April 22, 2007
Sunday
8:44 am – 9:42 am
Sometimes people see only one side of love. Without my presence, without my existence known to them I am but a name. But it’s alright; it is her love that I want the whole world to know. How deep, how beautiful, how amazing, how intense, how powerful. To her closest friends, to her family and to all her acquaintances I am someone who just got lucky; someone bathing in the benefits of her love. And that anyone would love to take my place for a day.
I never ask of glory from love, all I wanted, needed was her. I don’t care if no one knows how much I love her; how deep, how beautiful, how amazing, how intense, how powerful. Knowing, understanding and believing what I have for her are enough. And if I have to be the only one to know, to understand, to believe I’d still go on. The thought of an existing love, returned or not, is what keeps me alive. I celebrate it alone; no need for compliments from friends or anyone how blessed she was to have me. Alone I rejoice because I have learned to love again.
I will never speak to the world of my love for her and no one will. But the wind, the moon and stars, the endless sky, the earth I walk upon, the sun, the birds they were all witnesses and I don’t know how to keep them quiet. My bed, pillows and sheets heard me a hundred times murmuring her name before I sleep at night, well maybe I could always wash them but what if my voice and my thought had become it’s threads that made it soft and warm at night? Then it’s hopeless. I almost forgot my shoes. Yes they know a certain road that I love to take. It’s the path that leads to her home. They know the way and they know how my feet, my heart dances with anticipation as I start my journey to home--- her arms, her smile, her kisses, her thoughts, her dreams, her love. Should I burn them to keep them shut?
In the end it is love that matters, not really the people that had become instruments of its existence. It is a circle that keeps us all in its center. No matter what kind, it is of one root and it had kept me nourished, alive and had kept my own world breathing.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The pen is mightier than my memory
April 18, 2007
Wednesday
6:24 pm – 6:51pm
I’ve forgotten how to write a letter or perhaps I’ve been refusing myself to do so. There was a lot to say for the past few months. My heart, my hands are burning to write but a part of me would always say it’s not yet time. A part of me would always say to wait for the perfect time and the perfect place (probably far away from where I am now; far away from everyone). But when? Where?
The pages and spaces of my Starbucks journal is not enough. Every time I write I have to fabricate a day’s memory into it’s simplest from. The best and most beautiful details are gone and emotions are usually held back to avoid downpour of words. This is very unfortunate for me. Writing is the only way I know to preserve what I treasure, my memories.
Since childhood, among us three daughters, I’ve always had the poorest memory; always the slowest to learn. I probably passed scholarship grants back in college not because of good memory handy for remembering lessons from tons of textbooks but maybe because of simple hard work and a bit of guts.
Only through writing would I know how I’ve lived my life. I know it’s quite odd but I always have this feeling that I’ll lose my memory at a very early age, probably between my 40s or 50s. Fear of the unknown, of things I’m not even sure that will happen in the future. I was thinking too much of the anesthesia that was used to me before during dental operations, and of that time when I tried to overdose myself with memory enhancers to make sure that I pass the next scholarship evaluation. Maybe these things have affected my memory. There were lots of times back in college when I would bang my head to the wall because of unbearable headache. That may have caused my poor memory as well.
I know that the people around me would always remind me of how I’ve lived my life regardless if they cared for me or not. But the details of how beautiful life was; how life was presented with life; how life found reasons and meaning --- I guess it’s only me who can tell. This should be one good reason why I should write.
Wednesday
6:24 pm – 6:51pm
I’ve forgotten how to write a letter or perhaps I’ve been refusing myself to do so. There was a lot to say for the past few months. My heart, my hands are burning to write but a part of me would always say it’s not yet time. A part of me would always say to wait for the perfect time and the perfect place (probably far away from where I am now; far away from everyone). But when? Where?
The pages and spaces of my Starbucks journal is not enough. Every time I write I have to fabricate a day’s memory into it’s simplest from. The best and most beautiful details are gone and emotions are usually held back to avoid downpour of words. This is very unfortunate for me. Writing is the only way I know to preserve what I treasure, my memories.
Since childhood, among us three daughters, I’ve always had the poorest memory; always the slowest to learn. I probably passed scholarship grants back in college not because of good memory handy for remembering lessons from tons of textbooks but maybe because of simple hard work and a bit of guts.
Only through writing would I know how I’ve lived my life. I know it’s quite odd but I always have this feeling that I’ll lose my memory at a very early age, probably between my 40s or 50s. Fear of the unknown, of things I’m not even sure that will happen in the future. I was thinking too much of the anesthesia that was used to me before during dental operations, and of that time when I tried to overdose myself with memory enhancers to make sure that I pass the next scholarship evaluation. Maybe these things have affected my memory. There were lots of times back in college when I would bang my head to the wall because of unbearable headache. That may have caused my poor memory as well.
I know that the people around me would always remind me of how I’ve lived my life regardless if they cared for me or not. But the details of how beautiful life was; how life was presented with life; how life found reasons and meaning --- I guess it’s only me who can tell. This should be one good reason why I should write.
To Forgive is to...
April 22, 2007
Sunday
10:56 am – 11:42 am
Why is it so hard to forgive sometimes?
Maybe because we know we’ve committed mistakes less than others, than the person who have done us wrong. We think highly of ourselves.
Maybe because we know we have given so much for something or someone and it makes us look seem so perfect that we are bathing in our own rightfulness. Our generosity, our kindness becomes an excuse. It becomes a banner on our heads to let everyone know that we don’t deserve such pain.
Maybe we’re afraid to be abused. After giving chances we might receive more of this pain that we try to avoid.
Maybe we want the other person to suffer first with the waiting we make, making them beg to death.
Maybe being unforgiving is revenge itself and it’s the only way we know how to get back.
Maybe the silence that unforgiveness makes is a weapon, a knife that slashes the soul of a weeping repent.
Forgiving is what helped mankind survive through ages. For if we do not forgive we would all perish in the hands of hatred, of revenge. We forgive not to delight and pass the soul of the one who repents but we forgive for our own sake. For when it is our turn to repent it is not only the ears but the heart that listens, that understands, that forgives.
Today I ask for forgiveness. First from myself. I have denied myself of freedom to change and to embrace chances. I have built a cell around me that will forever tell me that I don’t deserve such good things in life; that I am only second to anyone; that I am limited; I am only embraced by this world but not life itself; that I am sin itself.
In order to forgive myself I have to realize that I am made out of love and of love and that I am capable of multiplying myself and the love that I have in me. Love itself is the hand of forgiveness that extends to every corner, to every soul.
It is the thought of being abused that blocks the courage to forgive. But we never realize that we become instruments of survival. Because mistakes are daggers of the soul and the cut it makes can only be healed by forgiveness. Left unhealed, it becomes fatal and the body dies but the soul wanders weeping through the banks of life.
Today I survived forgiven by others so that I may help others to survive by forgiving them.
Sunday
10:56 am – 11:42 am
Why is it so hard to forgive sometimes?
Maybe because we know we’ve committed mistakes less than others, than the person who have done us wrong. We think highly of ourselves.
Maybe because we know we have given so much for something or someone and it makes us look seem so perfect that we are bathing in our own rightfulness. Our generosity, our kindness becomes an excuse. It becomes a banner on our heads to let everyone know that we don’t deserve such pain.
Maybe we’re afraid to be abused. After giving chances we might receive more of this pain that we try to avoid.
Maybe we want the other person to suffer first with the waiting we make, making them beg to death.
Maybe being unforgiving is revenge itself and it’s the only way we know how to get back.
Maybe the silence that unforgiveness makes is a weapon, a knife that slashes the soul of a weeping repent.
Forgiving is what helped mankind survive through ages. For if we do not forgive we would all perish in the hands of hatred, of revenge. We forgive not to delight and pass the soul of the one who repents but we forgive for our own sake. For when it is our turn to repent it is not only the ears but the heart that listens, that understands, that forgives.
Today I ask for forgiveness. First from myself. I have denied myself of freedom to change and to embrace chances. I have built a cell around me that will forever tell me that I don’t deserve such good things in life; that I am only second to anyone; that I am limited; I am only embraced by this world but not life itself; that I am sin itself.
In order to forgive myself I have to realize that I am made out of love and of love and that I am capable of multiplying myself and the love that I have in me. Love itself is the hand of forgiveness that extends to every corner, to every soul.
It is the thought of being abused that blocks the courage to forgive. But we never realize that we become instruments of survival. Because mistakes are daggers of the soul and the cut it makes can only be healed by forgiveness. Left unhealed, it becomes fatal and the body dies but the soul wanders weeping through the banks of life.
Today I survived forgiven by others so that I may help others to survive by forgiving them.
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