Help me for boards.
And hurt, too, because everything was freaking accurate and sad:
“My big design flaw is that I long thought that the meaning of life was contained, more or less, in you. In my head, it seemed so easy for me to just jump out of my life and into yours. But the distance between us is vast. The distance between thought and action is vast. And the distance between who you really are, and who you are in my head, is vast. So much so that the concept of distance doesn’t even do justice to my delusion. Rather: my mind’s idea of you is a smudged and faded pencil sketch on a piece of tracing paper, a preliminary drawing of a work that was never finished. Every time I see you I try to hold up the drawing to the real thing, but they never match up; my rendering obscures you. Perhaps I prefer it that way. The real person so often disappoints me — not because you don’t live up to my image of you, but because you live at all. Because you are real.
I know this, at least, now. I am no longer so naive that I just hear the echoes of other people scolding me over this in my head. I hear my own voice scolding me. I loved a souvenir, a symbol of the past. I did not let you grow up. I did not let you become a complete person because that would not be as fun — nor, of course, as manageable — as what goes on in my head.
I think I have a good imagination, but to this day, I am unable to imagine you. How you live your life; what a conversation with you sounds like; what you care about; what you don’t. My mind runs over the same few impressions of you that I have, like a mouse in a maze. This is proof, sad proof, of something: we are not really a part of each other’s lives anymore. We are not really friends. I cannot reach out a hand to you, when given the opportunity. I can only imagine myself doing so a thousand times in slow motion, and never as a friend.
“ For years I have been trying to impress you from afar. An unintended consequence of this is that I have, now and then, been able to impress myself, since our passions in life are similar. Or perhaps it’s just because my image of you is really just a token of my own ego, a deity to it. Despite your complete indifference to my efforts to be my “best self,” I am still gradually becoming my “best self.” Distance, perhaps, has saved me. In your presence I still become the limp glove, inanimate and powerless, but away from you, my heart hardens in pride and I march on, scheming over what to accomplish next, what to reach for next.
But in these magical places I’ve traveled to, I’ve still whispered under my breath to you: non sequiturs, desperate pleasantries: I love you; I wish you were here; look at how I’m moving on (or at least — moving). I thought that in these places, there was a current that would carry my voice to your ears. But there wasn’t. Which is to say: you could never love me back, you never hear me, you are not listening. My hopes only served to defer reality.
My hopes for us have been advertisements: glossing over the reality, trying to sell something. Fast-paced and colorful, a blur, insubstantial. No real person could live up to them. And yet there is always the catch: I have known love — great love, real love — and my brain long insisted that you would be the greatest.
“Love is the great anchor of life. But goals — personal, spiritual, athletic, professional — are the only sure path to self-love. Lust, or unrequited love, or infatuation, is not love, nor is it a goal. It’s a detour, a side trip, a distraction from the main event. I admit that it’s a necessary part of life. I will always call you a friend, and I will probably still try to impress you, but I am realizing that my feats are for me to admire, and me alone.
I had to voice the absurdity of my situation, like an addict admitting she has a problem, in order to finally recognize it as absurd. As a friend told me: You wanted to get caught. Not caught in an act of infidelity, but caught in a lie, or rather, in a farce. My brain is so good at concocting farces, at creating fake worlds, and it took me too long to realize they are not a substitute for the real thing. The real thing will never be fully known, or known at all, or even recognized, as long as there is fakery still visible at the edges of my sightline, trying to distract me with its pointless antics.
In love ako sa pagkain.
In love ako sa mga anime characters.
In love ako sa mga gwapo at sa mga magagandang artista.
In love ako isang araw, tapos depressed sa kamakalawa.
Ganyan talaga buhay ko e haha, unstable.
In love rin nga pala ako ngayon sa isang tao.
Hahahaha, ano ba tong sinasabi ko. =))
Feel free to watch this if you want to be depressed… sorry, but… truth.
Synopsis: One night, Suni glimpses a shadow in the stable; the next day, she discovers a feral boy of about 19 crouching in their yard. The boy’s body temperature is 46 degrees Celsius, his blood type unidentifiable,…