However, I attempted on my first night to sleep “on time”. Sleep at night and get up in the morning for the new time zone. The next day I fell terribly ill. Or maybe those were withdrawal symptoms for three days off the tobacco.

God, I want a cigarette.

***

Once, I have been told that I hold no grudges. I gave this some thought. I believe myself to be incapable of hate toward others. When I am gripped with rage it is often self-afflicted. In the event that I become hostile, I never do so point blank, yet I am capable.

Hostility is a gesture of frustration, usually toward the people I have strong feelings for.

I am done with the chase
come to think of it
I’m not even a predator

I finally told myself, stop
because it is absurd
to catch you, beautiful
and because
I realized that I
am not the captor of your choice

So I ran the other way
as far as I could
but then I got ahead of myself
and lost my breath
from all the running
I wheezed
I coughed
and rolled on the ground
in stupor

I stayed down
waiting for my heart to calm
For a moment I forgot
why I ran

Silly me
For thinking
I’d be strong enough
to forget everything
even if I looked at you

So one day,
I just checked if you cared
You did, a little bit
I softened up,
weakened by your disarming
vulnerability

As it turns out
I am the prisoner
of my desires
and its warden too

With one look of your face
I remember
the chase
and how up to now
no matter how we both run
in opposite directions
I catch myself
still caught in you

Now, I want to run
without looking back

Far from
here
you
this

Whatever it once was
that I never knew

II.

Like a dream
I was told that
nothing is real
only the race of your heart
when you jolt
into consciousness

And so I made a promise
not to linger
on a dream
rather than risk
not having you in
my waking life

Love catches and drops
when it drops, it catches

I just got back from a three-day escape. It wasn’t enough time for me. I feel I should have been gone for a week. And I also feel strongly about the idea of disappearing for a month. If not for the things tying me down, I would have gone for it. A month of solitude. Maybe even a year.

Every time my world congests all I think about is escape.

But I can’t. Not at the moment. So much is at stake. I have to plow through all of my responsibilities one task at a time. Yet I always have to deal with this sinking feeling that there’s never enough time. And I stress myself out with the feeling I get out of imagining impossibilities.

And while all of this is going on in my head, another part of me is seeking attention. It’s flailing its arms at me in distress. At times when I have the patience, I look at it with some consideration and give it the attention that it demands from me. The trouble with being a student of psychology is the tendency to turn a private emotional event or moment of introspection as a therapy session. I ask myself the same questions I would a client. The Whats and Hows. Never why because that stuff takes you nowhere concrete.

Whereas there are days when I grow tired and anxious and I just want to shake off the “distraction”. It has not been easy. I find myself putting my face between the pages of a book whenever I’m reading. How I wish knowledge was absorbed that way. There are days when I feel restless and I just want to see a friend so that they can talk to me about their issues and forget myself for a moment. Some mornings I run or swim and then I stop midway. And the moment I feel tired or when I take a rest, these thoughts come marching back in to my consciousness. I don’t want to think about it all the time, but I do.

***

Recently, a friend sought some advice on how to break up with someone. I told her that I wouldn’t be the best person to talk to. But I said something to her which surprised me: the decisions we make when it comes to relationships reflect our attitude toward commitment – it goes both ways. To break up is also a commitment. Once you commit to cutting ties, you have to ask yourself if you want this to be permanent. If you can commit to someone, you can also commit to yourself and what you’re willing to do – I said something to that effect.

Decisions, decisions. The trouble with me is that I procrastinate so much that I don’t decide right away. You never move forward until you’ve made a decision. So suck up your own advice, Kim.

So yes, I have myself to blame if I feel in any way STUCK. Would I still feel like escaping when I’ve untangled myself from my own cognitive mess? Perhaps.

We can also dine out at a fancy restaurant. I do keep my manners in check, for my companion’s sake so no worries. Otherwise, I eat alone and just concentrate on the food I’m eating. I call it “date with a plate”. Want to pleasantly surprise me? I have a predilection for any white meat soaked in lemon sauce. It has to have that consistency that’s almost like honey, but not quite as thick. I also love beef ribs with anything mushroom and garlic. Okay, oriental style will be nice too – I used to crave beef brisket like it was a wet dream. I am thankfully not allergic to any seafood so you can stuff me with crab and all its fatty orange goodness. Speaking of seafood, scallops are my favorite. Mom used to warn me about my expensive taste when I began to demand scallops every Sunday, the big ones they import from Australia. But even the small ones are nice: I will be satiated after 250g of baked Scallops. I’ve tried eating that with some sizzling fish gonads (Bagaybay), I thought I was in heaven.

I love goats but when they’ve been struck down and turned to Bopiz, I love them all the more. Kilawin comes second to that. I don’t understand why people wouldn’t like that stuff. What about Kinilaw or Sinuglaw? That’s Ceviche for the rest of you. Raw fish tickles my fancy. Sashimi to Nigirizushi. I cannot stress enough how much I LOVE Japanese food. Gyoza, Ramen, Yasai Ittame, uhh..stuff me with these. I actually don’t mind dying from Fugu poisoning one day. Which reminds me, I am planning to visit some coastal town in Mindanao which I heard serve a local version of the delicacy at an affordable price.

Oh, how could I forget my love for pasta? I eat tomatoes straight from the bush so that when you put them down on a sauce the effect is divine. I like big chunks of tomatoes on my pasta, if not in puree form. Pomodoro is a favorite. But so is pasta in herb and olive oil with roasted garlic and mixed vegetable pasta. I like both the creamy and oily kind of pesto pasta. As for the puttanesca, I have two caveats: one, is for it to have lots of capers and black olives and two, it has to be dry and spicy. I prepare for pasta with chunks of blue peppato or blush, depending on my mood. A meat platter would be nice, too, paramaham as my favorite.

I have a sweet tooth but I don’t like anything too sweet (except for Red Velvet), the kind that makes your head hurt. The kind of sweetness I look for is one with body. I want my whole mouth to be filled with the flavor of sweetness. I eat for sensation. Some friends call me chocolate monster and with good reason. Dark please. The darker the better, especially the ones from Peru. Belgian chocolates are best in fondue form or some plain baked good. The swiss chocolate is best in liquid form especially if served hot on a dessert. I love chocolate cakes and brownies. Straight up cakes are fine by me – I eat them fast. Layered ones take time. That’s why I especially love soft desserts like cold mousse or chocolate pudding.

Speaking of soft desserts, I love gelatin and other cold desserts. Ice cream on crepe or ice cream cake/sandwich will complete my day so long as nuts were used sparingly. Cold tapioca or cold taho with huge sago bits. Ah, the sago…they have to be pearl-sized. They actually count for snacks, just give me something soft to munch on. Like special fried tikoy or Japanese rice cake with custard filling. Donuts come in a close second, the ones that have a chocolate base are the best. If you know me well enough, you know where to find my FAVORITE donut. Clue: it’s six hours away. Speaking of something found hours away, just a short trip from the city will take you to Mers where they make the best Bibinkas. I like how some parts of the surface get burnt, the mixture of egg and cheese on top. Yum! Makes me miss the Ube bibinka of Kibuwi…ah, the gustatory decadence of my childhood.

Now, what to pair with all this? I drink a lot of water. But if I could get away with it, I love fresh fruit juices particularly mangoes, honeydew, guyabano, buko, strawberries, kiwi… I try to avoid soda when possible but I would gladly put it off if I finally find a place serving Vanilla cola. Red wine goes well with dark meat (cabernet sauvignon if the seasoning is mild and pinot noir for full-flavored dishes). White wine goes well with fish and vegetables. Beer for unpretentious pizza and latino dishes. Dark beer is a safe bet for any kind of food, dry lager for everything else…the rest is for a purely social function. Belgian and German beers are fruity if not malty like a nice bottle of Hoegaarden. And of course my favorite: lambic beer whether made of sour cherries or raspberries. To die for. I always say, it’s the only beer that makes you smile at the first sip…but then again, don’t take my word for it.

Don’t get me started on coffee. This would require a different article. My favorite? Espresso.

What else have I missed? My love for soups. I loved pumpkin soup the first time I tried it, it didn’t have that much broth but it was an interesting soup nevertheless. Lately, I’ve been craving for that giant burger at Al’s. With some belgian fries to go with that. What about cheese? Absolutely crazy about cheeses. Even ordinary cheddar, once burnt taste oh so yummy. But blue cheese tops my list any day. I love soft boiled eggs with Kaya toast. In Malaysia, I’ve tried this with Chrysanthemum tea instead of coffee. ACK. Why am I writing all of this? Why am I writing about things I cannot have right now?

It has been four years since I’ve left home. It is just beginning to sink in that this will be my home, again, from now on. Not to mention that this is coupled by the overwhelming realization of how I’ve endeavored, in the last four years, to stay as far away from here as possible.

Then I ask: where have I been all this time? And where had I been planning to go? Granting that I did get there, I never knew. All I know is that I am back home. There is an irony to what little I knew of my destination.

It is like I have lost track of how my story used to be written. So angry and resentful was I of how life was, I ripped off the pages of my diary from that period of great confusion.

And now, the pages that I had once ripped so violently, turned up on my lap like they have never been severed from the bind. It was all an illusion that I have conjured to fool no other than I. The past is reality.

So, I am the same person and the same story to this day. When nostalgia hits, it is a confrontation of this inevitable fact.

I have emptied my heart and have placed it in bags – too hastily, I must say. In its entirety, the mélange of things I have accumulated for more than a year has suddenly become difficult to locate. A stark contrast from knowing that there is a place to put each thing which I hold dear. And by knowing, I was found.

In its emptiness it has become unrecognizable.

The warmth and memory I have devoted in every corner of this place was funneled into a metaphysical jar. It is a souvenir that compacts its very essence; that which reminds me that I am no longer there.

As I linger, now I see that so much of what I have been is now stored away. And that the space that has been there all along has just been uncovered. In a way, I am reacquainted to the space. I remember the time that it was quite empty here, how light it was and how excited I used to be to fill it up and breathe life in to it.

There was a time my heart was full. It was a labyrinth of stuff. But it got to a point that I was choked with fullness. It had overcome me. I was crushed by the very weight which I have allowed. And so I had to put things in order, so that I would know where things were. And by knowing, I was found.

And just when I have touched the surface of my being, knowing where things were and finding myself in where I have put my things – I was told that I could no longer stay.

My heart is empty. I do not live there anymore. What are we then other than mere vessels? Carriers of various ways of living.

And as they say, your home is where your heart is. I understand fully why there is an insatiable thirst for a home for many of us. It is after all, a place to live. What a beautiful thing! – To know that you may live somewhere of your choosing and of your liking.

At least I can say that I once lived. There. Where I know I once was found.

These days I long for a companion. Someone to eat with, someone to walk with, someone to sleep with, someone to whom I can share the banal things. And yet I will recoil at the thought of being known. For when they know you, they can hurt you.

I am afraid. I will meet you outside with all my warmth and sincerity. But I have kept my door closed and locked away, for now.

The walls of my room know me well, it goes without saying. I write my life history that way. And yet I must leave this room behind one day. Not a word shall be said of what happened here.

These days I manufacture thoughts to put me to sleep. I think of a touch or a smell or a voice. I let it linger in the ceilings of my mind, before it drifts away like the darkness creeping in to the morning. The transition is as seamless as the past, present and future.

In these days, we muster all the strength we have left to survive. There is barely any left to lend away. Now, I understand.

These days, I think that there are more days. Time seem as endless and as seamless as time.

I do however listen to music in these times of little or no consolation. That is why I sometimes miss the loneliness of the booth, in the dead of night. Putting listeners to sleep, the radio blaring next to their bed. Music comforts me and I know that it can have the same effect on others.

On nights like these, I like to listen to Karen Carpenter or Chet Baker. Voices of melancholy. I think I am an old soul that way. If I had wine right now, I would be sipping glass after glass throughout the night. Sitting and thinking. After all, passive leisure is a legitimate style of life.

Sometimes though, I feel that there is so much to do but I fail to do what my mind can conceive. That is when sadness strikes, disarming me. I become unproductive; which is actually a conscious refusal to be productive. Emotions can be addictive and I linger on sadness if only to keep memories alive and feel that I had once lived in interesting times, in the company of even more interesting people.

What is strange is how one can smile at the thought of sad memories. Sad because they seem to be slipping from the possibility of ever happening again. If life was only happiness, then we live in these fleeting moments one after another. That of course is impossible. Happiness is intermitent and temporary. Most days and in moments within a day, we don’t realize what we are feeling. When we become aware, life seems to stop and time passes without us noticing.

Nights like this I stay a little longer with you, in my mind. You are hardly there anymore but at least I know where I can find you.