My blade runs through the length of a shark’s left side, the tip very slightly grazing at the sandpaper-like skin, blood runs down the white of the shark’s skin from a cut blood vessel. It’s dark outside and the bright fluorescent lights are hurting my eyes, the smell of blood and sea is in the air, the sound of metal against metal is heard as my scalpel touches the operating surface—I’m tired.
I chose my degree because I always wanted to be a doctor—how cool they looked in the white coats and with the ever-present stethoscope. Everything was planned out, all of it, in my head. So why do I sometimes catch myself questioning this degree?
I’ve told someone once of how sometimes your ears will hurt from silence—how your senses will reel from the sudden absence of stimuli. Like how you sometimes hear a ringing in your ears even when there’s no sound at all. It’s kind of like that, this feeling. It’s like there’s a really high-pitched ringing in the back of my head. I don’t know why. I’m looking for what’s missing but I can’t seem to find it.
How do you fix yourself when you don’t even know what’s wrong?
Today, I got a sticky note from my old math teacher telling me that I’m still stuck living my high school life and that I should move forward and let go if I wanted to get better. I was smiling when I read it because he was standing there, but it hurt because it was too true.
I didn’t really want to leave high school, or at least the memory of it. You could get away with a lot more shit in high school—excuses were fine and being bad at something didn’t mean the end of the universe. But in college, where your success in life is dependent on how good a record you have, everything just feels so on the edge. And sir, if you ever get to read this, I want you to know that even if it doesn’t seem like it, my whispered apologies are sincere, and I appreciate it when you make an effort to do the favors I ask of you even when I’ve never really mouthed out the words, “Thank You.”
I do not know whether the color in this part of Tacloban was always this vivid or if I may just have not cared too much before. Surprising how much detail goes by unnoticed until a familiar scene is placed before you after a while without it. I don’t think I ever cared much for how the clouds could leave shadows on a far away hill face—how you could watch them dance over the land, how the edges of the shadows seemed blurry because of the way they were cast over the trees. It was sort of a calming ballet amidst the noise.
I can only take so much before I break—like a string forced taut from both ends by heavy weights until it snaps in half. I am breakable, I am vulnerable, I get hurt; I am human.
I am awake when everyone else sleeps. I am a floating soul in the corridors at night. It is my voice that echoes off the walls when your eyes close. My footsteps are in tune to the thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat. I am the ghost that bangs against the dome of your head as you sleep. My strong arms hold you, tenderly, sweetly; you are captive to my presence.
I am the silence. I am the dark. I am fear.
So this is sadness, to exist and to not feel alive; to be there and yet be somewhere else altogether.
Remember when I called you to say goodbye and you were on a bus to Rizal and couldn’t talk much? Remember how we cried on the phone?
It was funny because I thought you were at your apartment. The landlady even let me in because she still thought I was your sister.
You were supposed to help me with my computer. You thought I called to ask you about it. Then came my goodbye, then your silence.
I remember the promises. The “Promise to come back.” was the only one I couldn’t say yes to.
I told you I’d miss you and how ‘ew’ I felt about feelings. You said you’d miss that about me, you said you’d miss me. Then I cried.
I remember walking down the Acad Oval, thinking how much I’d miss the place. I realized then, I’d miss the people I left more.
I said distance was going to be the death of our friendship.
I can still feel the sensation of your skin next to mine. I remember wanting to fall in love but knowing I would never be what you wanted.
So I loved you like a sister. I slept in your room, you patted my hair, we would spend hours on end doing nothing together.
How your fingers would trace the side of my cheek to brush my hair back; I forget nothing. Those were my thoughts after I put the phone down.
I still miss you.
Let’s not celebrate Valentine’s Day. There are three hundred and sixty five days in a year. I would love you on every single one of those days. Why celebrate the ordinary? We celebrate something rare or special, but loving you is anything but rare.
I would rather celebrate you, because whatever it is I’ve found in you, that’s rare. So no more roses, no more chocolates, no more teddy bears. Let’s celebrate each other everyday.
Note: This is poetic me. I’m not really in a relationship. ;)