I feel like, recently, I’ve uncovered the deep secrets of falling and, at the same time, nothing at all.
I’m not overly obsessed as the impression you might have of me regarding [it]. But I am a woman—no doubt losing myself regarding is my talent. No doubt, there is something odd about the temporary—that at one point, I cursed that the freedom was in fact an illusion. Not so, because it was the exact opposite.
It is true freedom to hope in things unseen. It is true freedom to not cling to the hopes that are of this world. It is true freedom—a liberty just and fair—that one would settle their hearts to not dwell on so much emotion, so much anguish, so much hurt, and, sometimes, so much love.
It is a terrible feeling to fall. Terrible indeed!
How blind must one be, or absorbed, that only the impact of the fall might wake him free?
It is all for naught.
I reckon at the thought, and I motion for the sense to come at me. For like a passing flu I treated it; and I let the flu consume me, I let my weak body fall as I would lay myself to rest the whole day until my fever lifted.
Love is like that.
Do you remember how excited you were to have bought that cellphone you’ve always wanted? And during the first few days, probably, you and the phone were inseparable. But alas, that lifeless inanimate returns no love or passion towards you, and the feelings slowly drift onto a new thing—a pink Gucci you spot on sale at the mall one evening, or a pair of stilettos that had you gaga.
But if you love something, the fervor may later settle—your passion may die off but there is a great fondness that would come and go. It’s the awkwardness of just it.
You’ll take a liking to the memories, you’ll crave for it once in a while, but you’ll stop and let it go eventually.
And that’s how it is—that kind of love.
Because, the day I told myself, as my thoughts wandered on the long bus ride, me beside myself, that I no longer liked him as much, I learned something.
But as they say, the more you know, the more you don’t know.
And I knew I may never grow out of that fondness. Nevertheless, a memory. But in as much as that memory is no longer, even if I say that it’s gone from the heart, it still [isn’t]. And like that, ever dwelling in that safe haven, in a corner of my heart but locked away—I wish—forevermore. Because, it’s difficult being in-love with a memory.
But I am not defeated, for I am only learning. I feel like Solomon—how must’ve been as he wrote the book of Ecclesiastes.
Spare me, I have no more to advice but to trust and love Him above all. For faithless cowards who live only to serve themselves have no future—have no purpose, no reason, and no sanity. It is those type of people who will perish by the doings of their own untamed passion—a passion that lasts them not, of which they’ll come to realize fading fervor.
And when I am through, I ought to look back and thank God for making me tell myself the logical things (that we are taught) until my heart followed—until I embraced it and believed it, for truly, I do not know my own.