The Unfinished Story

As two of you already know, I still keep this blog and find the time to write in here sometimes. Although I know there are people out there who still visit from time to time, I'd like to think that with this blog I can totally be myself and just type away on everything my non-ennui persona would want to express. Don't get me wrong, I'll still be my encryptic self because I don't want to risk being caught escaping to Carpathia without my clothes on. I have to be decent all the time. That's just the way it is.

(I have another blog though that comes integrated with an exclusive Friendster-like network. That's where I'm just running around naked with a basket of fruits on my head, as one friend quipped in a testimonial a long time ago)

DISCLAIMER: Before going further, I'd like to warn you, dear reader, that the next few lines are gonna get really sappy and ridiculous so I'm preparing you right now should you wish to pursue. I just needed to write about it in hopes of getting it out of my system and maybe help me move on with my life.

(Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings is playing in the background while I type this. Beautifully melancholic. It's close to being a spiritual experience when I listen to it)

For this entry, I'd just like to say that although there are a lot of fish out there in the ocean, I always thought I was willing to wait to find "the one," the big fish to beat them all in the competition. I always thought I had an invincibly Hitlerian (if there's such a term) approach to relationships -- choose one and kill the others. But like that freakin' EBTG song goes ... "I didn't know I was looking for love till I found you ..."

Not really. I wasn't consciously looking for it, but she found me. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my psyche, she was able to cut through the impervious armor of an exclusive Catholic school boy. She was able to melt the heart of this scarred and tortured little creature and turned it into a human being. She taught me how to feel, how there are a million possible meanings to a single statement, how there are always exceptions to every rule the way I was one of them.

And I have been thankful. It has been another world that had been opened up to me and I willingly embraced the upflow not knowing how I could've drowned entirely in it. Even if I knew, I still wouldn't have hesitated.

(Now Tchaikovsky's Elegy in G is playing in the air, reminding me of a Shakespearean tragedy)

When we met up last night, me, her, and our new "couples therapist," I never realized how fucked up we both ended up to be. I always thought I was pretty screwed up, but not really her. I always thought she had it figured out so easily and moved on. I never regret having gone through what I had gone through. It has become a part of me to never dwell on regretting. I can say I truly imbibed this no-looking back attitude already. But man, when she opened up last night, I got to thinking ... what a bloody mess. I don't want to go into specifics because there's no point in enumerating the number of casualties or the amount of damage the "tsunami" had brought out. What's past is past and we've already moved on (or so I'd like to think). Besides, maybe we were pretty fucked up to start with anyway. It was probably a trainwreck waiting to happen. It was probably for the best.

But my point in pondering over this encounter is to somehow find some sort of reason or explanation as to how we've become what we've become, because from our long discussion last night, it seems to me that we're both looking for the same thing now. Not that we've become dysfunctional, no. I'd say we're still pretty normal and capable of carrying out relationships like regular people, it's just that there will always be this thirst for passion, this need to explore the depth of the rabbit hole, the desire to reach the limit and traipse on the borders of anything we'd do. It's nice to feel secure and safe once in a while, nice to have a hand to hold when everything becomes unsettled. However, I believe (and I speak for the both of us) that we are the source of that chaos, we WANT to cause that chaos. We're the revelers who go out of our way to test each others' threshold just for us to know what to expect. We hold in our hands the kind of passion one can only imagine in mythology. It was something only people can imagine in dreams. We could've handled the conflagration, knowing fully well how dangerous and perfect it was at the same time. We had it in our grasp.

The only problem was that we were too real. We had flaws.

And so the story never reached full climax and we were both left as individuals again, back as mortals looking for a way to end our own side of the story in any way we could. We were forced to reacknowledge our frailties and to be reacquainted with humanity, that we may possibly live the rest of our lives as pieces to a long lost tale or hope to fit the shards into a new story with the attempt at reviving, reliving even just the faint notion of what once was.

The question is, are we each ready to risk everything in hopes of a vainglorious conclusion? How would the story end now that there are two separate books being written?

In my book, the main character makes his own fire and burns.