friends before you’re all too old to get on each other’s calendars. I see mothers with their children, tired men with fanny packs, and of course, the young couple eloping at midnight.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I see you’re back,”</i> says one of the drivers. <i>“Are you getting on tonight?” </i>He’s got a friendly face and perhaps in a parallel universe, we are closer. He fishes out a cigarette from his front pocket and taps it a few times across his lighter. I clear my throat and point to the No Smoking sign.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Times have changed.”</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Indeed.”</i> He motions towards the vendor outside the station and I follow him. He orders two cups of instant coffee and asks if I have any money on me. I pay the lady and the driver and I sip our coffee on a monobloc bench.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“It’s been a while,”</i> he tells me. He finally gets to light his cigarette. He offers me a stick. I hesitate at first but eventually give in.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I know. I said I wouldn’t be back here but I guess I failed.”</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Well, you look good,” </i>he says, pausing for thought. <i>“And maybe tonight, you’ll actually –”</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“What. I’ll actually what?” </i>I interrupt him, my voice tense, my words terse. </div><div><br /></div><div>He sits up straight. </div><div><br /></div><div>I ease up.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Sorry.”</i> I say with a chuckle that sounded a little too forced. I smile at him because it’s not his fault and if I’m being honest, I know he’s one of the few people who actually gives a shit about me.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“It’s okay. I get it.” </i>We sit in silence, sipping from Styrofoam cups. He tells me he’s headed to Laoag tonight. The drive will take all night but he’s got friends in Pagudpud he’s meeting so it’s all good. I could join them if I wanted to. He’s sure they wouldn’t mind. I nod along politely and wait for him to finish his story. </div><div><br /></div><div>He tosses his cigarette into his empty cup, a final sizzle punctuating his break, and thanks me for the coffee before disappearing back into the crowd.</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>♫: Troye Sivan | The Good Side (2018)<br />Photo: <a href="https://www.pexels.com/@victor-dunn-191282085/" target="_blank">pexels</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-7110054224670206062022-07-04T13:07:00.002+08:002022-07-05T02:19:32.337+08:003. The last Louis you’ll ever get. (2012)<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjplQFBDof5iDZeq3daOizSx9Tb0vKMEtd0McrKWJCsiqx4Yvy-wRLX_IhqevWlMiVoRfNjDjM_7IeCYQXRHllOXvSaoMXPY5SheAsRK93qjgVu4plhMr2ajEyWPEI9ceYjSdi5dirrsjkmRllJGiD09FuAa-uGsYV39VccqhzbcoxajLhXGA/s1525/03.png" />He said to meet him at the station at 8. I said I needed time to pack a bag. I rushed home, making a mental list of things I needed – my laptop, some clothes, a couple of books, and some records… Yes, I was starting a new life with him but I couldn’t do it with just the clothes on my back. <br /><div><br /></div><div><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:4B6BiC4TZUbvXMbrdx2rhq" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>My sister was home. <i>Damn it. So much for a clean getaway.</i> I nodded hello and went straight to my room. Within seconds, it is a whirlwind of clothes and hangers, books in disarray, and a lone weekender filled to the brim with my stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was a gentle knocking on my door but I ignored it. My sister tried to come in but some clothes were trapped under. She inched her way into my room and sees me mid-flee.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Where are you going?”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Out.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“And you need all that stuff while you’re out?”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Yes.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Cut the bullshit. Tell me where you’re really going.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“I’m leaving, okay? I’m done here. I –” </i>I found myself repeating words said to me just hours before. <i>“My luck has run out and we’re –I’m – getting out of here.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Okay,” </i>she said calmly. Perhaps she knew I would not be stopped. <i>“Does this have anything to do with…”</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Yes, okay. Is that what you want to hear? We’re running away like some bullshit telenovela. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have much time left. I need to get my shit together.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“I’ll leave you to it. I won’t try to stop you but maybe there’s something you should know.” </i>I stopped in my tracks, a sweater hanging limply on one side of a hanger and raise an eyebrow to tell her to go on.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Why are you doing this?” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I told you, I have to get away.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“I know but why… </i>him<i>?” </i>She said the last word shyly. We had never really discussed my lover in such candor. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I don’t know. Because you know… about… You know about me. You know that I’m never going to be like you – I’m never gonna have a family and make mom proud. I just… I gotta take this chance because this may be the only one I get.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“That’s… I can understand that.”</i> She looked down at her feet, searching for words that elude her. <i>“Where will you live? And will you call me when you get there?”</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I don’t know,” </i>I snapped. <i>“Maybe we’ll plant kamote and die.” </i>She sighs. <i>“So what is it? What do I need to know?”</i></div><div><br /></div><div>She took a deep breath and sat on my bed. She patted the space beside her to tell me to sit down. I obliged. <i>“You could leave. I won’t tell anyone. But if you do… that bag you’re packing may be the last Louis you’ll ever get. Are you ready for that?”</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I know what she meant. It wasn’t the bag. It was everything it stood for. It was the life I had in the city, one whose luck hadn’t run out. It was all I was preparing to leave behind.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“But what if this is my only chance to love and be loved? Don’t I deserve that? Wouldn’t that be worth it in the end?”<br /><br /></i></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: MUNA| Winterbreak (2017)<br />Photo: <a href="https://www.pexels.com/@khoa-vo-2347168/" target="_blank">pexels</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-81101819377926147222022-06-27T06:00:00.054+08:002022-07-18T02:50:25.139+08:002. Our heads in the clouds. (2012)<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanbZXGvSsgqh6zHzDFK3lrxsqCPHHrvbPEGMaLZfG6xrVrd6XvC26Rq-qXFuZft2zrnpYzZGovBR1yn02YExnP1QZcm30HhkW_uLkGE9If8BNjTh1nBivpaFAPHy9cOHuU8I9_rxcwt_1xBXYhgV--7nhcMg_5KkXG0uioFwRQGnqr8HFjQ/s1600/02.png" /><i>“Run away with me,”</i> he told me in a hushed voice, even though there was no one around this dusty motel room who could hear us. I was in bed trying to get some sleep. He was perched by the window smoking a cigarette. <div><br /></div><div><i>“I’m serious. Let’s run away. I’m done with this scene. I just want to live in a tiny house with you and we can plant our own vegetables and just fucking be.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:3pEGNvJWWAfDSuUrQjEpEV" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>In moments like this, you stop and consider the proposal, however absurd it may be. What did we know about love? We were practically kids. But then you ask yourself – is this all I’m ever going to get? What if this is it? What if this half-assed proposition to flee this city in search of some unknown future was the closest thing I would ever have to a normal life? </div><div><br /></div><div>I wrapped the covers around me and walked towards him. He lit another cigarette and blew rings out the window. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Didn’t you say you were quitting?”</i> I asked him, sleep in my voice. He looked up and flashed me a half-smile. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I did. But…”</i> he held the cigarette out towards me. <i>“I guess I failed.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough?”</i> I took the cigarette from his hand, drag deeply, and let out two pensive puffs. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“What’s the point? We’re all going to die anyway.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“The point is, you want me to run away with you. To ditch this life so I could live one by your side and if you’re just going to die on me, I hardly think that’s worth it.” </i>I stubbed the cigarette out onto the full ashtray, a few stray butts falling squarely on the floor. I picked them up and cupped ash onto my palm.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I’m not dying anytime soon,” </i>he assured me, flexing his bony arms. He pushed down on his bicep where a tiny lump of muscle had seemingly formed. <i>“This body’s strong. It’s got some fight left in it. I could till the fields for you. Just say the word and we’re gone.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Where would we live? How will we eat? Do you even know where you want to go?” </i>I asked these questions because someone had to. We can’t all live with our heads in the clouds. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“That doesn’t matter.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“To you, maybe, but I live in the real world. And in this world, you need money to buy shit.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He sighs, signaling he’s gone back to earth. By the light of the moon, I could see his eyes bright and sparkly. His spine poked out from under his skin, almost like I could crush his bones if I held him too tight. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Can you tell me what this is really about? Why the sudden urge to start over?” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I don’t know. I just feel like my luck’s run out, you know what I mean?”</i> I nod, more in empathy than agreement. <i>“You’re the only good thing left in my life. Everything else has turned to shit. I just want to get out of here and start over. Maybe in some city where I’m not a piece of shit. I just… I fucking hate it here.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He shudders in the darkness, his long arms wrapping around his body for comfort. I consider this boy’s sullen eyes, his taut shoulders tired of carrying the weight of the world, his lonely heart beating for me, and want for nothing but to see him happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Years later, I realize that that was love. </div><div><br /></div><div>In moments like this, you stop and consider the proposal, however absurd it may be. Maybe this is the closest thing I’ll ever have to getting married. Maybe the next city will be better. Maybe it’ll all turn to shit. I don’t know. All I know is the next five words would change my life forever. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“So… when do we leave?”</i></div><div><div><br /></div><div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Snoh Aalegra | Fool For You (2017)<br />Photo: <a href="https://www.pexels.com/@alexcojanu1005/" target="_blank">pexels</a></span></div></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-18655943634059591672022-06-20T06:00:00.113+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.523+08:001. This should floor me but it doesn’t. (2022)<b>The lengthy disclaimer.</b> Hello! Your eyes do not deceive you. I am back, well, sort of. You may have seen me hocking 12-year-old stories on my podcast, <a href="https://link.chtbl.com/tsiwyh" target="_blank">the stories i wish you heard</a> and while I’ve had fun writing for the audio medium, I find myself coming back to this space I have called home for many years. I’ve also been <b>really </b>trying to get back to writing new stories. What you’re about to read is the first of a five-part series called <b>You, me, and a parallel universe.</b><div> <img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8B50RFok7mCGvepl62QqvbEg9Hz-hiMmjd9Xs_lUQFFXyP0F-KLHJH24mrY74xz0wUYeTqrwlMlbRSNLNFGw_WkLx6ynGvay_l_odtKnZ6y74Rdl3YgzkeZJnZiyO__Jwb9DxFYVE3Gy-719ukySx50Y5GJkBWJtcN4dDjFAH9c-WqVIS2w/s1600/01_1.png" /></div><br /><div>Some days I miss it – holding hands in cinemas, the afternoon naps on chests, the rising and falling with each breath, the late nights that turn into early mornings, waking up and making a proper breakfast, as though people really did that in real life. But love requires effort. You put in the work when you’re in love.</div><div><br /></div><div><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:27vN7hM1uXKgkjtSCwKkkb" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>If I’m being honest, I don’t even remember what it feels like anymore. These days, my bedroom feels like a conveyor belt of twinks who think they can save me. I see them honest and ardent in their fucking, like they fought for me in some war that was before my time and here they are claiming their spoils. </div><div><br /></div><div>It took me a while but I get it now. I’m not some damsel in distress in this story. I am not a goddamn prize and this boy sleeping beside me, who I’m sure has the purest of intentions, isn’t quite the white knight on a steed I had wished for. A train arrives and most people get on it without much incident. Some of us are still waiting on the tracks. </div><div><br /></div><div>I nudge him. Rude, I know but I’ve got an early day tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Hey… buddy. Wake up. My boyfriend’s gonna be home any minute.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div>
He stirs awake. <i>“Billy.”</i> </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I’m sorry?” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“My name’s Billy, not Buddy.”</i> His eyes half open, the lines forming at the seams, proof that when you’re young, you could be at your worst and still look cute. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Okay, Billy. Wake up. I’m not fucking around. If he sees you here, he’ll beat the shit out of you.” </i>I glance at my phone. It’s almost 3. If I get him out by 3:30, I can still catch 4, maybe 5 hours of solid shut eye. That should be enough. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Billy… Billy… Biiiii-lllyyyy.”</i> The name plays around my lips. I open the door to the balcony and light a cigarette. The curtains sway in the October winds. It’ll be a few hours before sunrise but you can begin to see the hues changing just over the horizon. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“What kind of a grown man is named Billy? Surely that’s a nickname. No self-respecting adult would be called Billy. It just reeks of immaturity.”
</i>
He sits up, looking equally hurt and confused. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Look, you don’t need to insult me. I’ll leave. And you should stop smoking. It’s a disgusting habit. Makes your mouth taste like an asshole.” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”</i> He flips over, turning his back to me. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Oh c’mon, kid. I was just messing with you. You know we have a good time. But my boyfrie-</i><i>”</i> </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Your boyfriend is coming.” </i>He interrupts. <i>“Got it.”</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>He takes his time picking up his clothes from the floor. They form a Hansel and Gretel trail all the way to the front door. He puts on his boxers and looks me straight in the eye as though he was going to tell me something, then he stops and hesitates. He opens his mouth but the words don’t come out. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“What?”</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>He looks up, confused. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“You look like you’re going to say something. What is it?”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“One toothbrush,” </i>he tells me, his eyes scanning the floor for his shirt. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“What about my toothbrush?” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“There’s one toothbrush in the bathroom. One towel on the rack. One mug in the sink.” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Have you been snooping?” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“That’s not the point. You’re right, we have a good time and just when I think I have you figured out, you pull this imaginary boyfriend thing out of thin air. It’s…” </i>he sighs, comes towards me. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Doesn’t it ever get lonely in there?”</i> His hand rested on my chest where my heart used to be. His eyes looked sincere but lonely. I felt a chill down my spine. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“Wow, dramatic much?” </i>I say to fill the silence. <i> “You make me sound like I’m incapable of love. Didn’t we just make love?” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Don’t kid yourself. Give me a little credit.” </i>He angrily puts on his pants and slaps on his belt.<i> “I know what that was.” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“That wasn’t making love?” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“No, that wasn’t love. That was fucking. Release. You could have cum into a pillow and it wouldn’t have made a difference.” </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“But I didn’t. I chose you. Why isn’t that enough?”</i>He puts on his shirt and grabs his phone from the table.
<i>
“That wasn’t love because… I don’t think you know how to love.” He pats his pockets to make sure he didn’t leave anything. “But whatever. It’s not like I was expecting anything. Just… call me when you’re lonely again.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He looks at me one last time, skips the kiss goodbye, and shuts the door behind him. It’ll probably be the last I see Billy, and that should floor me but it doesn’t. I slide the bolt on the door, its metallic thud shocking but comforting, and make my way to the living room. </div><div><br /></div><div>He says I don’t know how to love. I look around me and see the things I’ve bought, the life I made, the sum of the parts that I call home and wonder if the price I paid was worth it in the end. I peer out my window into the city where a million lights seemingly stare back at me. I look at the roads and highways and listen for that hiss bus doors make when they close and open. It’s a sound that takes me back to a different time. </div><div><br /></div><div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Clairo | Feel Something (2019)<br/>Photo: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/mynegativefeelings" target="_blank">@mynegativefeelings</a></span></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-32339833711289619982021-09-19T21:40:00.007+08:002022-08-22T04:37:02.080+08:00your ghost<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJsGyCyAHJt-5yxUVTwdihhZ82zcSTVX6s9epJjHOiO0j02ZECODRulo50Vga4rz7ECTakBf5g9Z_ypcYc2moKizW530qjXtf5r5ldqdwxQ6kKtSDy9k68ymExh1cp5xyHX1ux/s2048/AD58E980-5F9D-4DE9-A238-7798BFFF0851.jpeg" />
PEOPLE WHO CLAIM to have experiences with the paranormal say that you feel it as soon as you enter the room. The air feels thinner, colder. You feel it as a sort of wind that starts in the back of your neck and travels to the small of your back. The hairs on your arms rise in anticipation. Your senses betray you. Your eyes and ears tell you there’s no one there but your heart says otherwise. If you close your eyes, you can almost make out a figure –a clammy presence making itself known. <i>Someone else is here. </i><div><br /></div><div> <iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:2MEeX1MIF33VUw15pTmBfR" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>And I remember that first time I felt that. It was the same night you took me out on our first date. It felt like a scene from a movie. The food was awful but the conversation was divine. It seemed like time had sped up and slowed down all at once. The world blurred away and there was just you, me, and this depressingly bland carbonara. </div><div><br /></div><div>You walked me home. It felt nice. Everything clicked together like two puzzle pieces or those oddly satisfying YouTube videos. I said goodbye and walked into my seemingly empty apartment when I felt a cold air brush my cheek. I called you up because I was scared. You thought I was just looking for an excuse for you to spend the night. We searched for hours but found no ghosts behind the curtains, no ghouls hiding in the cupboards. And when the hunt wore us out, you asked if I wanted you to spend the night. I said yes. I felt safer with you here. When the stories ran out, we retreated to the bedroom to investigate if all our parts clicked together. <i>They did. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>And I wish I could pause this image of us – the way your shirt got caught on your ears as you undressed. How we laughed at how sloppily we were coming together, how it seemed we were running on a deadline. Perhaps some part of us always knew it would end eventually – the way you rush towards a wave on your surfboard knowing fully well you’ll eventually wipe out. That first night I met you and when we had a great first date despite an abysmal meal, and I came home and thought I saw a ghost in my apartment and you came up to be with me, I – I thought we would last forever. But I would soon learn that was a mistake. We were living on borrowed time. </div><div><br /></div><div>You say that first night was the night you moved in. It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, you had taken over my house, my heart, my life. But something wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t articulate it but there was something about the ends of your sentences when you spoke to me, or the way the light cast strange shadows on your face. If your heart were a room, I could feel someone else was there - a ghost inside that <i>begged</i> to be found. I didn’t know if I could trust this man who saved me from my imagined monsters. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. I began to search for clues in missed dinners, secret messages, and hushed phone calls in the hall. I didn’t want to say it but the more I held the question down, the harder it fought to float to the top. I had to know - </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Where did you sleep last night?</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>YOUR GHOST WAS an itch I needed to scratch. It started from my palms and crawled to my arms, my legs. It brought me to your apartment one night when I knew you would be working late. It made me take the key you hid in your mailbox. It made me open the door, slowly as though I would disturb you even when I knew you weren’t there. It made me sift through your garbage and look through your mail. And when I couldn’t find any proof of your infidelity, it took me to your bed where I retreated facedown, exhausted and defeated. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was around 4am when I heard your key in the door and I suddenly realized I was not where I was supposed to be. My brain combed through a rolodex of excuses. <i>I wanted to surprise you. </i>I left my notebook here last week when I came over. <i>The internet was down in my apartment and I had to work.</i> None of these seemed to make sense and so I did what I could to make myself scarce. I slid under the bed and listened to the sound your feet made on the wooden floor. I counted the steps and imagined where you were in your apartment – in the hall, in the kitchen, in the living room. I was firmly hidden amongst the suitcases with your winter clothes, an odd sock that must have slipped under, and the dust bunnies that came out to play when I heard it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not one pair of shoes but two. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not one voice but two. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not one subtle laugh, not one chair pulled up, not one bottle of beer opening. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>My little heart was broken in two. </div><div><br /></div><div>I BRACED THE inevitable as you made your way to the bedroom. I am still under your bed, quiet as a mouse. I listened as you undressed him, sloppy kisses underscoring the percussion of belt buckles jangling against a button fly. I considered coming out of hiding, to stop you from your crime before you had a chance to commit it but my legs proved immobile. My hands were glued shut over my mouth. And when you moved to the bed, I heard you break every promise you made to me. I felt him get on top of what I thought was mine. I heard him say your name over and over again, as though he owned it. As though that name was his to scream and not mine. And when you took his body the same way you took mine and you <i>pushed</i> and <i>pulled</i> with all of your might, I saw the life we were going to live together, the children we thought we would have, the birthdays, the anniversaries, the retirement parties – I saw it all like spilled milk dripping all over his back. </div><div><br /></div><div>I lay there for hours waiting for you to fall asleep. When I could hear two distinct snores, I slid out of my cocoon hardly a butterfly. Hardly even human. I came to your house thinking the truth would save me but it only tore me apart. I tiptoed out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and into your hall. I was still as quiet as a mouse. If your heart were a room, it’s true that there was a ghost in it. I could see his reflection in the mirror as I walked by. </div><div><br /></div><div>I came home to an empty apartment. The sun was beginning to rise. People who claim to have experiences with the paranormal say that you feel it as soon as you enter the room. But the air in here was neither thin nor cold. It just felt empty. My senses betray me. My eyes see your things scattered around – your jacket carelessly hanging behind the door, a pack of cigarettes collecting dust on the counter, your toothbrush mocking me from the bathroom. My eyes and ears tell me you’re still here but my heart knows otherwise. If my heart were a room, it would be empty. I’m afraid that no one is here. </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Indigo Girls | Ghost (1992)</span></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Originally published in September 2021 on t<a href="https://link.chtbl.com/tsiwyh" target="_blank">he stories i wish you heard.</a></i></div><iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="232" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/episode/6V8r0yJbWBp61wq8C3elxP" width="100%"></iframe> citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-66977543249422238622020-09-09T06:00:00.004+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.525+08:00the stories i wish you heard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I wanted to tell you but you weren’t there. These are the stories I wish you heard.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='600' height='600' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw0yeQccaanR33ztXhpHNH8QHcJoPuBjtqHuNazB0-7PJBPM8eP9TQzSx6ZEN8wFyjPTddUEiiVrdk' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" width=300 height=300 src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWldeZG10E_6NdHfwSOrevw8zF5CkBSNIRgrQBwvwp1JxC2AHtebfjHPYI2yZMjByDekPPwz3Uf8jr7_3CDLPDOtOMdN46HGFfyEc8y8Dd24eLsumSXTL1D7lEzsRl4DFXBQ9/s2048/podcast+cover.jpg" /><div style="text-align: center;">Podcast available on <a href="https://bit.ly/3iqgYVv" target="_blank">Anchor</a>, <a href="https://spoti.fi/2FadxUc" target="_blank">Spotify</a>, <a target="_blank" href="https://apple.co/2GJ8Sct">Apple Podcasts</a>, and <a href="https://bit.ly/2Zy7j7H" target="_blank">Google Podcasts</a>.</div></div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-38607822690760824232019-12-31T15:39:00.000+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.525+08:00on the lies we told<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqs36Fpq2d7b0Y5GWKLkMbixEjrHWGofTsYrqM24wwOqpJ5T8SiEGec6nHy8xRnjlcWn2gsEq-v90rQeD8baUah8cJ68jFE4di87_W3f30xsw-ZqrdernqTcQ7gTX0WcSI9yPA/s1600/F955CDAE-7A82-4AF7-935B-0A9546D83B61.JPG" />It was a gag gift. By no means was it accurate. In fact the box tells you in clear, fine print that this lie detector was not meant to be used in criminal investigations nor should its findings be entered into evidence in criminal proceedings. But it was a fun little toy you saw in a YouTube video. You bought one because you thought it would be good for a laugh. You gave it to me because you said I was the one person you knew who most desperately needed to laugh. One fateful night, between bottles of cheap red you decided we should try it out.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:1Ekoe3A7oe9lLK0x6wXEtN" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe><blockquote>“If you have nothing to hide, this should be easy,” you say, between forced chuckles. “So you put your hand here then we lock it in place. I have to ask you a question and if you lie, well… you know the next part.”<br />
<br />
There was a lump in my throat. There was too much truth and not enough courage for me to say what I needed to say. <br />
<br />
“C’mon, big boy. What are you so afraid of?”<br />
<br />
“Um… electrocution?” I stall.<br />
<br />
“Well, if you tell the truth you wouldn’t have to be afraid.”<br />
<br />
And that’s what I was afraid of. I have stifled my truth too long to be outed by a plastic plaything made in China.<br />
<br />
I hesitate a bit more and when it was clear you weren’t budging, I offer a sweaty palm. You place it on the machine, strap it in place, and ask your first question.<br />
<br />
“Do you love me?” I look up, caught unaware by such a direct question. The cat must have had my tongue. “Uh… I…” I struggle for words as small bursts of electricity flowed through my hand.<br />
<br />
<i>Yes. Oh, God. Yes.</i> I should have said it then. Why can’t I say it now?</blockquote><br />
It’s easy to remember these moments, like scenes in a trailer for a movie you like. It’s better to focus on the laughter filled wine nights that turn into early morning breakfasts. I could choose to focus on these moments – how you expertly minced garlic for the fried rice, the way the sunlight filtered through the curtains, the smile on your face as our kitchen filled with the loving scent of comfort food. I’d pause, hit rewind, and keep replaying this scene over and over for the rest of my life if I could.<br />
<br />
It’s easy to skip through the messy parts – the fights that went on all night, the complicated histories muddying up the present, the cold shoulders that I used to be able to lean on. In the end, there were too many things wrong with us that no amount of love could rewrite our fates. The same hand that once wiped away my tears were now balled up into fists. The hands we once threw at each other eventually raised in surrender. They say every sweet beginning has a bitter end. How naïve of me to think we would be the exception.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>You come in, the day’s weariness still hung over your shoulders and you see I had packed my stuff. There wasn’t much – a few clothes, a dusty house plant, and some CDs.<i> A sigh. </i>Was it of relief or exasperation? <i>Doesn’t matter.</i> You knew what it meant and despite my best efforts to leave quietly, I miscalculated the time it would take for you to get home. So I stood there frozen in your kitchen holding my breath.<br />
<br />
You squint and see me. I am still immobile. You rush towards the bedroom. <i>Maybe you don’t want to see me leave. I can respect that. I wouldn’t want to see you go either. </i>But just as I finish that rationalization in my head, you emerge with a dusty box in your hands.</blockquote><br />
“You forgot this.” It was the lie detector. I didn’t know you still had that. “Once more? For old time’s sake?”<br />
<br />
I purse my lips and give it some thought.<br />
<br />
“C’mon, big boy. What are you so afraid of?” That first night’s memories wash over me like cold water. I want to be that version of me again. I want you to be that you again. But those people, however familiar, aren’t us anymore. They were a lifetime away.<br />
<br />
“Pussy. Fine, I’ll start,” you say as you strap yourself in. “Ask me anything.”<br />
<br />
I set the bag down and sit on the couch. The machine motor’s gentle hum scored the evening. Outside, I could hear the city’s sounds muffled through the window.<br />
<br />
“So, how do you feel about me leaving?”<br />
<br />
“Uh-uh. Closed ended.” You wince.<br />
<br />
“Okay. Did you know I was leaving?”<br />
<br />
“No.” A buzz. “Ow. Yes. I knew. I just didn’t know when.”<br />
<br />
“Did you… or were you going to, um maybe stop me?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.” A buzz. “Ow. Damn it.” You unstrap yourself. “I don’t remember these things being so powerful.” You sigh. “I guess I wanted to. But…” <br />
<br />
<i>You wanted to, but, </i>and an ellipsis. Entire worlds can hide between these three dots.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>You tuck your hair behind your ears, partly to get them out of the way but also to fill the silence. I had nothing else to give so for the last time, I offer you a sweaty palm. Instead of putting it on the lie detector, you put my hand on yours. Our fingers find their way around each other, interlocked as we’d done countless times. You strap my hand in using imaginary Velcro and mimic the sound with your mouth. <i>Ksshh. Too tight. Chukk. Ksshhh.<br />
</i><br />
“Will you be back?” I look up, caught unaware by such a direct question. Years later, you still knew how to jolt me with your candor. <br />
<br />
“I don’t know.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t know? Or you don’t want to know?” <br />
<br />
I shrug. I genuinely didn’t know the answer.<br />
<br />
“You said you weren’t ready for… this.” You shake your head as though you were trying to shake a bad memory. “Do you think there’s a part of you that ever will?”<br />
<br />
“I —” I answer, interrupted.<br />
<br />
“Don’t know?” Your grip tightens in your anger then relaxes as you exhale. “You don’t seem to know anything.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know. I…” I stutter. It takes me a minute to find the right words. “I don’t know much but I know this. This… it wasn’t all wrong. But we were probably just caught in the wrong moments in our lives. But I know there’s love here. So maybe…” I hesitate. “Someday?” <br />
<br />
“<i>Someday.</i> I like the sound of that.” You smile. It’s been a while since I last saw you smiling.</blockquote><br />
You let go of my hand. We are past the point of truths and lies. You are staring at your feet, your toes curled in anticipation.<br />
<br />
“Will you… maybe… I don’t know.” You search for words as they elude you. <br />
<br />
“Will I?”<br />
<br />
“I know that <i>tomorrow’s</i> out of the question. But do you think you could maybe save <i>someday</i> for me?” <br />
<br />
I look at you, your eyes still low and heavy. I didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep.<br />
<br />
“Okay…”<br />
<br />
“Okay?”<br />
<br />
“Okay.”<br />
<br />
And I meant it. I kiss you one last time on the cheek as I get ready to leave. Tomorrow, there will be hell to pay and hearts to mend. But that’s not until the morning. Tonight, we say goodbye and hope that someday comes soon.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Lourdes | Save Someday (2019)</span><hr /><b>MANIGONG BAGONG TAON!</b> I haven’t really made my mind up with this story yet so maybe there’ll be edits in January but I just couldn’t let 2019 end without a single entry in this space. This year was challenging in every single way imaginable and I’m glad we all made it out alive. Thank you for reading this <strike>week’s month’s</strike> year’s story and I wish you and your families a Happy New Year!citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-19688052212531343332018-11-11T15:53:00.001+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.524+08:00on the moment you are put back together<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtV2bCSi80SRTTno-HUJyVme_POjeVRtbNJ5elrd13cn0ipH_hsuEGaRZnL81VLnpRDddO_wqRUa2XM7wI0P71BBEBi5j__x98FVkgbbSuZf94QriCbIGsIczGLKWMkK7usZ-T/s1600/5CC39F42-DABF-4903-9140-3664FE32C3E0.jpg" /><br />
<br />
It’s funny – maybe not <i>ha ha</i> funny but certainly peculiar. We remember the exact moment we are broken but not the moment we are put back together. For me, my broken moment came to me on my 30<sup>th</sup> birthday. I was passed out in the middle of Puerto Galera, alcohol and bad decisions coursing fiercely through my veins. There is a picture of me that somehow ended up on my Instagram. I am on the sand clutching a liter of mineral water and you can see a little bit of my underwear peaking from my shorts. I was in a thankless job, freshly single with bullet holes where my heart used to be. I was surrounded by strangers who just moments before were singing an off-key <i>Happy Birthday</i> in a tiny beachside bar. I was nowhere I imagined I would be. I didn’t know how to get up. I had hit rock bottom.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:3f6BsKWTaPRyQNtM2jddNv" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>In an effort to put my life back together, I vowed to take better care of myself. I wrapped bandages around my heart, built walls as I waited for it to be calloused and numb. I filled my days with attempts at meaningful work and my nights with meaningless sex. I read a Buzzfeed article about how taking care of a plant was the first of many steps to a happier, healthier you and so I bought a bunch of basil seedlings and haphazardly put it in a pot of fresh earth. I watered them every day, sang to them, spoke to them, took care of them like no man had ever cared for spices before. I reveled in the idea of three new lives solely dependent on me. For the first time in a long time, it felt like I was back on track.<br />
<br />
Except I wasn’t. Far from it. Despite my best efforts, the seedlings hardly matured. Their branches were stunted, their leaves pale and tasteless. I went through countless how-tos and YouTube videos on resuscitating dying seedlings but after a while, it was clearly time to call their time of death. The cause – suffocation by an unstable man’s misguided attempts to get his duckies in a row.<br />
<br />
It’s funny how that was one of the first things my lover noticed when he first came over. Of course, I didn’t know he would be my lover then. He was just one of many faceless men having their turn at me. He noticed the branches dead and limp and asked me about them. I said they were nothing, a crafts project that just never fully took off. I said I had meant to throw them out, but I kept forgetting. He scoffed, told me they weren’t dead – at least not yet, and emptied the rest of his glass of water into the caking soil.<br />
<br />
He assessed the branches limp and withered, the browning leaves that fell off at the slightest touch, and said he could fix it. He could bring them back to life. I was a skeptic but also had literally nothing to lose and so I handed him a pair of scissors and watched as he snipped at the dying buds.<br />
<br />
He was right. They weren’t dead but it would take some time for them to fully recover. He said all it needed was a little patience and a lot of love. Perhaps that was his strategy all along. His little project meant I would have to keep seeing him and that meant I would have to keep inviting him over and over. And so as the first of the new branches sprouted out, so did the beginnings of new love.<br />
<br />
It’s hard to believe that was almost two years ago. As I write this, he is sleeping beside me, his gentle snoring the melody to my keyboard clacking’s percussion. Now I know when he said <i>it wasn’t dead</i>, he didn’t just mean the basil. And while I wrapped my heart in bandages and waited for it to be numb and calloused, he took one look at me and said he could fix it. <i>He could fix me </i>and so skeptically, I watched as he tore down each wall that I had built, peeled off each layer I had grown to protect my dying heart.<br />
<br />
Friends ask me why I don’t write about him and I guess it’s because for a while it felt like I was holding my breath or waiting for the other shoe to drop. <i>He’ll snap out of it,</i> I told myself. He’ll grow tired of me. They always do. But in the still of the night when I creep into bed after a long day at work, no matter how deep in slumber he is, his hands find mine. As I close my eyes and let the darkness engulf me, I can swear I hear his heart beating. It is a heart that beats for me<a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2018/09/a-heart-that-beats-for-me.html" target="_blank">*</a>.<br />
<br />
It's funny, or maybe peculiar but we remember the exact moment we are broken but not the moment we are put back together. It’s impossible to simmer it down to just one moment. The most you get is an epiphany – a realization that you somehow made it back. If I had to scan my failing memory for that moment, it would take me back to a quiet morning in our first or second month together. I awake to an empty bed and think <i>great, this is how he leaves me.</i> But just as I was about to jump into a spiraling pool of self-pity, I hear a clacking of pans from downstairs.<br />
<br />
Barefoot, I make my way to the kitchen. There is a whiff of garlic in the air, warm and familiar almost like a hug from my mother. There is <i>tocino</i> sautéing on the stove and half-beaten eggs in a wooden bowl. I steal a pinch of garlic rice, its salt and savory turning somersaults on my tongue. He emerges from the balcony, a sleepy smile on his face. In his hands are the greenest basil leaves I have ever seen, freshly plucked and aromatic. He kept his promise. He brought the plants back to life and in the process of doing so, he brought <i>me</i> back to life. And that is how all of his horses and all of his men somehow put me back together again.<br />
<br />
I will never be able to thank him for all that he has done for me, but something tells me if I keep loving him every day in the only way I know how, somehow that would be enough.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Kishi Bashi | m'Lover (2016)</span><br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td align="right" background="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nVcJZUnqO11tSM8MiF47zValGNA_x3TsquSQFspRrghopg-qXAK7TrA1cowqVzVNPxfq2jbS1FPy7rxakZT8iqnARgeNrfJfCUEFU7086Vs5aIlYgw4ZR7PRImrNE63mGtl3/s1600/postfooter.png" height="156" width="645"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/thepost.ep/" target="_blank">The Post:</a></b> October 2018<br />
<i>"Appreciation"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul style="font-size: small; list-style-type: square;"><li>iam3nity - <a href="https://iam3nity.livejournal.com/1990.html" target="_blank">To You</a></li>
<li>@mookieboo - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bow1teajFkQ/?fbclid=IwAR0OQbC1nP7S6vPWfsytEH0_pQE9HRB93zWbNmaU1SjIsUNZ5ZFnzKldkcU" target="_blank">Let's face it - staying is hard.</a></li>
<li>I Just Rialized - <a href="https://web.facebook.com/ijustrialized/photos/a.1691523624290590/1735432806566338/" target="_blank">To You</a></li>
<li>@jolliestjolie - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Boz17SdBe72uYAylOQT5lfgEYDK6nxwjY_vZlU0/" target="_blank">It's night time. Imagine this:</a></li>
<li>From This Suok - <a href="https://fromthissuok.wordpress.com/2018/10/28/an-ode-to-artists/" target="_blank">An Ode to Artists</a></li>
<li>citybuoy x city songs. - <a href="https://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2018/11/on-moment-you-are-put-back-together.html" target="_blank">on the moment you are put back together</a></li>
</ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-1444353608767814872018-09-23T05:44:00.000+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.523+08:00a heart that beats for me<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQmpI199mGTEDQJ3Z8movkhuIjxOIVYRrRUn_fr8JC7UsjBwr16XHBLdEkxoj20jQ3f4Onv42R-WrprCvHbRwceKt8h8glmroz_JFToBJRwuzb2ZTyDodYHjyqnFKe8T1dsox/s1600/UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_2e46_.jpg" /><br />
There’s a heart out there and it beats for me. It pumps blood through veins and he doesn’t know it yet but it pumps for me.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:2wWboDFZJPWXVNlHUbdSVQ" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>When you’re young, love comes easy. To trust in the frailty of strangers, to believe there’s a net when you leap. But now there are bills to pay, days to seize, and too many men gone by morning.<br />
<br />
Yet in the still of night, after I hang up my hangups and wash off the day’s dirt and regrets, I lie awake and hear the beating of a heart – a heart that beats for me.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>This and other 100-word stories in <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.978170525540787.1073741831.539803672710810" target="_blank">Project 0.1</a>.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Tori Kelley | Dear No One (2013)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-19565120830539415572018-09-08T22:59:00.000+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.524+08:00on how we will see the world<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hyY9DYwgmaIHw3bWgnyi9Olvh4BOhIJI9Q6mYbUbsLgT72lW3VigXcVZCKcYGO01CQqdVRYNj2l11MPa9bbG14k30JNi8JrkwBJvxwpt2nR-j0TXxFYaFiZjZtFqU9haEqNC/s1600/4EA5F82D-C33E-4906-A341-4F3DC640E354.JPG" />“Do you remember this?” he asks from across the apartment. I was sealing the last of my boxes, the sound of packing tape scoring this hot afternoon. Outside, I can hear the city sounds carrying on just like any day. The movers were arriving tomorrow. A smarter man would have packed sooner but cramming wasn’t just something I do. I practically live at the eleventh hour.<br />
<br />
I look up and see the wooden cigar box we got in Vigan. “Of course, I do.” I chuckle. “Where did you find it?”<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:5V2AX2WTOHl2FKtftvisV6" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>“It was collecting dust under a stack of books in the shelf.”<br />
<br />
“Poor thing. We forgot all about it.” He sets it down on the desk beside me. Inside were dozens of handwritten notes. On a seemingly ordinary day much like this one, when our hearts were still brand new, he told me we should write to each other. <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">“What would we write? We talk every day. We’ll see each other every day.” I argued.<br />
<br />
“The good stuff. The bad stuff. Anything really. Then one day when we’re really old, let’s sit down and read them.”<br />
<br />
“<i>Okaaaaaay.</i> You know, we don’t live in one of your short stories. I just hope that me moving in isn’t going to spark some sort of… crisis on your life.”<br />
<br />
“Whatever,” he dismissed. “Whoever said romance isn’t dead obviously never met you.” On the back of a 7-11 receipt, he writes his first note: <i>Tomorrow, you are moving in. I cannot wait to spend the first day of the rest of our lives.</i></blockquote><br />
“Let’s read them,” he says hurriedly. I glance at him disapprovingly. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Don’t you want to read all the crazy things we wrote?”<br />
<br />
“I’m a little curious.” I admit. “But… wouldn’t it be weird?”<br />
<br />
“Why would it be weird?” he asks as he opens the box. “Think of it as an exploration of us – our story as documented in notes, post-its, and tape receipts.”<br />
<br />
“Okay,” I grunt as I sat on the floor beside him. “You start.”<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">His hand snakes into the box, fishing for the first note. The pieces of paper rustle tirelessly in anticipation.<br />
<br />
“Okay. First one. It’s from you. <i>January 19, 2013. I’m sorry I broke your hard drive.</i>” There was a doodle of me crying, holding said hard drive in pieces in my hands. It was an accident. I was copying some movies when I stood up and tripped on the wire, sending the poor hard drive flying towards the wall. He hardly said two words to me for a full week.<br />
<br />
“You know, my entire life was in that thing. Five years later and I’m still angry.”<br />
<br />
I sigh. “Five years later and I’m still sorry.” </blockquote><br />
“Okay, you do one,” he tells me, the box open and waiting beside him. I pull out a note and I recognize it almost immediately. <i>February 14, 2014. Good dates leave you glowing all night. Dates with you and I’m on fire all week.</i> He wrote it on the back of a Holland Tulips gift tag. A single petrified petal is taped on it, the lone survivor of what was once a glorious bouquet.<br />
<br />
“Did I ever tell you that you were the first person to ever give me flowers?” He takes the card from me and smells it.<br />
<br />
“For real?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” He hands the card back to me. “I guess it’s not normal for a guy to get flowers.”<br />
<br />
“Well, you aren’t just any guy.”<br />
<br />
“Weren’t,” he says, correcting me. I hold the card up for a quick sniff. The scent has long gone but it still lingers in my memory.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">“Ang bigat naman,” I say. “Didn’t you say this was going to be fun? I feel like we’re just picking at scabs.”<br />
<br />
“Fun kaya!” he said, exaggeratedly. “Here, let me have one. <i>August 24, 2012. Loving you is my life’s greatest adventure.</i>” A pause. “Yuck. How cheesy.” <br />
<br />
“Cheesy? I’m sorry we can’t all be wordsmiths like you. And I’m sure you didn’t feel that way when I wrote that. Kilig na kilig ka kaya.”<br />
<br />
“Whatever. Here,” he says, handing me the box.<br />
<br />
“Okay. <i>March 3, 2014. Ang lakas mo humalik.</i>” It looks like it was written in a hurry.<br />
<br />
“Humalik?” he asks, grabbing the note from my hands. “Humilik! My god. You still can’t read my penmanship?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, is that what that’s called? I thought you just scribbled random lines.”<br />
<br />
“That is obviously an i. How would that be an a? Do you see a dot anywhere?”<br />
<br />
“You know you’re not exactly known for crossing your t’s or dotting your i’s.” An emptiness hung heavy over the room. How do you erase what feels like centuries of history? How do you begin to unravel two hearts so tightly bound?</blockquote><br />
Hours pass as we read note upon note – each one scratching deeper into scars that had long healed. Each note brought up all sorts of memories, both good and bad. It felt like we were two soldiers trading stories after a battle. Like any war, there would be no victors here – only survivors with tales to share.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">“Okay. Last one,” I announced.<br />
<br />
“Are you sure?” he asked, peering into the cigar box.<br />
<br />
“Yup. One final note to cap the night.”<br />
<br />
“You know we were supposed to read these when we were older,” he says, switching gears.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, well… that’s that I guess.” I dismiss. “We were supposed to keep writing these notes too. Look how that turned out”<br />
<br />
“Years worth of dust on this thing. How long has it been forgotten on the shelf?”<br />
<br />
“I’d say one, maybe two years. It doesn’t seem like we had much going on beyond 2015.”<br />
<br />
“Sayang naman. It was such a pretty box.” He sighs. “And we had so many good memories in it.” It was clear he wasn’t talking about the box anymore.<br />
<br />
“It’s not like you’re going to throw it away. Maybe you could use it for something else… like actual cigars? I don’t know. Boxes like this with exquisite craftsmanship, they’re built to last. You just have to find its rightful place.”<br />
<br />
“Are you sure about that?” He hesitates. “Are you sure about this? I mean, it’s not too late. I could call the movers. You could unpack. We could try again. You could…”<br />
<br />
“Stay?” I interrupt. “And what would that solve?” We were younger when we wrote these notes. Our penmanship may have stayed the same but our hearts did not. He sits in silence and we trade heavy exhales. <br />
<br />
“We are no longer the same people who wrote these.” All around us lay notes, post-its, and tape receipts – the ruins of a love that’s all been spent. “But for what it’s worth, we had a pretty good run, didn’t we?”<br />
<br />
“Okay. Last note,” he says, snapping back into reality.<br />
<br />
“I’ll read it. <i>February 20, 2015. One day we will see the world.</i>”<br />
<br />
“…but no longer in each other’s eyes.”</blockquote><br />
It was an ordinary day much like this one when he told me we should write notes to each other. We would read it when we were older, he promised neither of us knowing we were banking on a future that wasn’t coming.<br />
<br />
You wouldn’t have known then that that moment was important, much like if you were outside looking in right now, you’d only see two people packing half of all they own in boxes. You wouldn’t see, no you couldn’t see that what you were watching was the final act of a love story that has come to an end.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: This Band | Kahit Ayaw Mo Na (2018)</span><br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td align="right" background="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nVcJZUnqO11tSM8MiF47zValGNA_x3TsquSQFspRrghopg-qXAK7TrA1cowqVzVNPxfq2jbS1FPy7rxakZT8iqnARgeNrfJfCUEFU7086Vs5aIlYgw4ZR7PRImrNE63mGtl3/s1600/postfooter.png" height="156" width="645"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/thepost.ep/" target="_blank">The Post:</a></b> September 2018<br />
<i>"Exploration"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul style="font-size: small; list-style-type: square;"><li>iam3nity - <a href="https://iam3nity.livejournal.com/1194.html" target="_blank">Wonderland</a></li>
<li>I Just Rialized - <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ijustrialized/photos/a.1691523624290590/1691523610957258/" target="_blank">Explore</a></li>
<li>@mbwillerton - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BnUfz-hB6AK/" target="_blank">Come with me</a></li>
<li>Blog of Feels - <a href="https://www.facebook.com/blogoffeels/photos/a.732158923791374/732158840458049/" target="_blank">Explore your PAST</a></li>
<li>citybuoy x city songs. - <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2018/09/on-how-we-will-see-world.html" target="_blank">on how we will see the world</a></li>
<li>The LifeFiles - <a href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/the-lifefiles/if-walls-could-talk/769746476750420/" target="_blank">If Walls Could Talk</a></li>
<li>@mookieboo - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bnmri8LDEP1/" target="_blank">Chicken Broccoli Roll-Ups #yellowkitchenmeals </a></li>
<li>@miakakun - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BnrjkgzhYrl/" target="_blank">Day 1</a></li>
<li>From This Suok - <a href="https://fromthissuok.wordpress.com/2018/09/20/hearing-old-songs/" target="_blank">Hearing Old Songs</a></li>
<li>letfoodtravel - <a href="https://letfoodtravel.blogspot.com/2018/09/one-of-issues-that-i-feel-strongly_25.html" target="_blank">Saving the Earth One Bottle at a Time </a></li>
</ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-74593105844936716412018-08-20T06:10:00.000+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.526+08:00love at a coffee shop<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWluudWjChpkGxXnCzZCPM1brykiBX9vTwkipdIQoovbxiYwCIgZ5b2mD1FN7wOveg3oJSuoXR6cAr4N1tUS-zz5nMGwgYnoc4jBB_vaJ9TNRbTgd1k_Uuskrgah5KLQbEYQtM/s1600/A60F4054-697F-488C-B701-8FE4AF758A6A.JPG" /><br />
“You’re not gonna meet him at a coffee shop,” Georgie said. He sounded like he’d been waiting to say it, like he sat on it and waited for a gap in the conversation to drop his truth bomb. “You’re not going to be sitting with your worn-out copy of some Nicholas Sparks paperback when he casually sits down next to you to tell you how much he liked the book. You’re not going to argue over whether the movie was better or swap quotes that <i>literally changed your life.</i> Guys like that don’t exist outside those romantic comedies from the 90s that you devour like a diabetic in denial at a discount candy store. You’re not gonna meet him at a coffee shop.”<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:7BpQc9EFY8qj06aKcDOpki" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>Don’t get me wrong – I love Saturday coffee with my two best friends but lately, it seems our conversations always go back to my love life or lack thereof. Couldn’t we talk about something more relevant like politics or world economics?<br />
<br />
“Okay. I may be a hopeless romantic but that picture you’re painting is nothing like me,” I said, stuffing my copy of Safe Haven deeper into my bag. “Granted, I could be a little old fashioned but is it so bad to think that maybe we’ll run into each other at a record bar, both reaching for the last copy of an Aimee Mann record? Is it wrong to dream that maybe we’ll both be stuck in front of the same painting in some downtown gallery, pondering the meaning behind the colors or…” I trailed off.<br />
<br />
“Cut him some slack,” Dee interjected. “After that last guy, can you really blame him?” Dee was always quick to defend me, perhaps because we both watched one too many Disney movies growing up. “Our little friend is traumatized,” he said, awkwardly hugging me from the side. “So let him daydream about cafes and record bars. At least he hasn’t given up on love.” <br />
<br />
It was easy for Dee to stay on the Pro-Love train. He’d been in a completely normal relationship with another lawyer for two and a half years. He was practically a unicorn in the barren wasteland that is Gay Manila.<br />
<br />
“Are you even hearing yourselves? A museum? A record bar? What era do you think you’re in? Hello, girl. Ever heard of Spotify? Nobody buys CDs anymore. When was the last time you even saw a Tower Records or an Odyssey? Just like elephant pants and all our exes, they are in the past where they belong.”<br />
<br />
“And what would you rather he do?” Dee asked. “Whore out like everyone else?”<br />
<br />
“No, <i>naman.</i> There’s an app for everything, sweetheart – even dating. You are literally one swipe away from meeting your Prince Charming.”<br />
<br />
“Or your next hookup,” I said.<br />
<br />
“<i>Oy.</i> Don’t be so cynical. Not everyone’s there to hook up. In fact, just a few days ago…” Georgie stopped to show us something on his phone. He swiped emphatically until he found the photo he wanted to show us. <br />
<br />
“<i>Ayaaaaan… </i>girls meet Baby Boy. Baby Boy, meet the girls!” It was a dark photo most likely taken from a motel room. Georgie and his lover were shirtless in front of a mirror. Georgie’s hand was shoved firmly down Baby Boy’s boxer briefs. It was completely obscene.<br />
<br />
“Oh my god.” was all Dee could say. He was always the Charlotte to Georgie’s Samantha.<br />
<br />
“Like I said. Apps are for hooking up and I just don’t do that.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Baby Boy and I have the same goals. Sure, it started out with sex but the conversations we’ve had…”<br />
<br />
“Stunning philosophical conversations about the best starter Pokemon, I’m sure.”<br />
<br />
“No, conversations about the future and stuff. He’s surprisingly deep. He may be young but he’s got an old soul like me.”<br />
<br />
“Just how old <i>is</i> Baby Boy?” Dee asked as he zoomed in on the photo. “<i>Bakit parang wala siyang </i>pores? Won’t this kind of relationship land you in jail?”<br />
<br />
“Excuse me. He is 19 years old.”<br />
<br />
“Making him a toddler when you lost your virginity.” <br />
<br />
“<i>Hoy, grabe ka.</i> Age is just a number.”<br />
<br />
“So is 6 to 12 years – the minimum sentence for child abuse.”<br />
<br />
“<i>Hep hep hep.</i> Slow your roll, fellas,” I interrupted. “Dee, this isn’t a prosecution. Georgie, you’re not on trial.” Dee slinked back into his seat while Georgie sipped the last of his macchiato.<br />
<br />
“All I’m saying is you should give online dating a shot.” Georgie said to me, his hand firmly on my lap. “Girl, you don’t see what we see. You’re stable. You’ve got a great job. You’re not ugly.”<br />
<br />
“Not just <i>not ugly</i>. My best friend is gorgeous!” Dee said, pinching my cheek.<br />
<br />
“<i>Sige,</i> you’re gorgeous. And most of all, you’re kind. You’re a catch and there are plenty of guys out there who would be crazy not to see what we see.”<br />
<br />
“And yet none of them are lining up to see me.” There was a slight hint of self-pity I didn’t mean to let out. <br />
<br />
“<i>Kasi nga…</i>” Dee began, breaking the awkward silence. He exhales loudly and in defeat. “You’re not gonna meet him at a coffee shop.” Georgie looked up, confused. “Yes, I agree with you. Okay? How do you think I met my partner?”<br />
<br />
“<i>Nooooooooo…</i>” Georgie said, his shock exaggerated but not exactly unwarranted. “You told us you met Eric at a law conference in Singapore.”<br />
<br />
“I did. But let’s just say I had a little help from my little friend, Grindr.”<br />
<br />
“You whore! I did not see this coming. So he was just a hookup?”<br />
<br />
“In the beginning, yes. But we saw more and more of each other that week and it was pretty clear we had both found something we were looking for. So yeah, maybe 99% of guys on dating apps are just looking for sex <i>pero</i> every now and then, you get lucky.” See. What did I tell you? Even when all the mathematical odds were against him, Dee was a frigging unicorn.<br />
<br />
“Wow. What a revelation.” Georgie and I looked at each other in disbelief. <br />
<br />
“Speak of the devil.” Dee held his phone up as it rang. As if on cue, his temporary hookup turned full-time partner was calling him. From his side of the conversation, it was clear Dee was late for dinner. <br />
<br />
“Girls, I gotta go. I was supposed to meet him <i>pala</i> an hour ago.”<br />
<br />
“Go. Go. I’ll take care of this,” I said as I signed at the waiter for the check. <br />
<br />
“Me too. I have to go. Baby Boy and I are going to catch the last full show. <i>Sama ka,</i> you want?”<br />
<br />
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m too pretty to be the third wheel.”<br />
<br />
“That’s the spirit. <i>Ayan ha.</i> Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”<br />
<br />
We hugged our goodbyes and I sat back down to finish my latte. Maybe they were right. I looked around the busy coffee shop. Everyone around me had their noses in their phones. Maybe Prince Charming <i>was</i> out there, hiding behind a smartphone and not a book. Maybe he curates Spotify playlists full of indie acts I’ve never heard of. Maybe we’ll swap epubs of authors we both like. Maybe we both tweeted out the same street art that moved us. Maybe -<br />
<br />
“Sir, your change,” the waiter said, snapping me out of my trance. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”<br />
<br />
Before I could change my mind, I uttered the words to trigger my release. <br />
<br />
“<i>Kuya,</i> what’s the password to the wifi?” Maybe it wasn’t too late to enter the 21ˢᵗ century. It was like sparks were coursing through my body. It felt like the beginning of a brand new page.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Aimee Mann | Dear John (2005)</span><br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td align="right" background="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nVcJZUnqO11tSM8MiF47zValGNA_x3TsquSQFspRrghopg-qXAK7TrA1cowqVzVNPxfq2jbS1FPy7rxakZT8iqnARgeNrfJfCUEFU7086Vs5aIlYgw4ZR7PRImrNE63mGtl3/s1600/postfooter.png" height="156" width="645"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/thepost.ep/" target="_blank">The Post:</a></b> August 2018<br />
<i>"A Brand New Page"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul style="font-size: small; list-style-type: square;"><li>@lostlizzie - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BmCHg22D4JR/" target="_blank">Starting Line</a></li>
<li>LetFoodTravel - <a href="https://letfoodtravel.blogspot.com/2018/08/a-brand-new-page.html" target="_blank">A Brand New Page</a></li>
<li>@mookiebo - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bmn-UfQjUy1/" target="_blank">Peanut Butter Cups #yellowkitchenmeals</a></li>
<li>citybuoy x city songs - <a href="https://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2018/08/love-at-coffee-shop.html" target="_blank">love at a coffee shop</a></li>
<li>From This Suok - <a href="https://fromthissuok.wordpress.com/2018/08/21/burn/" target="_blank">Burn</a></li>
<li>Rambling Scrawler - <a href="https://ramblingscrawler.blogspot.com/2018/08/a-new-chapter.html" target="_blank">A New Chapter</a></li>
<li>The LifeFiles - <a href="https://sway.com/MJJXorU47QH2DAJW" target="_blank">Life is Challenging</a></li>
<li>Anthon Santos - <a href="https://youtu.be/s2YrpetLi20" target="_blank">History Con 2018</a></li>
<li>iam3nity - <a href="https://iam3nity.livejournal.com/947.html" target="_blank">One Day</a></li>
<li>I Just Rialized - <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ijustrialized/photos/a.1685033948272891/1685033654939587/" target="_blank">A Brand New Page</a></li>
<li>NaiveOptimist - <a href="https://naiveoptimismblog.wordpress.com/2018/08/30/renewing-positivity/" target="_blank"> Renewing Positivity</a></li>
<li>Carmine Street Food - <a href="http://carminestreetfood.com/2018/08/three-things-you-probably-didnt-know-about-zubuchon" target="_blank">Three Things You Probably Didn’t Know About Zubuchon</a></li>
</ul><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><b>Epilogue.</b> He walks out of the coffee shop in a hurry. There was thunder in the distance and the streets smelled like it was ripe for rain. He turns his collar up knowing fully well this would do nothing when the first of the drops begin to fall but it was all he could do. A smarter person would’ve brought an umbrella.</span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">He hurries the pace – half because it was about to rain, half because he was already late. He liked the sound his shoes made on the pavement. Click. Clock. Click. Clock. They were the sound of expensive shoes hitting concrete. He often passed the time like this, making percussion instruments out of every day things. Click. Clock. Tick. Tock. Flip. Flip. Flop. </span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NJJJJ NJJJJ NJJJJ. His phone’s vibrations briefly interrupt his symphony.</span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">He swipes to unlock. His lover, impatient, sends out a three-word SOS. “Where are you?” Just as he was drafting a reply, another message comes in.</span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">It was from an unknown number. “Place is free. U wanna cum over?” He could feel an all too familiar feeling from between his legs, a warmth that radiated from his groin to the rest of his body. His nipples tense, he taps back to his lover’s message.</span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">“Sorry. Emergency. Can’t make it tonight. Can I see you tomorrow instead?”</span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">You may not find love at a coffee shop but really, were the odds any different elsewhere?</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-48776074506585260322018-01-22T13:51:00.000+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.525+08:00on how we went to bed one night and never shared a bed again<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQWD7wGFmUS4Xcjt8Em29NAIm7vilUR_F2vG76mzhFKLl-abyUB3G9YaqOW131uikXrb2brqWsGf6yDiPNAZwaDf1-WM1PRjK0kmnY7iE_sNrFB_WqrmaU1DTyL4IRfgyySZD/s1600/IMG_7420.JPG" id="responsive-image"/><br />
Nobody tells you about <i>the moment.</i> It’ll creep up on you and will have passed before you even realize it was there. Nobody warns you but at some point, you got into bed with somebody, slept, woke up, got ready for work, and never shared a bed again.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:1yDiru08Q6omDOGkZMPnei" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>If somebody had told me, maybe things could have been different. Maybe I would have held him tighter, kissed him one last time so he would change his mind. Maybe I would’ve told him about how you could take a flight from Sydney to Hawaii and land the day before. We could go back in time. We could change. I could change. <i>You don’t have to do this.</i><br />
<br />
But memory is a tricky thing. Science tells you that we forget more than we remember and when prompted, the brain will fill the void with anything it can get its hands on. But forgetting is a feature, not a bug. We couldn’t possibly remember everything we have ever seen or done. Our brains just aren’t built for that kind of storage. And so we make do with what we have. We fill in scenes with fragments that may or may not have taken place. We imagine because we forget.<br />
<br />
And I wish I could say I remember everything about him. On most days, I remember how it felt to be in his arms. I remember his breath on my nape as he slept. I remember the roughness of his hands as he held mine. I look up at the fingernail moon and wonder if all we lost may simply be hiding.<br />
<br />
And so I take that flight from Sydney to Hawaii. I turn back the hands of time. I fill the spaces in my memory with whatever I can get my hands on. And as he gets into bed with me, I push my body against him <a href="https://twitter.com/jace_n/status/948698314672816128" target="_blank"><i>one more time</i></a> and pray he could somehow hear each beat of my heart.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>“Tell me a lie,”</i> I say. <i>“Just like before.”</i> Soft whispers in his ear trickle down like water.<br />
<br />
<i>“I won’t miss you.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Tell me another one.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“You don’t still turn me on.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Another one.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“I don’t love you anymore.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“I told you to lie to me,”</i> I tell him. <i>“That wasn’t a lie.”</i><br />
<br />
<i>“How would you know? You weren’t there.” </i>I bit my tongue. He’s right. I wouldn’t know if he was lying. All I knew was either way, it was going to hurt.</blockquote><br />
By now, I’ve put enough distance between us to know that there wasn’t going to be a good answer. Maybe he did still love me. Maybe I could have done something or said something to make things different. But I didn’t and now the hours and miles between us are too massive, too imposing to simply ignore. And so I sit here filling the gaps of my memories with nothing but the ghosts of our love.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>“Now you tell me a lie,” </i>he commands.<br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“This doesn’t really hurt.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Tell me another one.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“I wish you all the best.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Another.”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“I will never forget you.” That </i>wasn’t a lie. Good or bad, this love has wounded me so deeply that years later, I can still run my hands over the scars.</blockquote><br />
I awake from a daydream yearning for a time so clear, it could have been a memory. Whatever happened to us? I used to see us, hands clasped, silver in our hair, waking up to a million forevers. Why did you have to lie?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Ben&Ben | Kathang Isip (2017)<br />
Post: <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/10/reprising-teacher.html">reprising the teacher</a></span><br />
<br />
<hr /><b>WE'RE BAAAAAAACK.</b> So a bunch of bloggers headed by <a href="https://twitter.com/jace_n/status/948698314672816128" target="_blank">@jace_n</a> decided we all missed the olden days so much, we've come back for what I hope is not the last of these writing prompts. I was supposed to publish on the 20th but life got in the way. Blah blah blah. Here are the other entries:<br />
<ul><li>Red The Mod: <a href="http://red-isthenewblack.blogspot.com/2018/01/one-more-time.html" target="_blank">One More Time</a></li>
<li>Ako Si Aris: <a href="https://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2018/01/club-havana.html" target="_blank">Club Havana</a></li>
<li>Ace/Journey Man: <a href="http://journeyman07.blogspot.com/2018/01/pagkakataon_20.html?m=1" target="_blank">Pagkakataon</a></li>
<li>Eternal Wanderer: <a href="https://thetruthinlife.blogspot.com/2018/01/ang-pag-uulit.html" target="_blank">Isang Tagpo ng Pag-Uulit</a></li>
<li>I am the Closet Geek (who tweeted <a href="https://twitter.com/_geek_/status/952159446704123904" target="_blank">here</a> and re-opened his blog <a href="http://iamtheclosetgeek.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
<li>Ryan See: <a href="http://ryan-secrets.blogspot.com/2018/01/one-more-time.html" target="_blank">One More Time</a></li>
<li>ShatterShards: <a href="http://shattershards.blogspot.com/2018/01/old-house.html" target="_blank">Old House</a></li>
<li>john stan: <a href="http://romeosinjourney.blogspot.com/2018/01/one-lasting-time.html" target="_blank">One Lasting Time</a></li>
<li>AMR: <a href="http://whatamithinkingph.blogspot.com/2018/01/naghihintay-sayo.html" target="_blank">NAGHIHINTAY SAYO</a></li>
<li>Yas Jayson: <a href="http://fixing-yas.blogspot.com/2018/01/ang-naghihintay-ay-umiibig.html" target="_blank">Ang naghihintay ay umiibig</a></li>
<li>citybuoy: <a href="https://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2018/01/on-how-we-went-to-bed-one-night-and.html">on how we went to bed one night and never shared a bed again</a></li>
<li>Atty. Mico: <a href="http://lost-923.blogspot.com/2018/01/remember.html" target="_blank">Remember</a></li>
<li>Nishi: <a href="http://nishiboy.blogspot.com/2018/01/one-more-time.html" target="_blank">One More Time</a></li>
<li>joelmcvie: <a href="http://mcvie14.blogspot.com/2018/01/one-more-time.html" target="_blank">One More TIme</a></li>
<li>Mugen: <a href="http://daybreakembers.blogspot.com/2018/01/sa-muli.html" target="_blank">Sa Muli</a></li>
<li>~Carrie~: <a href="http://ablogadaykeepsthebathhouseaway.blogspot.com/2018/01/say-my-name-say-my-name.html" target="_blank">Say My Name, Say My Name</a></li>
</ul><div>PS. If you wrote an entry and I wasn't able to include you, just holla below.</div>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-33619606132577396652017-11-12T05:37:00.001+08:002018-09-05T20:45:55.522+08:00no room in my heart for hate<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFFLSNd16HSvFvSMfZxggN65jW9WRzyhyphenhyphenpf-9TMmw13pMVIFB0HG9pTk4tLOC9lXBA7tmAMrtKTFaRbhyrFeAvnoi1O2iaaVxI_LmEisrfir3vOR99_OnUwEdpRSX4SUxTlff/s1600/68DEF8A0-7FE4-4184-92CE-822AC99D6591.jpg" id="responsive-image"/><br />
A few years ago, I <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/07/how-to-deal-with-plaigarists.html" target="_blank">discovered</a> that someone had taken some of my stories and posted them as his own. I have had many regrets since then but an unspoken one is I wish I had been mature enough to see beyond what happened, beyond what he did. Instead, I posted screenshot after screenshot of his supposed crime. I wanted him to hurt as much as I was hurting then. His apologies were left unanswered, his attempts to reach out and rebuild unequivocally rebuffed.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:0BWoyGLDhDwvFtTOntc6ko" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>I let hatred out of my heart and into the world not fully realizing that it may take days, hours, even years but hate always has a way of coming right back to you.<br />
<br />
Recently, it's come to my attention that he has been saying hurtful things about me online - half lies too many to disprove, too pointless to discount. I know a couple of the people egging him on but most were relative strangers to me. They insulted my writing, my work, and even my physical appearance. I couldn't understand how there could be so much hatred out there, and from people I didn't even know.<br />
<br />
I have scratched the itch that is hatred for such a large part of my life. And while it is easy to play the victim and fuel the flames of this narrative, today I choose to be different.<br />
<br />
I saw this wall of letters in a hotel a few weeks ago and I thought it was interesting how if you extended it to infinity, you could build infinite combinations of letters, words, and sentences. Somewhere in this wall are all the things you have wanted to say but couldn't. I could pick out the letters I like - strike back, say mean things, fight fire with fire - but what would that accomplish? What good would that do to either of us?<br />
<br />
So instead, I pick out this combination. <i>I forgive you. I release you. I hope you find the courage to move on.</i><br />
<br />
I have. And let me tell you. It feels great.<br />
<br />
To quote the brilliant Wachowskis in Sense8, there is simply <b>no room in my heart for hate.</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: The Beatles | All You Need Is Love - Love Version (2006)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-30614411507467549872017-08-22T16:54:00.001+08:002022-06-20T17:28:43.524+08:00your umbra, my penumbra<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4v_0qHGC-NZDTPxQbpGqNhfAEm0If3RtAM4XcgGrDKZ1oAZJdvn2P0cfC9YTQvk4Y9cVa6L7PsYcrMdqxL5NeQo0tBj8Ns1XvIxYUeFZNwctbMxU8i3mwIkIzMxxJOjXUqP5o/s1600/2HXC2I9.jpg" id="responsive-image"/><br />
The National Aeronautics and Space Administration defines an eclipse as an event where one heavenly body such as a moon or planet moves into the shadow of another heavenly body. There are generally two kinds of eclipses: a lunar eclipse where the Earth blocks the sunlight that is normally reflected by the moon and a solar eclipse where the moon blocks the light of the sun from reaching the earth. In cases on total solar eclipses, the sky becomes very dark, as if it were night.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:3bVdGGXW1ttqOhCkeJmHLx" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>I remember holding your hand as we made our way through the crowd. I remember the beads of sweat glistening on your forehead as we looked for our perfect spot. I remember the strength of your arms, your sinewy muscles as you laid out a blanket on the damp grass. I remember you squinting your eyes, your right hand resting on your brow as you struggled to see.<br />
<br />
The sky began to darken as we sat down. I squeezed your hand tighter as the crowd began to scream louder and louder. Through high-powered lenses, we watched as the moon emerged, encroaching gently on the sun. I watched as that big ball of light faded into unnatural shapes - a bitten apple, a child's toy, an orange wedge, slowly retreating to a fingernail. The crowd grew in fervor and despite warnings from the government, a number looked directly at the sun. <i>How could you look away when you know that these things only happen once in a lifetime?</i><br />
<br />
I didn’t look at the sun. I didn’t look through the lens. I was looking at you. You were all at once so beautiful, so curious, and yet so dangerous. I could’ve stayed there looking at you forever. The sight of you was more beautiful, more breathtaking than the sun, moon, and Earth combined.<br />
<br />
For what seemed like a millisecond, the whole world was wrapped in darkness. I held my breath and closed my eyes, letting the sound of the crowd, the warm August air, the grip of your hand, the magnitude of a solar eclipse in our lifetime – I let it all wash over me. For a second, I was no longer in my body. I had somehow found a way to fly away into the darkness. I was floating in zero gravity. I had never felt so calm, so free. That’s probably why I didn’t notice you’d let go of my hand. You let go of me.<br />
<br />
I opened my eyes. It was the afternoon again. The crowd began to put their cameras and their sandwiches away. Everywhere, everyone was moving on with their day. It was as though the eclipse and all that came with it had never happened. I looked to where you were but you were gone. I searched through your face in the crowd but you weren’t there. <i>Why did I look away when a love like yours only happens once in a lifetime?</i><br />
<br />
In the middle of it all, it was as if the moon stayed put and there was nothing but darkness. Some eclipses last a few seconds. Some stay for a few minutes. Some of us are still waiting for the sun to come back.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
<br />
♫: Jill Andrews | Total Eclipse of the Heart (2013)<br />
Photo: <a href="http://wallpapercave.com/wp/2HXC2I9.jpg">eclipse</a><br />
Text: <a href="https://www.nasa.gov/audience/forstudents/5-8/features/nasa-knows/what-is-an-eclipse-58">NASA</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-22992525045825815512017-08-14T00:43:00.000+08:002018-09-05T20:47:42.530+08:00burns like a promise broken<img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqWXjGYIO_cAWjDyLQVnv0pHhPkJxunDrRYqpT7IkhvVrS6nfjTaQoaMijy2mfNMq-cuYA9oS-so9_XnFuPXbhGaCfdqmGtXKWDJRgSSyGoGLRxe4Xe1h1r4mlcswOZUybRFe/s1600/vsco-photo-1.jpg" id="responsive-image"/><br />
Sometimes, I feel like life would be so much easier if I were a cat. I imagine weaving in and out of crowded alleys, strength in my legs as I leap from room to roof searching for my next adventure. I laugh as I evade countless threats with my speed and wit. I know how to run with the best of them but I also know where to find solitude. Cats know many stories and this one starts as I enter a studio through a hole in the window screen. I am silent save for a hushed purring that I tried but failed to contain.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:58Xlm3uIgC9Ygre8UlBHqf" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>They do not hear me for they are asleep. She is clutching the sheets to her chest. The blanket resists but gives. He is left with nothing but the thin film of sweat the covers his body. He tugs at the blanket, the tug-of-war only briefly entertaining. I jump towards the top of the shelf where I have a better view of things. I gently paw a pointless figurine towards the edge. It shatters into a million pieces. <br />
<br />
His eyes fly open. At last, he awakes. He glances at the wall clock, the minute and hour hands like an ice cold bucket of water. And just like that, he’s up.<br />
<br />
“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” he yells. It is obvious he does not care if she awakes. She stirs, mumbling incoherently, her sleep prevailing over this midnight tantrum. He is dressing hurriedly. The button from his boxers nearly comes loose as he tries to put his pants on. He is hopping. Always hopping. Why do humans like wearing such tight jeans?<br />
<br />
“What’s happening?” she finally asks.<br />
<br />
“I must’ve slept through my alarm. It’s almost morning and I’m still here. Fuck. <i>FUUUUCK!</i>”<br />
<br />
A bright light embraces her face as her eyes squint to adjust. “Um, it’s just half past 8.” He isn’t listening. He seems to be looking for something under the bed.<br />
<br />
“Have you seen my socks? Damn it, I swear I left them right here.” She slinks towards him, her arms like little snakes that caress him from his back to his chest as she adjusts his tie. “Honey, It’s just 8:15. The batteries on that old clock must’ve died. You have time.”<br />
<br />
“I do?” She nods. He exhales. “There’s still time to…” She continues the rest in a whisper.<br />
<br />
“Phew,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry I panicked.” She kisses a line from his shoulders to his neck to a fevered cheek. He seems unfazed. “I didn’t want to sleep in the car tonight.”<br />
<br />
“You <i>are</i> welcome to sleep over. You know that, right?” Her voice is suddenly cold and sharp like a steel knife. His hands fly to his ring finger where a golden band burns like a promise broken.<br />
<br />
I may be a cat but even I know what that means.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
♫: Dragonfly Collector | Someday, Someday, Maybe (2014)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-48912351297741278302017-04-23T14:57:00.000+08:002022-06-20T17:32:38.809+08:00on love and food<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_egDHDp7tdws9KrToCoNNPnOB-yfrd90F1JDUQsXdKnumvZKufgCuxk7iMXwu7JnpigQwXbodDtSHd-Pz1nH3UdFaCK935iSQLK9nSh8Y63yr-eLUJTIR9YB0SG0uNe9z7T1/s1600/2017-04-23+02.25.11+1.jpg" /><br />
“Do you ever wonder who started the whole garlic-onion power combo? Like did some random housewife from the 20s try it once and then it just sort of caught on or was this something our first ancestors passed on to us?” I was in bed thumbing through cookbooks, hell-bent on learning about my culinary heritage from the masters of Filipino cuisine.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:6l9HDwqU46DHCuNyvbmFdP" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>“I don’t think that’s how you’re meant to use a cookbook,” he reports from the kitchen. “You’re supposed to be in here, trying it out for yourself.” Various scents and sounds of spices in symphony wafted through the air. It was a Sunday afternoon and my lover was making me brunch. I know of few pleasures that could come close to this.<br />
<br />
“Well, you gotta start somewhere. I’m sure even…” I said, scanning the cover for a credit. “Nora Daza started somewhere.” I just don’t think I should be trusted with flammable things until I know at least 20% of how these things work. Need I remind you what happened last week when I tried to fry an egg?”<br />
<br />
“No,” he chuckled. “Although the fire department might appreciate the caution you’re taking.” I could hear the sounds getting louder, the smell of <i>gisa</i> filling the tiny 19 sqm apartment we were in.<br />
<br />
“Gawd, that smells good. Ugh. I just don’t know how you do it. You make it seem so easy.”<br />
<br />
“Patience you must have, my young Padawan. These things take time, patience, and a little bit of magic.” I peered up from my book to see him with a sachet of Magic Sarap. “Plus, if it smells so good, we’re in trouble. You know what they say: <i>Ang mabango mag-gisa, magaling mag-sinungaling.</i>”<br />
<br />
“What? I literally know no one who says that!”<br />
<br />
“My <i>lola</i> used to say that all the time. She’d say never trust a good chef. But then again, she was shit at love <i>and</i> cooking so maybe that was more rationalization than actual advice.<br />
<br />
I put the book down and dragged the covers all the way to the kitchen. He was sautéing garlic, onion, and some random vegetables I wasn’t confident I could name. I wrapped my arms around him as he stir-fried.<br />
<br />
“But the real secret to any good dish cannot be found in your little cookbooks. If you really want to know, here’s the secret ingredient.” He set the spatula down, took my hand, and placed it on his chest. “Do you feel that? I’m cooking with love.”<br />
<br />
I pulled my hand away almost immediately. <i>“Ang baduy ha!”</i> I said between fits of laughter. He puckers up and makes air kisses. I wiped his sweat away and planted a solid one right in the lips.<br />
<br />
Whether his made-up saying proved true or not, I’d always have this memory in my head and in my heart. That summer, I learned exactly 26 of the 304 dishes in <i>Let’s Cook with Nora.</i> The novelty faded after the book called for ingredients like <i>beef kabilugan</i>, ox tongue, and tripe. And while I can now sauté like the best of them, none of the dishes I’ve made have ever smelled as good as that one little dish he made with love.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
♫: Yael Naïm | New Soul (2007)<br />
<br />
</span><b>Postcript:</b> While this is mostly fiction, I really did try cooking my way through Let’s Cook with Nora. Documented <a href="http://nellyandnora.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">[here]</a>, I channeled the stresses of “funemployment” into developing a new skill. Shortly after I published the sole cooking post, I signed a job offer and that was that.<br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td align="right" background="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb2bgExXeHuYqDYCf1Rg3WpzrxgnHeRAnsV508a-cucoSh-jQdMjCf9srbUs-OnJC5l2FmXZMQI8RqzdKFqdY5q9AAL9GdOa27ez8anQz_TM60Bhi1YpTWp8NdVCVgiMBY-zN-/s1600/post-footer.png" height="150" width="620"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/thepost.ep/" target="_blank">The POST:</a></b> April 2017<br />
<i>"Food"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul style="font-size: small; list-style-type: square;"><li>Oh You Know, Life (Personal) - <a href="https://brugudug.wordpress.com/2017/04/10/food-feud/" target="_blank">Food Feud</a></li>
<li>Lost Boy (Personal) - <a href="https://lostboy.blog/2017/04/20/gabbys-bistro-a-taste-of-dumas-pride/" target="_blank">Gabby’s Bistro | A Taste of Duma’s Pride</a></li>
<li>citybuoy x city songs (Personal) - <a href="
http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2017/04/on-love-and-food.html" target="_blank">on love and food</a></li>
</ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-51376575445018366972017-04-08T18:49:00.001+08:002022-06-20T17:32:38.809+08:00on what it was like to get over you<img border="0" id="responsive-image" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJZ1s1pKbLDYjs2KcE2Eege-0Wj_SpyQ-8pLGU58NKxIkBbK3XstQwiCK-Z7kw8SOhQ9f5CPfeV9_sxlfI951JRHQnM56ZXjubgYeD5waWTWoJhUpzuk9PJJXWhKzthu3kEwk/s1600/2017-04-08+06.22.04+1.jpg" /><br />
There is a wall in my house that tells a story. If you press your ear against it and silence your heart, you’ll hear it whispering well through the night.<blockquote><iframe align="right" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="330" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify%3Atrack%3A1e5c42GQL1LtvLZbfVvC8A" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="250"></iframe>The landlord said we couldn’t hang anything on the walls but that didn’t stop us. We were young. We were hasty. We had just moved into our first apartment. Nothing was going to stop us. For weeks, we snuck in frame after frame after frame. One day, we set the alarm for 3AM. With sleep in our eyes, we pounded in hooks and nails to hold our memories. There were cracks in the concrete from a few misguided strikes of the hammer. There were bits of wall scattered on the ground. There was hell to reckon with, that was for sure. But that wouldn’t be for a while. At that moment, we could just revel at the wall that was just us in the house that was just ours. I held your hand as we went back to bed. And while we were sleeping, my hands traveled through the sheets to find yours. Hands clasped, I knew that we were finally home.<br /></blockquote>I told the landlord you were leaving. He didn’t ask much questions. He just signed the gate pass and that was it. That last week was tense. We were ghosts wandering around the life we built, watching as it all crumbled down. I pretended not to notice how you were slowly packing your things. Records were divided, books were packed in <i>balikbayan</i> boxes, shirts were folded and packed into old suitcases. It would be a full week before the moving trucks would come and take you away from here, from the home we built together. But we both know you’d been gone long before that last box was packed, ported, and shipped away.<blockquote>I combed through thousands of photos – some of me, some of you, there was even one of you when you were a little boy. I had nine spaces for photos so I had to choose wisely. I rushed to the photo shop one Saturday while you were out. I held the envelope close to my chest as I walked home. I took down each frame from the wall and carefully slipped in our pictures. When I was finished, I stepped back to look at my handiwork. <i>This must be it. This is how you make a life.</i> My heart was full.<br />
</blockquote>Our photos together were the first to go. I practically ripped them out of the frames. After that, I ripped out anything that had your face in it, anything that would remind me of you. I stood in the middle of the living room, a circus of torn photos and memories on my feet, in a fevered rush to erase all that you left behind. For days, I tried to walk past that wall without looking. And when that charade became too difficult to maintain, I took my photos off too. Suddenly, there were just empty frames, haphazardly put back together. When I couldn’t handle that either, I took down each frame and pulled out each nail from the wall. There were holes where the hooks were. I took a bit of putty and with the craftsmanship of a five-year-old who has just discovered play doh, or the craftsmanship of a thirty-year-old who had just gotten his heart broken, I sealed the hole shut. I sealed all the holes shut.<blockquote>As soon as I heard your footsteps, I put on some speed. I turned out all the lights. I hid behind the sofa. I stifled my breath as I tried desperately to catch it. You opened the door, confused by all the darkness. Your fingers groped in the darkness for the switch. <i>Flick.</i> I wished I had a camera. I hoped I had thought of capturing the moment you saw our wall for the first time. Because right at that moment, I saw all the messes of the day drain away. I saw all the bad things that keep you up at night give you temporary respite. There was nothing on your face at that moment but pure joy, pure love. You looked around. Heavy breathing. You were looking for me. I jumped up from my hiding place. <i>Surprise!</i> I yelled and you ran towards me, dropped your things on the floor, and held me like it had been years since you last felt love.<br />
</blockquote>In the morning, you can’t see it. The light tricks you that way. But at night if you draw the curtains and look real closely, you can see the putty on the wall. I run my hands through them, the same way you’d run your fingers over an old scar. I see us meeting. I see us falling in love. I see us moving in together. I see the home we made. I see us fighting. That was tough. I see us falling apart. And finally, I see the life we were going to live together – the future we thought we could count on – like an overexposing photograph, I see it all fade away.<br /><br />And I wrote all this today because for the first time in months, I have come to realize that I’m not angry anymore. I don’t blame you anymore. You were just a boy who loved me for as long as he could. I did my best to hold on to you. I thought you’d be safe under my wing but people change their minds, lovers change their hearts, and fickle is the future we rely on. We shared a lot of good years together, scenes like broken shards of colored glass I will forever cherish in my heart. My hands still crawl through sheets at night but they now find a different hand, a different heart, a different home. My love, I have found another home.<br />
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♫: Rachael Yamagata | Over (2016)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com12