There are tales and tales of mysterious doors that yield to well-hidden keys. Surely, then, there is at least one tale of the opposite occurrence. An adventure, in turn, ensues for that single solution: that one door, that one key. What then if only the knowledge of both door and key exist, leaving but two solutions to be sought?
What awaits behind both door and key that is worth the trouble of a search? Can anyone tell me that?
EDIT: Spoke to John. Somewhat comforted. Somewhat not.
Friday, May 9
Friday, May 2
Grouphug.us
I read this one incredibly personal confession addressed to a specific woman. Not gonna lie, I bawled oceans (a symptom of the menstrual cycle, I'm sure).
Dear D.L.N.*,
I still love you. You’ve broke[n] my heart twice now and I still love you. I flew across the country to be with you for one night and you shut me down, just like you did when I came to Israel for you only a few years before.
How do I know I still love you? Because even after suffering without you for six years, after being acquainted with so many other women, you are still without peer in my heart. Because I am more intimately acquainted with your flaws than anyone else. When you shut me out of your life for three years, you didn’t need to tell me you didn’t know how to deal with what you were feeling. I had to carry that pain in my breast for three years. Through every night when I couldn’t sleep because all I could manage to do was cry, I still loved you.
Through every hard moment when I needed someone to be there for me and there was no one, I still loved you.
Through every beautiful place I’ve seen since then that was tainted by not being able to share it with you, I still loved you.
Through every time I wanted to reach out to someone and tell them I love them, I still loved you.
Through every time I woke up alone with that quick, loathsome sting of the heart upon realizing you weren’t there, I still loved you.
Every day, for the past six years, from the moment I was first aware of your existence, till now, I still loved you.
And yet, you have the audacity, the sheer gall to say that we can’t be together because I’m not mature enough for you? Wasn’t my intelligence and maturity for my age [the things that] attract[ed] you to me in the first place? Didn’t one of your ex-boyfriends used to send you pictures of his turds to marvel over with him? I’ve been waiting six years for you, and you couldn’t even give me one fucking night when I flew 3,000 miles to be with you? I didn’t want to have sex with you, and yet, that’s all you could see in me when I was with you. And so what if I did want to have sex with you? For the last six years, I have waited for you, not so much as looking upon another woman. I view my virginity as a beautiful gift to give to you, something I can give that you can never return, and that I can only give to one person on this earth, and I wanted to give it to you. I wanted you to teach me how to be a real man, in more ways than just the crude and obvious.
And now I’m stuck. How can I even have sex with anyone else when I love you so much? Why would I want to share that gift with someone who I don’t feel this way towards? I’ve never even kissed a girl, and you couldn’t even give me that. How can I even date another girl when I know I’ll never be able to care for her even remotely as much as I care for you?
How dare you portray yourself as some sort of arbiter of empathy, some sort of force for justice in this world, when someone who cares for you so deeply was so hastily and carelessly cast aside because you couldn’t put up with my being a little nervous around you for an hour. Not to mention an hour that was borne from months and months of romantic build up, of promises of romance and adventure galore.
Do you know what a poison it is to promise to a man that he’ll be able to hold you, to kiss you, to whisper sweet nothings, to take you on grand adventures, to do these things for the very first time, and then renege at the peak of his excitement to be with you? Let alone twice!
And yet, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you needed to me. I’m sorry I let you down. And I’m ashamed at myself, because even with all my hate for you, I know I’d still do absolutely anything for you. I know my love for you is as strong as it ever was. And it’s the absolute most elaborate, intricate, excruciating torture to know that a woman of your sheer perfection and class exists, and is capable of loving me (as she has twice prior), and refuses to give me one more chance when I have been so steadfastly dedicated to her.
And in the most bizarre of ways, I thank you. The first time you hurt me, anyways, as bad as it was, was a learning experience. I learned more through that than I could’ve through any amount of schooling or time or work anywhere else. You taught me maturity. You taught me patience. You taught me how to deal with heartache. You taught me wisdom. But most importantly, you taught me how to forgive. I only wish you would learn how to, too.
- S
*Name changed for privacy purposes.
Dear D.L.N.*,
I still love you. You’ve broke[n] my heart twice now and I still love you. I flew across the country to be with you for one night and you shut me down, just like you did when I came to Israel for you only a few years before.
How do I know I still love you? Because even after suffering without you for six years, after being acquainted with so many other women, you are still without peer in my heart. Because I am more intimately acquainted with your flaws than anyone else. When you shut me out of your life for three years, you didn’t need to tell me you didn’t know how to deal with what you were feeling. I had to carry that pain in my breast for three years. Through every night when I couldn’t sleep because all I could manage to do was cry, I still loved you.
Through every hard moment when I needed someone to be there for me and there was no one, I still loved you.
Through every beautiful place I’ve seen since then that was tainted by not being able to share it with you, I still loved you.
Through every time I wanted to reach out to someone and tell them I love them, I still loved you.
Through every time I woke up alone with that quick, loathsome sting of the heart upon realizing you weren’t there, I still loved you.
Every day, for the past six years, from the moment I was first aware of your existence, till now, I still loved you.
And yet, you have the audacity, the sheer gall to say that we can’t be together because I’m not mature enough for you? Wasn’t my intelligence and maturity for my age [the things that] attract[ed] you to me in the first place? Didn’t one of your ex-boyfriends used to send you pictures of his turds to marvel over with him? I’ve been waiting six years for you, and you couldn’t even give me one fucking night when I flew 3,000 miles to be with you? I didn’t want to have sex with you, and yet, that’s all you could see in me when I was with you. And so what if I did want to have sex with you? For the last six years, I have waited for you, not so much as looking upon another woman. I view my virginity as a beautiful gift to give to you, something I can give that you can never return, and that I can only give to one person on this earth, and I wanted to give it to you. I wanted you to teach me how to be a real man, in more ways than just the crude and obvious.
And now I’m stuck. How can I even have sex with anyone else when I love you so much? Why would I want to share that gift with someone who I don’t feel this way towards? I’ve never even kissed a girl, and you couldn’t even give me that. How can I even date another girl when I know I’ll never be able to care for her even remotely as much as I care for you?
How dare you portray yourself as some sort of arbiter of empathy, some sort of force for justice in this world, when someone who cares for you so deeply was so hastily and carelessly cast aside because you couldn’t put up with my being a little nervous around you for an hour. Not to mention an hour that was borne from months and months of romantic build up, of promises of romance and adventure galore.
Do you know what a poison it is to promise to a man that he’ll be able to hold you, to kiss you, to whisper sweet nothings, to take you on grand adventures, to do these things for the very first time, and then renege at the peak of his excitement to be with you? Let alone twice!
And yet, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you needed to me. I’m sorry I let you down. And I’m ashamed at myself, because even with all my hate for you, I know I’d still do absolutely anything for you. I know my love for you is as strong as it ever was. And it’s the absolute most elaborate, intricate, excruciating torture to know that a woman of your sheer perfection and class exists, and is capable of loving me (as she has twice prior), and refuses to give me one more chance when I have been so steadfastly dedicated to her.
And in the most bizarre of ways, I thank you. The first time you hurt me, anyways, as bad as it was, was a learning experience. I learned more through that than I could’ve through any amount of schooling or time or work anywhere else. You taught me maturity. You taught me patience. You taught me how to deal with heartache. You taught me wisdom. But most importantly, you taught me how to forgive. I only wish you would learn how to, too.
- S
*Name changed for privacy purposes.
Tuesday, April 29
Alright. Let's get this over with.
Before many of you rise up in indignation at my juvenile frustration with the trivialities of my(our) daily life, I politely and respectfully beseech you to shut it. Because while there are those of my kin who are suffering under poverty, disease, and corruption back in the Philippines (a fact that even a simpleton cannot deny), it does not mean that I possess the same mental and emotional stamina to be as spirited as them in all my daily mundaneness. I may be significantly weaker than my impoverished counterparts.
Breezing through several psychological and anthropological aspects, surely it cannot be denied that when roles are switched and I am placed in a tropical shack whilst those under financial distress are put in a situation of being stable in all aspects of living... reactions may seem to vary but are, in fact, similar in the sense that they are "trivial" (a description that I'm beginning to find rather irritating) and evoke reactions that stem from exasperation with the dull. If one observes the "normal" toils of the average young adult belonging to the middle class, what does one see (listed in no specific order):
1. The urge to branch out and explore either mentally, emotionally, sexually, geographically, financially, etc. The idea of expanding horizons still remains. And how does this come about?
2. BOREDOM. Now that's not to say that absolutely everyone becomes bored with everything that they do; but I will be bold enough to call you a liar and a bigot if you claim to have never once felt an overwhelming sense of ennui in any particular moment in your life. But for this rant's sake, I do limit the criticism to those who tire of everyday routine or those who seek excitement and spontaneity (woo for you!). So if you believe yourself to be completely content with your mediocre life, then good for you.
3. And since I just happen to love being vague, the third category will include all problems that you, surely a person of the middle class (higher, lower, doesn't matter), face. Now what could that possibly be, you ask? For starters, one could never be without too much money to pay off several things like your car, the ever-expensive gas that goes into that car, your college education, your clothes that make you look oh-so-chic, the food that you crave at ungodly hours of the day, little luxuries that are subjective to an individual (personally, I enjoy notebook, journals, and sketchbooks), etc. But not only is that one problem. Looking at the social aspects of our insignificant little lives, there always exists tiny problems within relationships between even the best of friends, disgustingly sweet lovers, the most darling pair of mother and daughter, and so on and so forth. Going into the work-/academic-related problems is just asking for a brain aneurysm due to the recollection I will have to undergo in order to create an impassioned point.
It is pretty obvious to almost everyone that there are worse things going on in the world. However, bringing up that point as an argument against someone who chooses to complain will do virtually no good. One chooses to utilize that argument to make the aforementioned complainer to stop. Surely, then, the brute ends his tirade, much to your and everyone else's relief, but it does not erase the tiresome burden of the problems he spoke of.
I do not mean to belittle the "worse things" that are going on in this world right now. If anything, I confess to several times during which I wish for the whine-y fellow to shove it because of complaints of, let's say, "not being able to pay off the two Beamers [he] bought his twin daughters for their sixteenth birthday" (true story, by the way). In no way can a mere observer experience the pain of war, famine, and plague. In no way can a mere reader of newspapers feel the anger and the hate of those who suffer under inflicted political, social, and emotional pain.
But I do not ask for much--not money, not love, not even hate. I only ask for the smallest amount of patience towards a lowly 18-year-old girl and her entrance into a hypocritical reality with no expectations of being able to talk to anyone.
Before many of you rise up in indignation at my juvenile frustration with the trivialities of my(our) daily life, I politely and respectfully beseech you to shut it. Because while there are those of my kin who are suffering under poverty, disease, and corruption back in the Philippines (a fact that even a simpleton cannot deny), it does not mean that I possess the same mental and emotional stamina to be as spirited as them in all my daily mundaneness. I may be significantly weaker than my impoverished counterparts.
Breezing through several psychological and anthropological aspects, surely it cannot be denied that when roles are switched and I am placed in a tropical shack whilst those under financial distress are put in a situation of being stable in all aspects of living... reactions may seem to vary but are, in fact, similar in the sense that they are "trivial" (a description that I'm beginning to find rather irritating) and evoke reactions that stem from exasperation with the dull. If one observes the "normal" toils of the average young adult belonging to the middle class, what does one see (listed in no specific order):
1. The urge to branch out and explore either mentally, emotionally, sexually, geographically, financially, etc. The idea of expanding horizons still remains. And how does this come about?
2. BOREDOM. Now that's not to say that absolutely everyone becomes bored with everything that they do; but I will be bold enough to call you a liar and a bigot if you claim to have never once felt an overwhelming sense of ennui in any particular moment in your life. But for this rant's sake, I do limit the criticism to those who tire of everyday routine or those who seek excitement and spontaneity (woo for you!). So if you believe yourself to be completely content with your mediocre life, then good for you.
3. And since I just happen to love being vague, the third category will include all problems that you, surely a person of the middle class (higher, lower, doesn't matter), face. Now what could that possibly be, you ask? For starters, one could never be without too much money to pay off several things like your car, the ever-expensive gas that goes into that car, your college education, your clothes that make you look oh-so-chic, the food that you crave at ungodly hours of the day, little luxuries that are subjective to an individual (personally, I enjoy notebook, journals, and sketchbooks), etc. But not only is that one problem. Looking at the social aspects of our insignificant little lives, there always exists tiny problems within relationships between even the best of friends, disgustingly sweet lovers, the most darling pair of mother and daughter, and so on and so forth. Going into the work-/academic-related problems is just asking for a brain aneurysm due to the recollection I will have to undergo in order to create an impassioned point.
It is pretty obvious to almost everyone that there are worse things going on in the world. However, bringing up that point as an argument against someone who chooses to complain will do virtually no good. One chooses to utilize that argument to make the aforementioned complainer to stop. Surely, then, the brute ends his tirade, much to your and everyone else's relief, but it does not erase the tiresome burden of the problems he spoke of.
I do not mean to belittle the "worse things" that are going on in this world right now. If anything, I confess to several times during which I wish for the whine-y fellow to shove it because of complaints of, let's say, "not being able to pay off the two Beamers [he] bought his twin daughters for their sixteenth birthday" (true story, by the way). In no way can a mere observer experience the pain of war, famine, and plague. In no way can a mere reader of newspapers feel the anger and the hate of those who suffer under inflicted political, social, and emotional pain.
But I do not ask for much--not money, not love, not even hate. I only ask for the smallest amount of patience towards a lowly 18-year-old girl and her entrance into a hypocritical reality with no expectations of being able to talk to anyone.
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