Chapter 1 : The happiest sad story of my life
Mix gin with soda. Light up a cigarette. Play a movie. That’s what I am left to do. I cry because of love stories someone else wrote. And the sadness lingers but for a few minutes.
If they can write their own stories, I’m sure I can do, too.
The saddest part is when you do it alone. Sure, call a friend to stay with you, but soon they all leave. Leaving. If goodbyes are temporary, there is always the reunion to look forward to. But if goodbye means forever, what is the end of sadness?
My hometown was devastated by the past storm. And the next day, all seemed fine. The sun goes up again and we hang out mattresses to dry in the sun that wasn’t there yesterday. Why is it so different when we say goodbye to those things that were washed away? On the other hand, we also find an opportunity to clean up and let go of the piles of old textbooks, of clothes never worn for the longest time. We give the dogs baths and we go on with our lives.
Then why write about the storm? It gave us pretty a clear warning that we should soon leave this place because of the threat that this will happen again. But why bother, life goes on. It will be another year before the typhoons come again.
Repeat. And we do it all over again. If you are smart, come the rain, we pack up and vacate. Knock on a relative’s door, keep safe for the night. Then go back home the next day to clean up. Besides, our house, our land, well, it will always be ours.
Repeat. Will we ever tire?
What is love? Why is it any different? Same with the rain, the storm, it floods our hearts, our insides, our person. But when it goes away, how do we say goodbye? No, we cannot just clean up the mess and continue with life. No, not for a long time, I’m sure.
People. They take advantage of this thing, love. They take it for granted, no? I am sure.
When we were young, love was all there is. Mom and dad. Pain can easily go away with a kiss from mom, and dad was the only man in our lives. They mean only what is good, what is best for us. Read:Love has different degrees. And every one has his or her own opinion about it. But what else can we do but live with love?
I have read countless books, watched tons of movies. And love is all there is to it. Mix in love with a story about aliens invading the earth, or love with a neurotic movie, and it is sold.
Write. Write our own stories, if you please.
And when we say goodbye to love, we realize that we can’t hang it out to dry. We can’t air out whatever stench it has.
So let’s take a sip of our soda with gin and light up another cigarette.
And let us begin to write our fiction.
She was in her youth when she saw him outside of her window. He gets off his ride everyday, at four in the afternoon. He was oblivious. One day, he saw her, but pretended not to see. She was young, and he felt too mature for her. He was in love with someone, and she was with him. One day, he was left alone by the one he loved. And he noticed her.
She was a girl, he clearly saw that. And nothing else mattered. But everyday, at four, he saw her. But he pretended not to see. And soon their eyes met. And they smiled. She, as young as she was, gathered courage, and slowly began to get near him. And he was pleased. Soon, they were saying their hellos, and it became constant. He went nearer and hellos turned to conversations.
As predicted, they fell in love. But she loved more. And they were happy.
And she died.
That was nice. At least there was closure.
Sip and puff.
All short stories can never be long. It has to end soon.
Chapter 2: What comes after.
We get better. After we find ourselves in the lowest part of whatever it is, we only hope to get better.
I wish that the only task I have is to make mom and dad proud. And this is never ending. Especially when we forever attempt to but still fail.
Turn on the shower. Cold. Wash out all the disappointments. Dry yourself.
And we try to live for ourselves. But it seems that people are more selfish. They expect more. And soon, there are a million of other people wishing and hoping not to be disappointed with you.
A reminder to them: if they are disappointed, of course, you yourself get disappointed with you first. Ah, the complexities of the human brain.
Write our fiction.
After four years of studying hard, she graduates with honors. And at the stands, mom and dad beam with pride. That’s our daughter up there, they say. Applause.
She finds a job on the 31st floor of a shiny new building with marble floors. She dresses up in smart clothes and wear stilettos in the office. She drives her new car to work wearing dressy driving shoes. She buys coffee from Starbucks.
She has people waiting on her. She presses the intercom button and a timid girl answers to her every desire. her coffee is hot and fresh, her requests always answered.
And she discovers that she is unhappy. With her savings, she purchases a nifty powerbook and starts to pound away. She writes fiction, and sad love stories. She quits her job to write. She writes everyday. She hopes to sell books. She hopes to be known. But it is hard.
Her parents are disappointed with her decision and complain. They want her to go back to her high-paying job in an office with a view of the smoggy city. She struggles and argues. She goes home broken and in pain.
As with any stressed out and miserable people do, she goes back to the corporate life to please mom and dad. She works for another year.
She writes her final piece and folds it neatly. She leaves it on the top of her dresser. She is disappointed with herself. She ingests 30 pills that put you to sleep and drinks 3 cups of vodka straight. She fights the urge to throw up and curls on her bed. She died with tears in her eyes but she was ironically peaceful.
Her parents are disappointed. With themselves.
Chapter 3: What we should do.
There are times in our live when we wake up really happy. And there are days when we breeze through it without any dilemmas. How can we make it happen everyday? Of course we don’t.
Is there a way we can find on how to guarantee unending happiness? Find love I guess.
Refer to chapter1.
Chapter 4: Writing your own fiction.
Some people have it easy. They never get caught driving through one-way streets. Neither do they fail Math 1 or the physics class. There are those who find true love and live a faery tale. Theirs are stories that go to the non-fiction section. But what if life doesn’t cooperate with you?
Easy. Write your own story. You don’t even have to make it happen. Just make believe.
After watching Kuya Germs in “Payaso”, I quickly made up my mind not to become a child star or in any other way join the show business. I am definitely not going to bring out the golden susi ng langit and parade it in front of the cameras.
So I decided to sing Broadway. Without any effort, I made it on the stage of a damp hall and sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” clad in my really cool 90’s get-up – an ethnic-print skirt with matching vest, grungy black boots, my smart Tan Gan shirt with long sleeves. Eww. But for a few seconds I basked in my personal round of applause. I even tried out for “Evita” but of course, I really wasn’t made for the bright lights and didn’t make it; not even for the pit choir. But I kept on singing, always dressed in the cool 90’s fashion.
Soon, I decided that the stage and show business are connected to each other and looked for another thing to waste my time with. So I got myself a boyfriend and another thing to do. Not that I was doing my boyfriend that time, that goes into another part of my story.
Stop. I do not have a fiction. Mine is fine. I like it this way.
Chapter 5: Non-fiction.
I watched a movie again today. It was a happy love story now.
Right now, I seem to forget about writing any sort of story for myself. Amazingly, I feel better. I feel as though I’ll be all good soon.
And I just have to wait. My story writes itself.