13 - the miracle necklace

a few days ago my heart fell when i saw that one of my necklaces that i wear every day was on the floor in the shower, in four pieces. the chain, a stray, pried-open link, and two pendants: a cross from italy from maisee, and a flat golf ball (haha) that says "believe" from jarro. immediately i remember that morning in maisee's bathroom where she gave it to me, saying the cross was from italy and the chain was from her lola. "yours na lang." i always met her casualness with such melodrama: gasp, wow, awwwww, yayyyy, cool, jump around grin widely and hug. and i remembered what she wrote about putting it on another time, because i couldn't get it through the lock myself, after i had taken a shower, and how she could smell my shampoo. i could smell the shampoo too. it was a cozy moment of wet hair and pink palmolive shampoo smell and a cool sunday morning.

i am floored that the lock is nowhere to be found. thinking it went down the drain, i continued with my shower thinking of how to fix the chain.

then the lock turned up three minutes later on the same part of the shower floor.

the stray link is too small and i can't hook it back. after much frustration i decide to leave it on my desk and make a note to pay attention to it over the weekend.

yesterday, i picked up the fragments of the necklace to move it to another safer place. i realize the stray link isn't there. panic.

one, two moments, and i find that the link is back with the rest of the chain. i fix the rest of the parts, and it now hangs around my neck again.

my dad said he didn't even touch it. so there's only One other who could have. :)

12 - how long?

not two more years, i hope, like bloc party says.

if you write it down, it will be less a part of you. less.

---

november 21, 1316, lunch at school with moleskine:

we always referred to the past. the beginning. our relationship was one grand getting-to-know-you movement. we reveled in the novelty. that night by the fountain. the novelty of resonance for me. the novelty of me for you.

me being me, the novelty never wore off. me being me, me being naive and sheltered and discovering and searching. but the novelty wore off for you. i knew you and you knew me and things fell apart. towards the end i find you always saying, "it's good enough for me to have known you." what happened to sticking it out?

it would be better if we were strangers. twitter friends. friends by the one hundred and fortieth character. one hundred and sixty through text.

being but a stranger i could talk about you like i talk about the bus driver. your hair looks better longer. your hands look firm, arms lean. sure. steady. embraced by them, held close by them, it feels like i won't be able to wriggle out. it feels safe. comfortable. when you're tired your eyes are red and glazed over and it makes me want to give you a cup of hot chocolate, because you like chocolate. or maybe just the chocolate milk powder, because you like that more. your eyes used to be searching. wanting to discover something. after the months of silence they look lost.

being an acquaintance i could talk about you like i talk about the cartoonist. you send me a message that isn't for me but is about me. Adi's such a kewl gal, your message says, We really relate. i laugh and never tell you about this, and there is a warm feeling inside that says i have finally found a real friend, something worthwhile. you jog to my school to exchange books and lend me prison break season one. you show me your new haircut, it's awfully short, and you detest it when you hear that i prefer the longer hair. you check up on me every day and i realize i have to adjust to using up phone credit more often. one night you lift my chin up to bring my lips to yours and i am wrecked. Things won't change if you don't want them to change, you say. i sit and wonder how you could be so sure. i don't want them to change, your sureness is reassuring, five days later i say it and change happens. overnight. months later you say, "It was real."

it gets harder to write down as it grows so i will stop there. it is fragmented as it is. too much to say.

this story must be futile. except to me. you text today with exclamation marks and smiling faces like nothing has happened and suddenly a morning full of focus and productiveness is thrown off balance by this little text that asks How are you and says I miss you. and i am aware this time, i am aware of the sudden sinking feeling, the heavy chest, the little vivid memories of your heart. to think i had succeeded for a month sitting with these little vivid memories, acknowledging that they are soon to be gone, convincing them that they are not real, that they are merely conjured by my own little tiny pathetic heart. little vivid memories that do not have much to stand for, for they are little - we weren't even together, it was one-sided, you were just playing, it was only a fucking week, i was just too sensitive - and this story is obscure and insignificant and altogether a giant of a deviation.

and then today this message nullifies all my effort with the fact that i replied. and as expected, you didn't.

11 - soliloquy with two voices

2202. you can't quite nail what makes the tears fall right now.

maybe it's the empty feeling in this house. emptiness caused by laughter you're not a part of. conversations you hear from up in your room. the cold that seeps through concrete walls and glass windows. the collection of unread books on the shelf. the little marks of bronze spraypaint on the desk you use now, the same desk you used for late night artscapades in the corner of your room in manila, reminiscent. the shapeshifting of the inanimate - cupboards doors floors and ceilings windows and blinds three layers of blankets - from familiar to unfamiliar, juxtaposing your mood accordingly. your bed in the top bunk that's almost never made, the bendy lamp that doesn't have a proper mount, the untouched notebooks at the bottom of your wardrobe.

maybe it's eshita telling you about the new boy she likes and how he was seeing someone but made a move on her, and she liked him; and how it reminds you of you. Don't get into the boat, you say, I'm in it and it's no fun at all. the ripples that become huge waves that make you seasick. he knows how to play with words. time is all he'll ever need. it will be better soon, i miss you, i haven't read in the longest time you used to make me read give me a list of some good books? he knows what words do to you. you told him. Forget me, you said, nineteen hours before depature.

maybe it's the battle with anxiety. the thought that your life isn't completely in your hands. the thought that any frustration now is and will ever be fruitless. the feeling of smallness. the little cry, It's all You. in the leaf-less trees and the sunny rain-clouded sky. in the cold wind that kisses my cheek. in the raindrops that find their place on my glasses. in the paint that is stuck in my fingernails, in the photographs i take with freezing but eager hands. in the silence. in the warmth that comes after i've been under the sheets for a while. under the wings of flying birds, in yellow and red leaves that still hang on and dance with the wind, under the wings of flying birds. in the school i will find myself in after two years. in the words i write. in the words love writes across seas and timezones and white screens. in yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after and an eternity after that. under the wings of flying birds.