Magbasa

I’m told quite often that I’m an open book. Easy read. Plain as the nose on your face. What you see is what you get. And yet everyday I have no idea exactly how I’m feeling. How do these two realities exist? I’m an open book and yet I’m illiterate. How’s that for irony?

I’m an open book. But what does it say? Who reads a book just because it’s open? Don’t you want to pick one out for yourself from the bookcase, from your section of interest? Aren’t those books actually more interesting because you took the time to select it? Chances are you only ever read an open book in the waiting room at the dentist’s office on whatever abandoned page the last patient left it on absentmindedly. Is that what I am? Abandoned literature in the waiting room of life?? Ok. Ok. I’m reeling it in. Reeling it in.

I guess I really don’t mind being an open book. Thankfully, some people do take the time to take a read. But what I would like, is to take a more active part in writing what’s on the pages.

Pinagdaanan

How do you simultaneously remember something forever and wish it never happened? I want to scream into a black hole, scream till I’m raw and then nothing. No echo. No reverberations. Like it never happened but that I still got that release. I guess it’s my version of living in a world with no repercussions. I want to eat a giant ice cream sundae but not experience the gastro-intestinal havoc of lactose intolerance. I want to feel the exhilaration of jumping off a building but not the gravity that brings it to a bone crushing end. I want to experience falling in love but not the falling out of it.

There are days when I just want to soak in it. Like it’s droplets of honey between my fingertips all sticky and sweet and impossible to untangle. I don’t know if I’m remembering it correctly. Is this love? You pull at the golden threads and they stretch and glisten in the sunlight. They catch a breeze and pull away from your fingers like kite strings. Honey gold. It’s everywhere. What a mess. Yeah, I guess it is.