I believe I forgot to tell you that I love you four days ago. Still, I hope you know this without my saying, the way you just know certain things, like the melancholies that bind us and bridge our divergences, and allow me to see you, you to see me.
In my phone I keep your words to remind myself that I am not alone, even when all is silence, or when all is noise. I want to give them back to you, so that you, too, will remember—
“that it’s funny to question your worth as someone who tries to write and make stuff, even funnier to question the importance of art and literature. Of course it’s important. Of course you’re important. You think to make other people think, and you think about truth. What’s sad is that people don’t realize how important you are. What’s sadder is that sometimes you don’t realize it either.” (17.05.2011)
“that said, it’s always interesting to discover the richness of a thing.” (09.03.2011)
“I believe I discovered something about myself today. Unfortunately I don’t remember much of the epiphany because at 5am the world tends to make more sense when it’s spelled that way” (19.05.2011)
– to this day I don’t understand what this means (or how your other works work, how your words click into place). They just feel right.
“Ewan, hindi ko rin maintindihan.” (25.09.2011)
In the afternoon of April 15, I climbed up and down and up and down the rock formations at the far end of a white, stony beach, the sharp crags scraping the skin of my legs and palms, the noontime heat trapped within them searing my bare feet. Reaching the top I would look back at a group (my group / not my group) playing in the distance, then stare at the waves crashing over bedrock below, and contemplate leaping into them. Instead I would clamber down a different side of the rock, take a dip in the clear water and climb back up. In the end I watched the sun set, hiding behind the mountain away from the sea, the mountain I would climb alone when day next broke, and I cried over the solitude I cannot help but always seek, and the loneliness I sometimes almost cannot bear.
I know this is the sort of thing you can understand. It is, of course, melodrama, nothing but a cliché. But not for us.
You told me, once, that we needed to wield mastery over the emotions that crash like waves over our heads, get rid of this tendency to wallow, learn how to deal.
Learn how to deal. Not like this: you—break down. I—break myself.
But in our fragmentation, by the shards that cut—I feel you, you feel me.
The undertow isn’t so bad, really. We just need to learn how to tell where the ebbing tide turns to rip, and swim away (as if it were that easy).
There must be a better way to express how I appreciate you than through hyperbolic melancholy. I do not mean to make you or myself sad (but like you were told once, I, too, need to escape the bluish-grey monotone of my writing).
All I wanted to say in the beginning was “Belated happy birthday.”