Catharsis

Over the past two years, I've had more dates with people I met online—may it be through that infamous red app or its yellow currently-better-but-also-on-the-way-there sibling—than with people I meet organically. That is not to say that I can't relate nor form relationships with people I hang out with. In fact, it's the opposite, I tend to befriend them too much that the thought of us being anything but is out of the question. It's not also because I don't meet people enough. My circle is an entangled interconnection of so many people that I constantly find myself surrounded by the nicest, warmest, and most talented people.

Anyway I've been thinking about these interesting matches—so to speak—a lot lately. Probably 'cause I've resigned myself to deleting my accounts on both, indefinitely as of now and for good hopefully soon. Amidst these matches, two men particularly stood out—no, I don't mean physically, though maybe that's also part of it. It's in this cliche yet true defining feature we all look for: connection. And as cynical as I initially was with these dating apps, I'm glad I was able to define and experience connections in two distinct ways over the past two years.

Warning: quite a read

I am slowly forgetting how your voice sounds like. You’d shout my name, your voice deep and reverberating, undoubtedly yours. I’d turn around and see your towering figure, grinning, holding a chocolate bar in my direction. I’d run as quickly as I could; you reaching your arms for me, and then holding me in a tight embrace—your broad shoulders, my rock. I burry my face on your white shirt, basking in your warmth and your favorite perfume.

I am slowly forgetting how your voice sounds like. How you’d call me as soon as I step off the school bus, sitting on your wooden chair in the balcony, waving your hands at me. I’d walk in your direction, sit on your lap, rest my head on your chest feel your heartbeat on my ears, your pulse, your life line. I listen to your stories of the war—how you’d fly your plane over enemies and destroy them. They were exaggerations, I knew that. But still, you were my hero.

I am slowly forgetting how your voice sounds like. How you’d say my name softly as I walk in the door. I wouldn’t have heard it if I wasn’t paying attention, but I’ve known your voice all too well—whether it’s a shout or a whisper. And hearing it has always been familiar and moving, making me feel home. You were on the couch, and I’d sit beside you. I’d describe my day in vivid detail while you smile and nod at me, encouraging me to go on. You always found joy in my stories. It didn’t matter if it was the third, fifth, or tenth time you heard it. You didn’t mind, and I didn’t either. I just wanted so badly to share it with you, especially if it made you laugh. I loved making you laugh—how can I forget how this sounds?

I am slowly forgetting how your voice sounds like. How you’d call me out of the blue, ask me the same questions again and again. I knew you’ve become forgetful, but I never grew tired of reminding you: “I’m okay.” Your stories of war that used to leave me in awe have been replaced by silences and understanding stares and light hugs that went on for far too long, a blanket of comfort between you and me. And a shared understanding that this, alone, is enough. Then you drift off to sleep like you’d always do by that time, and I’ll replace my hug with your sheets and leave you be, watch you sleep peacefully.

I am slowly forgetting how your voice sounds like. You hardly talked during your last days in the hospital. And when you did, you’d ask me your favorite question: “How are you, darling? How’s work?” Fighting my tears, I’d always reply, “I’m good.” You’d nod your head and give me your big smile—the smile you’d give me when you would lure me with chocolates, when you would see me amazed by your war stories, your age-old jokes and my teenage rants, and the smile you had whenever I snuck you your favorite dessert. Your smile—it was as if saying that me being okay is all the matters, but I wanted you to be okay, too.

I am slowly forgetting how your voice sounds like. It’s been almost a year, lolo. And it still hasn’t gotten any better. Life’s been such a rollercoaster. I wish I can tell you all about it. My heart aches constantly—disappointments and heartbreaks. I have a new job now, and the people are okay. But aren’t family, maybe not yet. I smoked for a time, but I quit. Sleep is still difficult; I still find myself awake at the wee hours of the night. I don’t know if this will ever change. I’ve been crying a lot lately. I think it’s got to do with my unhealthy coping mechanisms. I want to see a therapist, but never got the courage to. Maybe if you were here I wouldn’t need to. But don’t worry I’m trying to be better, eat healthier, take care of myself more. It’s all I have. Not a day goes by when I don’t wish that I could answer your questions over and over again. I have a lot of questions in my head, but none of them yours. I want to shut them off.

The room was filled people who were drunk with alcohol, happiness, or maybe both—playing a game of Taboo, laughing at the silliness of their answers, dancing to old 90’s hits, and taking videos that would probably be a source of both happiness and embarrassment when they’re sober later on.

Hearts heavy—though it’s probably just mine—not from the alcohol we consumed, but from the realization that people come and go. The fact was easy to understand and accept until you have to come face to face with it.

But ironically even then it was utterly beautiful—how we never really know when we must say goodbye until we have to. I guess what I’m saying in all these ramblings is that accepting that people come and go reminds you to cherish every moment you can with them. Because when it’s time for them to go, the best you can do is send them off, bid them farewell, and wish them good luck.

If you’re reading this, you know who you guys are. All the love all ways, always.

Today was my first time stepping out of Marajo Tower knowing that in 30 days I’ll be saying goodbye to the building I’ve come to call home for the past year. No longer will I be seeing my favorite city on a daily basis, navigate its streets like the back of my hand, go for a midday walk just because, and spend late nights staring at the city below me from our 9th floor window.

From here on until my last day, I don’t think I’ll be able to look at BGC the same way. It will instead be a series of mementos to commemorate the roller coaster ride that has been my advertising stint—morning Uber rides spent trying to get to the office before my boss does; crossing to 7-Eleven for a piece of banana or a pack of cigarettes; walking to McDonald’s, Burgos Circle, Fort Strip, or High Street whenever I have my food cravings; spending my evenings after-work at my favorite coffee shop down 32nd; late night Uber rides when the busy city is at its most peaceful state, and countless other moments I will surely miss.

For the longest time, this has been home, my comfort zone, but that’s all about to change. Counting down the days until I say goodbye to 26th corner 4th.

Two people—who spent the last three hours just drinking cocktails, taking shots, laughing at one another’s drunk stories, and talking about life’s complexities and cruelties—decided it was time to leave the quiet and cozy bar and head somewhere else. Where that somewhere else was, neither of them knew at first. They just mindlessly walked around the city—taking in the lights and the cold breeze and watching people, mostly night-shift office workers, go on about their lives.

Even without saying a word, both knew that neither of them wanted to go home just yet. The night was young and with alcohol speeding their heartbeats, they were hungry for more adventures. After talking about their frustrations, their pains, what-ifs, and their hopes and dreams and yelling these to the city that’s too busy to even hear or notice them, they decided that they should find a different and more entertaining way to vent out their emotions.

So they drove to the neighboring city and found themselves in a karaoke bar. Both were cracking themselves up at the sheer idea of going all the way to Makati to sing inside a small room with a machine that feeds you lyrics and scores you for your singing prowess—or lack thereof. But it was 1AM and they were drunk. And it felt like a good idea to sing their hearts out when no one else was listening, but one another.

And they found comfort in that, in having someone to listen to them, to console them when they cried, and to remind them that though they may feel as if it’s an ongoing battle with the universe, it was a battle that need not be fought alone.

Music had always been their escape. When they didn’t know what else to say or how to explain what they were feeling, they turned to music. And that night, it only seemed fitting to sing their favorite songs, with a mic on one hand and a bottle of beer on the other. Before starting each song, both would tell their “story” or what the song meant to them. Sometimes they’d mull over it. Others they’d curse the people or the universe that made them feel that way. And off they belt out.

Who knew that singing tacky songs could be so therapeutic? Neither of them did, but there they were—enjoying themselves, laughing at each other, and forgetting the heaviness of the worlds they both carry on their backs.

They sang and drank and sang some more. The next thing they knew it was 5AM, and their throats were sore. The place was about to close; they were the last ones standing. The sun was about to paint the sky the prettiest hues of oranges, purples, and pinks in a few minutes. They watched this happen from their car’s windows as they drove home.

In a parallel universe’ version of this story, the boy and the girl probably ended up kissing each other or whatnot. But not in this one. Here, they drove in silence, smiling, knowing that they ended and started a new day with music, albeit in a funny and downright tacky way. But hey, it was nice to get those heaviness off their chests and to have someone to do it with. And the innocent forehead kiss and genuine “thank you” were great, too.

It was her birthday—in case you were wondering.

 It’s scary because it feels like just a few years ago that we were having the time of our lives in high school and telling each other that “we’ll be friends ‘till the very end.” But now I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. I feel like I’m looking at you through a glass door from an observation room, not recognizing who you are. I feel like I’m looking over the window of a moving train staring at you as your image fades and the train picks up its speed. 

 It’s sad because I am further reminded of how easy it is to loose people. Even those you’ve known for a very long time. Even those who you survived times with. And the saddest of all, even those who you call friends. 

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