When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain
Siren's Song
Friday, February 20, 2004 If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
=) Why do I care so much about trivialities now? Why do I mind so much about pointless trifles? Why do I get bogged down by stress and distress?
Gabrielle - Lestat de Lioncourt's mortal and vampiric mother. Dismissing how skewed my sense of judgement can be, I feel like I was her for a while last time. Those times when I was hardened by certain experiences locally and overseas, when I was slapped too hard in the face by reality and when it seems like nothing worse can hit me anymore, I felt as stoic and as cold as her. Even under periods of tremendous stress or emotional turmoil, I could brush them outta my mind as easily as clicking on a switch.
Plus, I didn't show my inner feelings. Ball with spikes flipped inside out. That's pretty much the way to describe me.
Who am I now? What am I now? A fallen queen, or perhaps a dreadful brat princess? Or the tramp shivering down Dicken's cold wintry streets?
It doesn't matter who I am really. For in devoting too much attention to myself, I've neglected him. Instead of drowning in my own tears, I should have offered him my shoulders and brought him into a tight soothing embrace. He carries a heavy emotional load too. It's just that he doesn't really share about that bit of his life with me.
I forget too easily. And I am greatly saddened by my incapacity to factor in his unhappiness before.
I am sorry. I am. But believe me, I will try.
10:21 PM
I think a lot. For far too much, and far too long, I've focused and concentrated on various ifs and what-nots that would most probably never happen instead of putting my faith and believing in what is directly in front of me and under my nose.
I guess I was like that all the time. For a while I took a hiatus from the nerve-wrecking chore of thinking and happily assumed the playful air-headedness nature of a bimbo - choosing not to think. Wait, the word "bimbo" itself sounds a lil' distant and unfamiliar now. Aikes. Then (I think) for some time I draped on the facade of an artful think(er), masquerading as a withdrawn and reticent girl-not-yet-a-woman hybrid - strange and mysterious. Right now I'm the yakkily yak-yak hyperactive super-on devil-may-care Class A bitch. I shoot off words from my mouth too fast and too carelessly. I need the filter between my oral cavity and my brain. Badly.
I thought about a few issues. Chewed and digested all that I - we - have been through and processed them into a vague and esoteric soliloquy that prolly only I myself can understand fully:
Case #1 - Yakking among girl friends
Before I venture to expound on this highly sensitive topic, I must declare that I am taking utmost care in treading on such dangerous grounds. I mean not to dredge out old skeletons in the closet, nor open any fresh wounds. Aikes.
I see things from his point of view. He agrees that it is not inherently wrong to yak. But he doesn't feel comfy.
I accept.
In my humble opinion, it was a simple case of definition. Vague or explicit? What is vague? What is explicit? =) My blog, being vague and esoteric as it is, is the most vague form of expression and vent of my personal frustrations/happiness/questions. This is my idea of vague. To talk about stuff in less details, or be less specific, I'll tear everything down to its bare minimum and concentrate on my thoughts and feelings, instead of recounts of incidents that beg for analysis from fresh points of view or advice whatsoever. Imagine if I were to speak to a friend the way I write in my blog, and brush off their care and concern... They'll prolly find it strange. I do make a conscious effort to tell them he doesn't find the idea of me sharing our stuff most appealing, but I guess I am wrong not to have make a bigger effort to really dilute and block out certain stuff.
I need time dear.
Some things that we do for others need not be mentioned, or brought out into the light. There is a difference between doing something for show, and doing it for a person. Aikes. I guess that's just the narrow point of view from which I see and perceive things. I will try. I will do my part - to be malleable and change myself for him. I am rigid. I know. I need time.
Case #2 - ....
I was wrong. I am wrong. To have broken down and cried myself silly. I am guilty. I have no idea how to save myself from this pathetic quagmire of irrational and puerile thoughts. I am the impossibly unreasonable Shakespearean shrew. I am.
I understand that certain wild thoughts dominate a certain group of people. How can I not, with all those years of mixing around with those pesky imps? Yet for some insane and inexplicable reasons, those words coming from him, at that time, in the state that I was in, stung me like a thousand venomous bees raining my heart. No wait. There was the sudden flood of fear and a tinge of disappointment first.
I think and I think and I think. For the purpose of purely hypothetical thinking, I made comparisons to other people in my life. If they held such thoughts, and told me about it, jokingly or otherwise, I would either a) raise my eyebrows and give them a dismissing look, or b) be a lil' pissed off and forget about it five minutes later. For him, I cried torrents.
Sometimes one experiences an emotion without knowing why or how it came about in the first place. I was just overwhelmed by the fear of losing him. Well, maybe not losing him totally per se, but the idea of even sharing him with someone else, conducing an act of supreme intimacy, would be something more than my feeble mind can bear. Hence I bawled my head off.
He apologized. I heard. I appreciated. But it wasn't his fault. It was just a misplaced emotion I couldn't cap in myself. I wanted to stop weeping. It's embarrassing me, and distressing him. But I couldn't. As things go like that frustration from him naturally follows. So does feelings of indignance.
Would it have made any difference if I chokingly whispered "I'm sorry I need a lil time to pack up my emotions. It's not your fault."?
His restlessness with the whole situation vexed me too. And my thoughts got wilder and wilder, and the blahdee filter in my head simply hasn't been installed yet. The words we exchanged simply led me to think of more hurtful scenarios, and I blurted them out.
It was wrong. I ought to be shot. Put a bullet right through my head. I actually had that thought, and the visualization was so strong, that it somewhat manifested itself as a massive splitting headache.
The slippery slope. Free-wheeling downhill. The guilt that I feel is so real, so intense, and so very painful. I can almost hear the screeching of my own nails as I dug into the oily surface in a desperate attempt to climb up to those green rolling grass hills again.
Sheets. I typed "glass hills" before I backspaced and changed it to grass hills. Is it a premonition? A foreshadow of what lies at the bottom of the abyss that I seem to be steadily plunging down? Will I be the one who tries to put a broken vase back together again, only to end up cutting myself bad?
With great love, comes great insecurity. The more you love someone, the more you're afraid of losing him or her. I guess. I try to sidestep and circumvent such pessimistic thoughts by concentrating on forgiveness and/or forgetfulness. Sometimes my system control does go cranky and malfunction or even totally shut down. Try as I do and will to indulge in sweet simple love, I get distracted by the most illogical thoughts and (im)possibilities.
I will never try to break your heart, wo zhen de bu xiang. :)
