“… this particular island required a whole different category of praise. Paradise came close, but that rang a bit trite. A happy accident, it thought – a string of mishaps, to be precise – suited it much better. Shelley’s toe was utterly convinced that Boracay had not come about on purpose. If it had, it would be forced to accuse God of favoritism…. He hoarded beauty like a secret stash of chocolate. Boracay was His kitchen drawer.”
I just finished reading Before Ever After by a Filipina, Samantha Sotto and it was just so appropriate to quote her as my feet touched the sands of Boracay. I can’t believe I used to live 4-5 hours away in university 10 years ago and never came here. You see, words are important. If someone had described Boracay to me as such, I would have visited a thousand times.
I started this blog to give myself a voice and to practice my writing, which has been woefully neglected. Writing, my style of writing at least, requires courage and the willingness to bear the pain of parting with silent words, prying it like plaque around my heart.
It has helped tremendously, even though I can only count two people as my subscribers – opting to be anonymous, save for a great friend. What can I say, I had to tell somebody, besides she’s been after me to write for a really long time.
It has been hard to write for the past 2 weeks: I was buried in technical details of pushing and pulling from Git, reading about Canada tax law, late night conversations with D about how work is affecting our personal life, tensions with D over my work pace – apparently, too slow for him but I suspect everything I do is slow compared to the dynamo that he is.
I always promised myself and D that when it matters – because we did discuss that because of our differing personalities, he will most likely bulldoze me – I will fight for what I believe. So, I fought, cried, walked out, walked back in, fought some more. And when it was over, more tears, hugs.
So, I’m tired. And I realize that I still have a voice, whether it’s in this blog or in my marriage. I exaggerate, I had it all along but I always fear of losing as I had in my past long-term relationship. I have to credit D for tirelessly pushing: “Why are you upset? It can’t be nothing, what is it?”
After all, we, women, have a talent for putting a whole world of meaning to the word, “nothing.” And men, usually just want to move on, after all they deal in absolutes. Not D, bless him. But it has been cathartic – by pouring my heart out, I found I was empty of things to say in front of the computer.
But I do want this writing voice, so I have to try and to keep writing. In the meantime, pardon the false starts, the seemingly unfinished yet published posts and the randomness of most of it.
I have nothing to say, had nothing to say for the past few days now. I had so much inside me, I thought I would not be able to contain it, but contain I did.
Some things can be too painful to say out loud. Or some things pass us by, exquisite in the emotions they invoke that we feel we will be transformed and will retain the memory for the rest of our lives – then, nothing. What we felt at that moment was actually more ephemeral than we thought.
But such is life, with its details, its drudgery, its highs and lows. Such are emotions, deeply felt, then they’re gone. Such are hurts and blows, acute in their pain that we just want to bury them and never speak of them again. Never is a long time though, so we find once again, sometime in the future or sometime today, reliving them and crying as if they were happening in the now.
I am blabbing but I think it’s safe to assume that you know what I mean. Joy, triumph, followed by fights and anger, a reconciliation, tears and laughter. The complexities of these emotions and of love – there are times when all I can do is skirt around them, explaining the edges instead of the essence.
I’ve explained the edges, now I have nothing to say until that future happens when I can remember once again.
A Whisper 