It is funny and annoying at the same time that I can even recall the events of this same day 5 years ago. The fullness of the high moon and the melancholic atmosphere that enveloped my entire system are the only things I could remember. The bitterness is different in some twisted sense, and still I laugh. I laugh because I am angry, at myself more than anyone else.
February 27, 2010
June 6, 2009
To whom it may NOT concern.
So this is how it feels like to be consumed by blind panic and paranoia that you could be dying anytime now of: 1) aneurism, 2) heart attack, or 3) a combination of both. I blame you, yes, YOU, that I have probably been just secretly a hypochondriac--however that is spelled--all along, and YOU might just have spawned it. I apologize if I sound like am just about blaming you if I lie dead anytime soon, but, really, I'm not spewing guilt to get back at you. Only a little remorseful that I CANNOT think happy thoughts while I am in the middle of hyperventilating. Thanks to you, and your decision to stab me straight to where I would bleed the most, I am more pessimistic than ever. So 6 months later I am still stuck here. Yeah, so what? Big deal. And you know what? You can only pretend so much that you CARE. Geez. All these thoughts over a bad crick in the neck and insomnia. And to sum it up: YOU make me sick. Yes, even after six months. So excuse me while I try my best now to think happy thoughts.
This was supposed to be sent to someone else (I allow you to make your guess) but decided against it in the last minute (because, seriously, that is just what losers might say). I am not sure if it made any sense, and I tried my best to fill in the right punctuations. It is just prolly the insecurity of having neither the inspiration nor the drive to move on. I am sorry if it caused any confusion. I just had to let the ranting out of my chest.
April 11, 2009
Chapter Five: Random benches and earthy sidewalks.
Something definitely happened over the holidays. I could just tell.
He was changed, somehow softer, if I may so boldly describe. And how that came about I couldn't be sure.
It's not him. It's actually you. You're different, calmer, and probably even subdued.
I couldn't acknowledge it, not when I was with the professor in this seemingly suggestive circumstance that we were stuck in again, sitting face to face in a too relaxed state on a concrete bench in the sidelines of the wide, open field.
What he initiated almost made me think he liked provoking malice in people. Despite this he carried an air of guarded indifference in his surroundings as he fixed his full attention to what I was telling him as if it was the only thing that mattered in the sepia afternoon.
My narration wasn't even stimulating nor it was important, just a comment about the laze of people and things, and it had been the midterms.
His oriental eyes were a little too dazed as he looked at me, like his mind had flown elsewhere.
I instinctively frowned as the wind picked up, turning away to hide the rising flush.
"Stop it. You're making me very uncomfortable."
My ears had become so warm that they could melt.
The reverberation of his chuckle held a wryness that was hard to miss. I dared another look at his cryptic expression.
"People are starting to talk now. Are you sure you want to get into such a mess with me?"
I studied the undeniable hopeful glimmer in his eyes, and I was careful of my next words.
"I don't care about what they think," I said with a note of seriousness I didn't think I could muster that moment. I figured he asked to see me to actually talk about this today in the pretense of just hanging around.
"There is nothing to it. Isn't knowing what we really are what matters?"
The cool January breeze ruffled my unruly ponytail and all the browning leaves on the ground and trees. It was somewhat unnerving.
He appeared as if he was torn between wanting to believe me right away and confirming it one more time. By now I had expected him to rephrase his question.
"Really?"
An assuring but mischievous grin easily materialized on my face.
"Sure. And if you're up to it, we can always play with their imagination."
His rich laughter ricocheted in the vastness of the soccer field.
And it felt strangely good to hear it. The manifestation of his amusement was contagious, and I couldn't help but laugh with him, unconcerned of everything else in spite of the peculiar looks thrown our way.
Sepia transformed to chrome and indigo in a slow and poignant transition. The skies were witness to a bond forged in confidence of each other's doubts.
The professor didn't have to ask about who I liked however, because he really didn't have to, and I didn't have to be stuck again with giving away information that he didn't need to hear. It was embarrassing to share my hopeless attraction to Michael, who was not even in the country anymore, the red on my face rivaling the color of my shirt.
Thankfully, he offered an emphatic smile as if saying things would be alright somehow. I tried to match the look even if I couldn't believe the implication of it. Being a pessimist was pitiful enough.
It was becoming cold when dusk broke. I was already kicking random pebbles on the narrow track that everybody identified as Lovers' Lane when the professor started on the unlikely topic with him walking too close beside me.
Inwardly, I scoffed at the irony of the silly name, knowing it would never be more than any other insignificant sidewalk to us.
Never.
He was changed, somehow softer, if I may so boldly describe. And how that came about I couldn't be sure.
It's not him. It's actually you. You're different, calmer, and probably even subdued.
I couldn't acknowledge it, not when I was with the professor in this seemingly suggestive circumstance that we were stuck in again, sitting face to face in a too relaxed state on a concrete bench in the sidelines of the wide, open field.
What he initiated almost made me think he liked provoking malice in people. Despite this he carried an air of guarded indifference in his surroundings as he fixed his full attention to what I was telling him as if it was the only thing that mattered in the sepia afternoon.
My narration wasn't even stimulating nor it was important, just a comment about the laze of people and things, and it had been the midterms.
His oriental eyes were a little too dazed as he looked at me, like his mind had flown elsewhere.
I instinctively frowned as the wind picked up, turning away to hide the rising flush.
"Stop it. You're making me very uncomfortable."
My ears had become so warm that they could melt.
The reverberation of his chuckle held a wryness that was hard to miss. I dared another look at his cryptic expression.
"People are starting to talk now. Are you sure you want to get into such a mess with me?"
I studied the undeniable hopeful glimmer in his eyes, and I was careful of my next words.
"I don't care about what they think," I said with a note of seriousness I didn't think I could muster that moment. I figured he asked to see me to actually talk about this today in the pretense of just hanging around.
"There is nothing to it. Isn't knowing what we really are what matters?"
The cool January breeze ruffled my unruly ponytail and all the browning leaves on the ground and trees. It was somewhat unnerving.
He appeared as if he was torn between wanting to believe me right away and confirming it one more time. By now I had expected him to rephrase his question.
"Really?"
An assuring but mischievous grin easily materialized on my face.
"Sure. And if you're up to it, we can always play with their imagination."
His rich laughter ricocheted in the vastness of the soccer field.
And it felt strangely good to hear it. The manifestation of his amusement was contagious, and I couldn't help but laugh with him, unconcerned of everything else in spite of the peculiar looks thrown our way.
Sepia transformed to chrome and indigo in a slow and poignant transition. The skies were witness to a bond forged in confidence of each other's doubts.
The professor didn't have to ask about who I liked however, because he really didn't have to, and I didn't have to be stuck again with giving away information that he didn't need to hear. It was embarrassing to share my hopeless attraction to Michael, who was not even in the country anymore, the red on my face rivaling the color of my shirt.
Thankfully, he offered an emphatic smile as if saying things would be alright somehow. I tried to match the look even if I couldn't believe the implication of it. Being a pessimist was pitiful enough.
It was becoming cold when dusk broke. I was already kicking random pebbles on the narrow track that everybody identified as Lovers' Lane when the professor started on the unlikely topic with him walking too close beside me.
Inwardly, I scoffed at the irony of the silly name, knowing it would never be more than any other insignificant sidewalk to us.
Never.
March 20, 2009
Chapter Four: Nocturnal dialogue.
The sound of the rain beating against the French windows wasn't the one that broke the silence of the dead night. Beneath the pillow the phone had been stubbornly ringing, stirring me awake, jerking my consciousness in the worst manner imaginable.
I didn't need to look at the screen of the device to know who had to call me at this time of the day.
"Hello?" I heard my hoarse voice expand in the void. This was dangerously becoming a habit, these almost secret calls in the wee hours, even when there really was nothing to talk about.
"Were you sleeping?" He was almost shocked, and had the nerve to ask.
"Yes. No. Does it matter?" I had to clear my throat, irritation evident at the ugly sound. The grogginess wouldn't leave me for another ten seconds.
"Sorry."
Just one word and something in the professor's speech pattern made me instantly alert, a frown forming on my face.
He was unusually somber if not melancholic, but that wasn't what was striking about it. I surprised myself at the easy observation. I didn't realize I had already become sensitive of his moods now.
Taking in the limited light in my space, I blinked again and again as I focused my sight on the plastic constellations pasted on the ceiling.
The feelings he was unintentionally channeling through the call were disconcerting, weighing me down with the tangible heaviness.
I convinced myself that he hadn't meant to seek for me, that it just happened to be an accident that I was the first person he was able to reach. And I couldn't ask him what was wrong because it wasn't in my nature to prod though I certainly tried, mouth open with the question hanging between us.
"My dad," he sighed the words, not elaborating since there really was no need to. It was easy to assume that the professor's influential father wanted his way with things again.
"I see."
I sincerely wished I could be more emphatic however I had always been short in that field.
But he had accepted the company which seemed enough for him.
"Don't worry about it," I added in attempt to cheer him up, anyway not sure if it was the right thing to say. It was an embarrassingly standard operating procedure statement, and I cringed to myself at the mention of it.
Finally, the angry storm had ceased its torment, quiet slowly returning in this little house. Time passed slowly now as eternity seemed to stretch while I waited in my bed for an answer that might not come.
He didn't say anything to acknowledge the hope in things but there was comfort in his silence and a sense of calm in the absence of words. I figured it was actually him who was doing me a favor.
"Thank you for answering the call."
Shadows had stilled and my breath stopped for a very short second. How could such gratitude be so impacting like this?
My response came a little too late.
"Anytime."
Anytime.
At the back of my mind I knew that the word was going to haunt me from then on, like an unwanted promise I was bound to keep.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Sweetie," the professor mumbled as if it were an afterthought, still slightly pensive.
I couldn't resist a pout. I still hated to be reduced to such pun.
"Go to sleep, Cat. It's late. Bye."
The call ended but that was also when I started having his dreams.
I didn't need to look at the screen of the device to know who had to call me at this time of the day.
"Hello?" I heard my hoarse voice expand in the void. This was dangerously becoming a habit, these almost secret calls in the wee hours, even when there really was nothing to talk about.
"Were you sleeping?" He was almost shocked, and had the nerve to ask.
"Yes. No. Does it matter?" I had to clear my throat, irritation evident at the ugly sound. The grogginess wouldn't leave me for another ten seconds.
"Sorry."
Just one word and something in the professor's speech pattern made me instantly alert, a frown forming on my face.
He was unusually somber if not melancholic, but that wasn't what was striking about it. I surprised myself at the easy observation. I didn't realize I had already become sensitive of his moods now.
Taking in the limited light in my space, I blinked again and again as I focused my sight on the plastic constellations pasted on the ceiling.
The feelings he was unintentionally channeling through the call were disconcerting, weighing me down with the tangible heaviness.
I convinced myself that he hadn't meant to seek for me, that it just happened to be an accident that I was the first person he was able to reach. And I couldn't ask him what was wrong because it wasn't in my nature to prod though I certainly tried, mouth open with the question hanging between us.
"My dad," he sighed the words, not elaborating since there really was no need to. It was easy to assume that the professor's influential father wanted his way with things again.
"I see."
I sincerely wished I could be more emphatic however I had always been short in that field.
But he had accepted the company which seemed enough for him.
"Don't worry about it," I added in attempt to cheer him up, anyway not sure if it was the right thing to say. It was an embarrassingly standard operating procedure statement, and I cringed to myself at the mention of it.
Finally, the angry storm had ceased its torment, quiet slowly returning in this little house. Time passed slowly now as eternity seemed to stretch while I waited in my bed for an answer that might not come.
He didn't say anything to acknowledge the hope in things but there was comfort in his silence and a sense of calm in the absence of words. I figured it was actually him who was doing me a favor.
"Thank you for answering the call."
Shadows had stilled and my breath stopped for a very short second. How could such gratitude be so impacting like this?
My response came a little too late.
"Anytime."
Anytime.
At the back of my mind I knew that the word was going to haunt me from then on, like an unwanted promise I was bound to keep.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Sweetie," the professor mumbled as if it were an afterthought, still slightly pensive.
I couldn't resist a pout. I still hated to be reduced to such pun.
"Go to sleep, Cat. It's late. Bye."
The call ended but that was also when I started having his dreams.
Chapter Three: As a blush gives way to a bruise.
As he immersed himself in the loud music that bounced within the sound-proof room, the professor was transformed into another person.
He had a sure, firm grip of the slender sticks and paid too close attention to the harmony of the other instruments that completely drowned the steady reverberation of the downpour outside.
I shuffled uncomfortably on my seat, trying to understand the sounds swirling about.
The one who tried to sing, another young professor who succumbed to the calls of five-minute fame, made a ridiculous attempt to cover the song, and I shook my head at the unfortunate limitations of his vocals as I struggled not to openly laugh.
Sir Dan, who I started calling Cat (because I couldn't bring to just call him Dan whenever we were already outside the classroom even if he insisted) was still set on delivering his parts as if there was no room for mistake even at practice. He was easily a perfectionist, and even with music he was as unforgiving as he was with arguments in logic.
My train of thoughts about the drummer was broken when my name was called.
Actually, the Automata professor merely mouthed the word and waved my way.
Sweetie, he had said. That was clearly a pun to my name and a joke that had stuck. The annoying man refused to call me by my name, saying that it rather sounded too lame for someone like me.
"No thanks," I replied even though I knew he wouldn't be able to hear me behind the slightly parted glass doors.
They were having a few minutes break now and he wanted me to step inside the studio.
I was lounging on the bench in the empty and narrow hallway adjacent to the crammed room, uncharacteristically patient and thoughtful.
The drummer didn't move from his position but twirled one of the sticks in his fingers expertly. He had previously mentioned that he taught himself to use the bulky percussion and that he identified himself as an amateur to it.
Show off, I mouthed and playfully stuck my tongue out.
It was almost taboo that I was allowed to even do such thing to a professor even if I could debate that we were a little more familiar now.
I couldn't help but muse on Sir Jessie's comment about his colleague thirty minutes ago as we were just heading to their scheduled practice.
"Dan only hangs out with people he likes."
Isn't that what people are normally inclined to do? I had asked, knowing that he was anyway implying something. It was almost unbelievable that even the balding young instructor was teasing us now.
I had stopped the urge to roll my eyes and defend myself. Didn't I anyway say that I couldn't care less of what other people think? Commenting about it would just mean there was anyway something going on.
The two professors just had to laugh at me, conspiring as they shared a secret thought to themselves and embarrassing me somehow. The traitor didn't bother explaining why he had to drag me with him anywhere he pleased, and though I wasn't one to complain or question at the face of boredom and nothing better to do, I was starting to wonder to myself.
The sharp blast of the electric guitar brought me back to the deserted corridor and had me center my concentration to the oriental eyes that were curiously staring at the clueless bespectacled girl by the double doors. I didn't realize until my ears burned that the girl was actually me.
Blushing, I decided, was just as demeaning even when nobody could notice the red tinge across my confused face.
The noise that filled the beat-up place was just as taunting as the blood that was persistently pounding in my ears.
He had a sure, firm grip of the slender sticks and paid too close attention to the harmony of the other instruments that completely drowned the steady reverberation of the downpour outside.
I shuffled uncomfortably on my seat, trying to understand the sounds swirling about.
The one who tried to sing, another young professor who succumbed to the calls of five-minute fame, made a ridiculous attempt to cover the song, and I shook my head at the unfortunate limitations of his vocals as I struggled not to openly laugh.
Sir Dan, who I started calling Cat (because I couldn't bring to just call him Dan whenever we were already outside the classroom even if he insisted) was still set on delivering his parts as if there was no room for mistake even at practice. He was easily a perfectionist, and even with music he was as unforgiving as he was with arguments in logic.
My train of thoughts about the drummer was broken when my name was called.
Actually, the Automata professor merely mouthed the word and waved my way.
Sweetie, he had said. That was clearly a pun to my name and a joke that had stuck. The annoying man refused to call me by my name, saying that it rather sounded too lame for someone like me.
"No thanks," I replied even though I knew he wouldn't be able to hear me behind the slightly parted glass doors.
They were having a few minutes break now and he wanted me to step inside the studio.
I was lounging on the bench in the empty and narrow hallway adjacent to the crammed room, uncharacteristically patient and thoughtful.
The drummer didn't move from his position but twirled one of the sticks in his fingers expertly. He had previously mentioned that he taught himself to use the bulky percussion and that he identified himself as an amateur to it.
Show off, I mouthed and playfully stuck my tongue out.
It was almost taboo that I was allowed to even do such thing to a professor even if I could debate that we were a little more familiar now.
I couldn't help but muse on Sir Jessie's comment about his colleague thirty minutes ago as we were just heading to their scheduled practice.
"Dan only hangs out with people he likes."
Isn't that what people are normally inclined to do? I had asked, knowing that he was anyway implying something. It was almost unbelievable that even the balding young instructor was teasing us now.
I had stopped the urge to roll my eyes and defend myself. Didn't I anyway say that I couldn't care less of what other people think? Commenting about it would just mean there was anyway something going on.
The two professors just had to laugh at me, conspiring as they shared a secret thought to themselves and embarrassing me somehow. The traitor didn't bother explaining why he had to drag me with him anywhere he pleased, and though I wasn't one to complain or question at the face of boredom and nothing better to do, I was starting to wonder to myself.
The sharp blast of the electric guitar brought me back to the deserted corridor and had me center my concentration to the oriental eyes that were curiously staring at the clueless bespectacled girl by the double doors. I didn't realize until my ears burned that the girl was actually me.
Blushing, I decided, was just as demeaning even when nobody could notice the red tinge across my confused face.
The noise that filled the beat-up place was just as taunting as the blood that was persistently pounding in my ears.
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