<memoirs of a heartbroken man>

[gareb]

Episode VI: Bits and Pieces

I don’t see her anymore.

Not lately. And I guess I’m better off not knowing how long it’s been. I look for her, I admit, in the slipped phrases of my friends and in the slight mannerisms of strangers. As if in trying to piece together the jigsaw that was my life, I try to fit corners with corners, angles with angles. Sometimes by chance, more often by force. And even if the pieces don’t fit, I find my fingers forcing them together –

“How’ve you been?� she might say if I saw her again.

“Better,� I would lie.

But then again, maybe it isn’t pieces of her I’m looking for. Or maybe I just lie to myself very well. In the vaguest sense of the analogy, life presents itself as an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, with us scrambling for the missing pieces. We try to fit pieces of career and family, friends and girlfriends, work and play, her and I; when in reality, some pieces are never meant to fit.

I look for her, still. But not as often as I thought. And maybe the time away has been helping me fill my time with other things – the things I might’ve so arrogantly discarded and set aside without as much as batting an eyelash. And maybe, in focusing so much on a single piece of the puzzle, I’ve missed out on trying to put together the rest of myself.

“Ano ‘to?� a friend asked, pointing to a bouquet of dried flowers in the corner of my room.

“Wala ‘yan,� I lied, failing to muster the courage to tell him that those flowers had come from her, a few weeks after she had left. It was the last piece of herself that she had ever given me, and I’ve come to grips with the fact that it’s the last piece I’ll ever receive. And on the evenings when I miss her the most --

“I don’t think I deserve the apology,� the note on the bouquet reads. “I’m sorry for messing up.�

I’ve been asked time and time again to get rid of those dried flowers. And maybe I should, in time. But I guess in trying to complete our own puzzles, we cling more tightly to the pieces that don't fit.

She’s rubbed me out of her life, as easily as one would rub away pencil marks on scratch paper. I don’t see her anymore, and it’s most probably because she doesn’t want to be seen. It’s better this way, I’ve convinced myself, for what minimal contact we had left has dissipated to less than your most forgettable acquaintance. And if ever we see each other again, it’ll be but a short exchange on weather forecasts and obligatory how are yous and how have you beens.

I’ve figured that, by now, she’s found pieces of herself in someone else. I’m happy for her, that much I can say. And despite everything, I still love her, if but in bits and pieces that were never meant to fit.

http://x-boyfriend.livejournal.com/

[anniepetilla]

still brokenhearted?

[pithyperz]

ughhhh, so dizzy by now...im seeing stars.
great writing.
lucky for you... you have control over
what you feel and you get to spill it out.
i wish i could have this kind of medium.
dang! it gets too bottled up...
and clogging...
clogging..
clogging...

you remind me of my ex boy friend.
he writes very well.

[balut_man]

maybe i should get my heart broken all the time so that i can write as profound as you.

[jash_ville]

gareb ---> i'm a fan... love your blogs

[acecrystal]

wahhhhhhhhhhh,hey two thumbs up!!!..... I so like your blogs,awesome! There are deep meanings underlying each line.

[gareb]

Episode V: Half-Meant Advice in Drunken Conversation

“There’s a difference between making love and straight-up ****ing,” a friend tells me in between shots of tequila. “Porn is ****ing.”

“So what’s making love?” I ask.

“Well. Let’s just say porn is ****ing.”

And maybe it could really be that simple. Maybe all I really need is a good ****. A few hours in someone else’s bedroom, underneath someone else’s sheets, my fingers on someone else’s skin. Someone else, whom in more ways than one, would allow me but the moment to forget – without any strings attached.

It’s an idea easily dismissed with all the other half-meant advice in drunken conversation. But sometimes alcohol has a way of adding clarity to an already slurred mind. In this case, however, a slurred heart.

“*** lang yan,” a friend advised, sharing his no-frills, cure-all to every heartbreak.

And it could really be just that simple. A good ****. Complete with all the theatrics – hands gripped on the bed sheets, sweat along her back, and the neighbors calling from across the street telling us to keep it the **** down. And that’s exactly what we’d be doing. Keeping the **** down.

In looking for emotional band-aids, maybe I’ve been looking in all the wrong places.

“Baka kasi mali yung tinitignan mo,” quips my sympathetic friend, “Medyo below the waist naman.”

I’ve never considered myself a conservative individual – since, in everyday conversation, I’ve assimilated the habit of using **** in every other sentence. It might actually do myself some justice if I’d go out and do some actual ****ing. But then --

The evenings are the most difficult to endure, and maybe that’s when I need it the most. During the hours past ten o’ clock, finding myself home earlier than usual, I can’t help but admit to myself how big my bed is. My two pillows space themselves like quarrelling bedmates. And the bed sheets remind me of a certain loneliness that I’ve confessed to be far too familiar with.

The nights are longer than usual, and it is during the later hours that I miss her the most. Or maybe it’s the passion I miss. Her touch. My fingers crossing the length of her legs. Her lips. The scent of her neck as I run my hands along the small of her back. Her hair. Her warm hands on my chest. And how, I so painfully believe, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Then maybe a good **** isn’t all I really need.

In the end, you realize, it’s not the ***. It’s someone. Anyone. To keep you company.

http://x-boyfriend.livejournal.com

[tokidoki_v2.0]

yep, as a guy, i would say that's all you need bro.

[gareb]

Episode VI: Bits and Pieces

I don’t see her anymore.

Not lately. And I guess I’m better off not knowing how long it’sbeen. I look for her, I admit, in the slipped phrases of my friendsand in the slight mannerisms of strangers. As if in trying to piecetogether the jigsaw that wasmylife, I try to fit corners with corners, angles with angles.Sometimes by chance, more often by force. And even if the piecesdon’t fit, I find my fingers forcing them together –

“How’veyou been?”she might say if I saw her again.

“Better,”I would lie.

Butthen again, maybe it isn’t pieces of her I’m looking for. Ormaybe I just lie to myself very well. In the vaguest sense of theanalogy, life presents itself as an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, with usscrambling for the missing pieces. We try to fit pieces of career andfamily, friends and girlfriends, work and play, herandI; when in reality, some pieces are never meant to fit.

Ilook for her, still. But not as often as I thought. And maybe thetime away has been helping me fill my time with other things – thethings I might’ve so arrogantly discarded and set aside without asmuch as batting an eyelash. And maybe, in focusing so much on asingle piece of the puzzle, I’ve missed out on trying to puttogether the rest of myself.

“Ano‘to?” a friend asked, pointing to a bouquet of dried flowers inthe corner of my room.

“Wala‘yan,” I lied, failing to muster the courage to tell him thatthose flowers had come from her, a few weeks after she had left. Itwas the last piece of herself that she had ever given me, and I’vecome to grips with the fact that it’s the last piece I’ll everreceive. And on the evenings when I miss her the most --

“Idon’t think I deserve the apology,”the note on the bouquet reads. “I’msorry for messing up.”

I’vebeen asked time and time again to get rid of those dried flowers. Andmaybe I should, in time. But I guess in trying to complete our ownpuzzles, we cling more tightly to the pieces that don't fit.

She’srubbed me out of her life, as easily as one would rub away pencilmarks on scratch paper. I don’t see her anymore, and it’s mostprobably because she doesn’t want to be seen. It’s better thisway, I’ve convinced myself, for what minimal contact we had lefthas dissipated to less than your most forgettable acquaintance. Andif ever we see each other again, it’ll be but a short exchange onweather forecasts and obligatory howare yousand howhave you beens.

I’vefigured that, by now, she’s found pieces of herself in someoneelse. I’m happy for her, that much I can say. And despiteeverything, I still love her, if but in bits and pieces that werenever meant to fit.

http://x-boyfriend.livejournal.com

[tazicmania]

paytera kau ni oi..