<memoirs of a heartbroken man>

[gareb]

Episode VII: Pictures are Substitutes

Strangely enough, I’ve never carried around a picture of her.

And it had mainly been because she’s never given one to me. I had asked for a photograph long ago, during the time I’d say with unflinching certainty, that she loved me. But as I turn the months over in the back of my head, maybe certainty was what we had lacked from the very beginning. Maybe I needed a picture of her to assure me that she was mine. And that, both literally and figuratively, I could keep her.

As our relationship wore itself through the months, I continued to try and fish a photograph out of her. But her replies remained the same – as if they were literally photocopied from a litterbox of ready-made excuses – “I forgot” or “remind me tomorrow”. Sooner or later I had given up on trying, and had quickly resolved myself to the idea of being in a post-modern relationship. One where couples no longer exchanged photographs, stories or I love you's.

She gave me a drawing of her, instead.

Sketched on a piece of coupon bond that fit the slide of my wallet. But that’s what she loved doing, drawing different kinds of women in the oddest corners of her notebooks, her test papers, her handouts. And her sketches were always happy. Always.

“It’s you,” I said, as she slipped me the drawing of her in the middle of class.

“It’s me,” she smiled.

I still have it with me, her drawing, tucked somewhere underneath the loose change I keep in my desk drawer, beside old class pictures and forgotten calling cards. The paper has worn thin since, the pencil marks rubbing off with time. I catch a glimpse of it every now and then, when I reach in for a handful of change in the morning. If you look closely, the erasure marks are still there; marking the lines where she had made a mistake.

I used to run my fingers along those very lines, trying to imagine how she had gone about outlining herself on paper, or how, in more ways than one, she didn’t look anything like it.

But it was the closest thing I had to a picture. And at the time, I had to be content with that.

“Baka nahiya siya na ikaw yung boyfriend niya,” a friend of mine chided over dinner last night. And although laughs were exchanged, it was probably the truth. Maybe, it’s really as simple as it sounds. Men are but trophies on the shelves of the women they love. And it seems I’ve been thrown out to make space for another.

“Pictures are substitutes for reality,” a teacher of mine told me once.

And probably, his line strikes a finer chord in me than I’d like to admit. As I felt our relationship thin out along the nine months that it lasted, more so did I feel the incessant need to have a picture of her. I guess, in a way, I knew I would lose her long before I really did. And as the reality that was her drifted into the distance, more so did I cling to the reality that was her drawing.

In a sense, she was never really mine. Just as any of our loved ones are never really ours.

Love it seems, breeds itself into a form that cannot be touched, held, or in spatial terms -- owned. And so it’s only human to cling to the trinkets, curios and pictures of our loved ones we never really have. For they are never really ours in the first place.

http://x-boyfriend.livejournal.com

[gcc4426]

maka inspire man ka do...hehe. i plan to write mine sad, but not of love.
really enjoyed reading these.

[Dorothea]

Ka sad ba ani oi...the more you read, the more unbearable it becomes...but I guess that's indicative of good writing? When the writer makes the reader "feel" whatever he's feeling.

[beyee]

auto subbed!

though I'm done with the first post but I am loving this.
Thanks G for sharing

[beyee]

Wow! The writer sure knows how to put his misery to words.
I love how he used a good imagery of his sentiments over his
ex and his feelings after losing someone dear. While reading it,
I can't help but agree with his points and even laugh in between
coz I can simply relate to his experiences and thoughts.

Great blog

[3nZ0y]

Ka sad ba ani oi...the more you read, the more unbearable it becomes...but I guess that's indicative of good writing? When the writer makes the reader "feel" whatever he's feeling.

Agree jud ko ani. Only few writers are gifted enough to successfully convey, not just the point they're driving at but the emotion itself.

[gareb]

breaks your heart beautifully. that is what he does.

[gareb]

Episode VIII: The Complete and Absolute Turn of Fortune

And for the first time – in a long time – I can honestly say, I’m okay.

It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve written anything down, and for the purposes of this journal, that’s probably a good thing. I guess, in more ways than one, writing has succeeded in proving itself to be effective therapy. And for once, I can say without malice – being single isn’t so bad.

It’s the freedom, maybe, or the mobility. Or the other things one grows to miss after the humdrum of romance suddenly settles in. Then again, maybe it’s the sense of individuality, the realization that I can stand on my own two feet without her next to me. Or, most probably, the mere fact that – pagod na ako makipag-away.

It’s a rather strange confession, I admit, not wanting to rip out your own ****ing heart every other minute. As if towards the end of some bizarre story, we finally come across – what some writers would call the reversal – the complete and absolute turn of fortune of the main character.

It’s nothing worth throwing a party over, but it wouldn’t hurt if you guys left a case of beer in front of my door. It takes some time to get used to, this brand new feeling of okayness, as if it were some pair of shoes I’ve tried on for the first time. Especially coming from someone who’s built a rather obscure reputation on livejournal – undeservingly dubbed as the “most public heartbreak on the internet”.

I would’ve written this sooner but one can’t be too sure about these things. Although I do admit to a certain level of okayness, it might just probably be some ephemeral spark of mercy on God’s behalf. Maybe tomorrow, things will change. I will wake from this dream of okayness and return to the yesterdays of not-so-okay. And I would look for her again, and just as she had said before, it would be “all the same.”

I could be an asshole and claim that “her leaving me was the best thing that ever happened,” when in fact it wasn’t. I do not miss her anymore, but I do miss who I thought she was. And though I do not love her anymore, I do admit that I fell in love with who she was. She is different now, and so am I. But I fear the worst, I believe, knowing that in the future I am still susceptible to some form of relapse, withdrawal or mistake. Love is an addiction, it seems, but for now I am clean.

This is probably the most mundane entry I’ve written so far, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my average comments plummeted to a near nil. But just like all good stories, the drama has to end sometime.

But before you stop reading my journal altogether, one can only beg to ask --

“So nag-uusap na ba kayong dalawa?”

--but that’s a different story altogether.

[Dorothea]

Is there an update to this, sir gareb?

[gareb]

Episode IX: Screenings in Silence

I invited her to the screening last Thursday.

I saved her a seat three armrests from mine, far enough to keep me from looking, and yet close enough to allow me to see her. I had made sure that her seat would be in the middle, not too close to the screen to have her strain her small neck, and yet not too far back in case she had forgotten to wear her glasses.

I invited her, yes, and it was not an invite so easily handed. And given the circumstances, some might have thought that I should’ve reconsidered.

She would come, I thought, and would’ve been happy to see her friends -- my friends -- lined up in a single row, all waiting giddy-eyed to see a film we’ve all seen countless times over. And she would have had a fabulous evening. And I would’ve thanked her for coming, and maybe even more so. And maybe, after all was said and done, I’d find the courage to finally say – “It’s good to see you again.”

It’s been awhile since I’ve said anything to [I]her. And as we pass each other amongst the corridors and foyers, I’ve managed to convince myself that I have nothing to say. There are moments, I admit, when I wish I had returned her greetings, her glances, her attempts to possibly make things easier than they are now. But I am cruel, and I am heartless, and for the most part – I am frightened.

“Cowardice has its merits,” a friend of mine told me a few nights ago. “The avoidance of pain is one of them.”

It’s a popular misconception that I do not talk to her because I hate her. When in fact, the bitter truth is that I hate myself. Her reasons for leaving me are far and in between. And although they had seemed much ‘farther’ than ‘in between’ at times, I realize that they could never have been more valid. And as I see her cross me along the corridors and foyers, I rub the sides of my eyes for I do not wish to know how great, how better off, how happy she now is -- and how, if I had just been a better boyfriend, would’ve been the same thing.

Waiting for her in the theater that Thursday evening, I realized that I was looking forward to something else. Something I had missed, and had so mistakenly thrown away – a friendship. I invited her in hopes of buying back what I had wasted, and despite bad break-ups, I wanted to prove that friendships could be mended, repaired and stitched back to what they once were.

But she didn’t come that evening, and the seat three armrests away was quickly taken. She cited school as her reason and one cannot help but understand. But for anyone who knows me to any degree, would know how much film means to me – most especially this one. I find language lacking the means to describe how thankful I am that so much of you went. And for the most part, I’d give each of you a piece of me if I had anything left of myself to give.

Seeing lightrefraction, kangkungan2001, sweatbloodtears, satanismymaster, notcheesyenough, witty_repartee, direk, knights, shoesoulmate, sundaydandelion, intrigero, shmartypants, postmodernputa, pisces_iscariot, driftrip and direk was nothing less than a moment bordering on both the romantic and the ridiculous. And if I had missed out on anyone I sincerely apologize. And for those who had watched on another evening, my gratitude is no less.

But as my name was called amongst the other directors, I stood in front of the theater, my eyes weeding through the faces amongst the crowd. I guess it was an irrational hope to believe that she might’ve taken another seat, or that she would be coming late. And that, maybe – just maybe – she had finally realized how important the invitation, our friendship, was to me.

In the end, I realize that I’ve invited myself to a screening. A silent one – about two former lovers whom have decided that sometimes things are better left unsaid. One admits that it isn’t about getting over her anymore. It’s about getting over yourself.