never a fan
I was never a huge fan of Valentine's Day. Not even when I was in a relationship back then (which was a long, long time ago). I've always thought it was another way for making people spend their hard earned cash for meaningless symbols of love and eroticism like flora, cocoa products, hotel/motel and restaurant receipts, the works. I admire the concept though. But like Christmas and Easter, it has become rather too commercial for me, too established, too automatic. Perhaps it was because I never equated love and eroticism with February the 14th. Or perhaps I didn't care at all. Funny, that I don't remember having a good memory in that day. I'm sure there must be something, but it somehow didn't leave a long lasting impression. Looking back, my best memories were not in this day. I have to admit that I never remembered "celebrating" Valentine's Day with a boyfriend. I think I did, but only once.
and after 5 valentines...
I have been "single" for 5 Valentine's now. Do I regret it? I wouldn't call it regret for it is too harsh a word. Nostalgia maybe. Well, there are moments, yes. Especially when you wake up in the middle of the night with just a pillow on your head and not a shoulder or an arm to rest on, and a blanket and not a body to keep you warm. When that happens, I usually smoke it off with a fag and go back to bed. But most of the time, I revel in my singularity. My solitude. My being to able roam, to let my feet lead me to whereever. But there are moments... Oh yes, there are moments.
what gives?
What happened? Well, I came to a point where I had to make a 
choice. I realized that I could never, achieve some of my most relevant goals if I were in a commited relationship. Somehow, there was a point when I got weary of all the rituals that were involved in love and sex - the language, the name calling, the fights which can vary from verbal to the physical then to the carnal, the jealousy, the drama (basically), the breakups, the what-happens-after, the familiar faces and placesm the whole nine-yards. It got so annoying to the point of being banal. I took a "breather". And here I am, 5 Valentines later, writing this blog entry.
I cannot say I don't miss it, that I don't long for it. In fact, behind my cynicsm and acidity, I still think that I am a romatic. I may not be the usual romantic turd with the flowers and hershey's bar in hand, but I think I am. I trust that I am. I have been in love. It may not be many, but I know what it is.
Omar's first
I was so young when it happened. And I was so naive, so foolish. It was rapture. And I knew I was doomed in the end. Looking back, I search for memories of my first, and I found out that I hadthousands of them, a plethora of feelings and emotions but never regret. I may have made bad choices in my past relationships, but never the first. Never my first.
I guess that's one of the main reasons why I am still on a "breather". I cling too much on my first. I may have let it go, but it became the archetype in my succeeding relationships. I was looking for the feeling, the rush, the rapture, the violence, the serenity and yes, even the drama. Only to find out later that there is really no archetype in a loving relationship. There is no blue print. A lot may disagree, but hey, this is my experience.
little things
I learned that you make the rules as you go along. That love is about agreeing and disagreeing and compromising. It's also about the being mundane and being sacred at the same time. It's also about being raptured from time to time in moments and places you least expect. Mostly, it's about the small things - the smile, the lashes and eyebrows, the frown, the eyes, the sound of his breathing when he sleeps, the rhythm of his heartbeat that woke you up in your sleep at three am to find yourself that you were sleeping in his chest, the compliment, the criticism, the lesson learned, the unexpected tears, the unexpected fights, the unexpected notes on your desk, the togethernes, the silence... small things... details.
I miss the details.
I had hurt many people in the past. I have found out a long time ago that I wasn't the perfect specimen for authentic existence. Who is anyways? I am probably paying my dues right now. Lady Karma has been kind to me, though. She has, and I thank her for not smiting my ass. I am not made of titanium either. I've been fucked badly by some in the past. I used to hate them, but what's the use? Shit happens.
About a year ago, I sorta fell in love. I did. It wasn't as strong a feeling that I had with my first but I knew the feeling. It was still love. It turned out bad. Lies unfolded. Hopes rejected. Dreams got trampled upon. People got hurt. My heart shattered. Shit happens. Even in love.
the hollywoodification of love and eroticism
I grew up in a culture of Hollywood movies. Straight. A house with a garden and a car. 2 kids and a dog and probably a cat and a pet canary. Sleepless in Seattle. Serendipity. An ocean liner sinking. Sex inside a vintage Ford. Pretty in Pink. Proms. St. Elmo's fire. Casablanca. Falling in love with your boss then making it big in the big city. Finding your Prince Charming. Barbie and Ken. Looking for love in the big city and then finding it in the end... yada yada yada. I have the impression that almost everything is hollywoodified these days. People tend to pattern their relationships with the flicks they see not even thinking it's just celluloid. To a certain degree, it's not completely our fault. When Hollywood and Cupid made a merger, we were never included. We were the consumers. We merely consumed. When I became conscious about it, I realized that I wasn't part of the stipulations. I was always an outsider. I was never in the plot. I was always the "extra". My story didn't fit in.
So, I made a decision. I decided to fuck Hollywood... and fuck Cupid.
I make my own rules now.
the valentine embargo
and on being possible
I have decided to place an embargo on love. There are things that I need to accomplish. There are horizons that I need to conquer. I believe have to conquer it, even if I have to conquer it alone. Don't get me wrong. I still believe in the idea of LOVE {sans Cupic sans Hollywood, that is}. But I won't be looking for it. Nor will I be waiting. I'm tired of looking and waiting for someone to sweep me off my feet. If he comes he comes. If he doesn't, well fuck him. I'm gonna try to enjoy my life, even if I die trying. I heard someone say that the essence of being human is trying. So I will try to be happy. After all, LOVE begins with the self. I still hope and dream, after all I am a stoned romantic. But there is always that possibility that I would never meet the person that would make me want to vomit everything that I wrote in this blog entry. I will always have this naive heart. It will always be a part of what makes me, me. But I won't let it rule over my life, my existence. I believe that I am more than my naive heart. Apart from it, I am also possible.
I
will be possible.
never a fan
I was never a huge fan of Valentine's Day. Not even when I was in a relationship back then (which was a long, long time ago). I've always thought it was another way for making people spend their hard earned cash for meaningless symbols of love and eroticism like flora, cocoa products, hotel/motel and restaurant receipts, the works. I admire the concept though. But like Christmas and Easter, it has become rather too commercial for me, too established, too automatic. Perhaps it was because I never equated love and eroticism with February the 14th. Or perhaps I didn't care at all. Funny, that I don't remember having a good memory in that day. I'm sure there must be something, but it somehow didn't leave a long lasting impression. Looking back, my best memories were not in this day. I have to admit that I never remembered "celebrating" Valentine's Day with a boyfriend. I think I did, but only once.
and after 5 valentines...
I have been "single" for 5 Valentine's now. Do I regret it? I wouldn't call it regret for it is too harsh a word. Nostalgia maybe. Well, there are moments, yes. Especially when you wake up in the middle of the night with just a pillow on your head and not a shoulder or an arm to rest on, and a blanket and not a body to keep you warm. When that happens, I usually smoke it off with a fag and go back to bed. But most of the time, I revel in my singularity. My solitude. My being to able roam, to let my feet lead me to whereever. But there are moments... Oh yes, there are moments.
what gives?
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