Why do I always need to make up all these stories? I need to always envelop myself into a series of issues and worries that may or may not exist, but that in any case, becomes real enough to destroy relationships. It’s mental. There’s this mode I get into that grips me and drives me around and about like a twister, destroying anything on my path. And all the while, there’s this part of me that’s detached, aware of the mistakes I’m making, but unable to stop the rest of me. It watches while the rest of me turns everything over, in search of an answer, that I’m being fooled, that I could take a strange sort of satisfaction from knowing I was right from the beginning.
I’m sounding like those psycho characters from Stephen King’s novels. Perhaps the reason I like King is because those psycho characters in his stories are almost always the protagonists. I have a feeling he’d understand me better than anyone else. Too bad he’s married.
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One of the hardest things I need to accept is that there will always be someone who’s better than I am who would get a better slice of the pie, so to speak. The bitch of it is that I may not be a good as that other person, but I’m just not dumb enough to not get it when someone either gets frustrated at me or lets me off the hook easier than they would that better person. It feels shitty, like being part of a pack that gets the bones, always gets them, just not the best part, because you weren’t the best performer. Those times, It’d be a lot easier to just be completely stupid and clueless. But of course, for the sake of the viewing public and the die-hard fans (not that there are a lot of them, you understand), I just have to keep working at it.
Sometimes it feels like Life is a series of work-outs. The moment you stop is the day you die. Even a boyfriend would be another spectator in the audience who I should watch out for, lest he realizes he can have – acquire? – a better mutt.
I’m wondering what ever happened to all the good things I could expect from myself those years back. This same hand wrote those words of hope in sniffy, lovey letters I wrote my ex-boyfriend/ex-best friend/soul brother. I wonder where it all went. I guess it died the day I stopped loving him, stopped believing the impossibility of being disappointed and getting your heart broken. It seems like that time was a lifetime ago. Now I realize I’m the same person who can get hurt, only there’s less of me to hope. Fuck. Whatever happened to me? What the hell went wrong somewhere between St. Joseph Town Homes and Quezon City Subdivision (translation: the past ten years of my life)?
There’s one thing that remains the same though; my strange sense of humor.
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People who I think understood me more than most:
1) Monj
2) Edward
3) Eric B. (in a weird way)
4) Eric C.
5) Ana
6) Nico
7) Carl
Not a long list, considering my job where I meet a lot of people. The industry I’m currently in just buffets its practitioners into evenings with CEO’s and country managers and “big” people who, thankfully, act like they know you and that you belong in their world, by virtue of your Publicity for their event. Oh. Under it all, I guess, is the assurance that regardless of how much your wardrobe costs and its consequence (in the event you get included in their photo releases), you are, in fact, helping them keep making a lot of money, by some obscure quantitative derivative for brand recognition. Hell.
Anyway, back to my list. These are the people that do not know me much, but they know me more than most others because they realized some things about me that I didn’t even know then. These people are the ones that have helped ease the long, frightful journey of “knowing thyself”. I have a lot of acquaintances. Perhaps a number of enemies. But these people can tell most of my best and worst, and have lived to survive it. Haha.
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Oh God, too much coffee is giving me palpitations. I need a beer to even out my heartbeats.
