Those six weeks were now so swift–seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by day, lived it intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his calmer moments.
by Paz Marquez Benitez
It has almost been a month since I have been here, pouring all my thoughts into these expectant pages. Sometimes I think the only thing that happiness could not bring me, is the strength to write and the power to encapsulate, as it happens to me, a feeling of euphoria and its gradual sinking to a deep sense of peace in mere combinations of metonymies and metaphors. During those days I have quite believed that all my stories, my one hopeful character, a love that would seem to be everything you want love to be, the hopeless romanticism, the rising and falling in love, the strength of a relationship that would stand through time and space, the tragedy and triumphs, the glory and pain of something that is imperfect but real, the hurt and forgiveness of self and the other, the flawed person who is unimaginably perfect in your eyes, the one thing in your heart that would make everything hard about life, bearable– all these things that I used to write about have come to life. I knew in those times that fiction would envy the real. Tonight, fiction becomes memory. Or maybe, fiction is all that it ever was.
It was impossible to see from the 18th floor in Emerald the 38th in the corner of J. Vargas and Meralco. But somehow the buzz of building A, the glowing lights of the twin towers in front of it and the incessant flow of people that would fill every cubicle, every floor, every seat in the cafe along the roads of the Center makes me wonder how many strangers I have come across in a single day– it would make me imagine, that one day I would see you again among the sea of people, in a random crowd, on the other side of the street and I will freeze that moment in my head. I won’t call you by your name, I won’t even say hi . And if you happen to see me too, we might smile back at each other like familiar strangers, and all I can do would be to watch you pass me by and stare at your figure disappearing into the anonymity of the people dressed in the corporate dream.
But it would be enough, just to see you again. Just to be near you again. Just for that meeting that we promised to finally happen.
At night, on my way home, I would look up to a room with an open light and I would think of you looking down from your view. And that somehow we’ll seem to be looking at each other again. Heartbreak is a beautiful thing. It gives you so much hope, even in the impossible. Cos I know that no matter how I think of it, you’re not even here. Sometimes the desire is too strong, I figure I could fool myself into believing I had really once seen you.
And I hope that one day when all regret and love is gone, I’m just gonna thank you for everything. But right now I wonder why the space where my heart used to be is now so empty and yet, feels so heavy. Every single day that I come here, to drown myself in the stress of post production, I think of it as an escape… from thinking about just how much this still means to me and how little it perhaps mattered to you.
But where I last saw you, your face will remain. And I hope that in remembering, we shall forget. The way I think of living as a consequence of death.