Whenever I tell my love story people always tell me it would be a good movie material. I just smile and shrug. My story is not some kind of a romantic comedy meant to entertain people. It is a true-to-life experience of the most classic of all agonies. I actually share my story for selfish reasons. I wanted to relieve myself of the sad parts, which comprise about 65 percent of the plot, comforting myself that it is all over and there is no point of grieving. Thus it is not really a comedy but a tragedy. A series of broken hearts, broken affairs, broken leg (accident caused by running after a boyfriend), broken promises, broken windows of a Mustang Firebird, broken hymen, and...well, everything in my twenty something single life seemed to have been broken. When i turned thirty, I thought i was the most tragic of all single woman in my town. So I kept re-telling my story, even to friends who amazingly still find it so interesting. Perhaps it is because some of them are in the story, or perhaps the show of amusement in their face is for the purpose of comforting me. I knew it was a tad bit pathetic, but i did it with class, well most of the time i guess - masking my sadness. I was sad because my story was all about the "six times i got engaged," and i was telling it while still unattached, recently disengaged (as if he was some sort of a rifle) from my latest and apparently last "ex-soon-to-be-husband."
In those times i managed to keep a Plan B: Book to replace a Boy-man. Other than dreams of having a happy family and world peace, i was also conceiving a book idea during that period. And i was mid-way into the labor of having it published. All the signs were there during writing - mood swings, cravings (for the presence of certain exes), nausea (travelling through time) and insomnia. I was also vomitting, considering the fact that my subject was about the life of a 30-something getting over one great love and searching for meaning and purpose in a sub-corporate world, one memo/fling/party after another. Only now did i realize that wasn't any form of literature after all. I would call it a flip-lit instead of a chick lit. Thank goodness it was almost published. A succesful abortion when the book was already in full-term-complete-with-cover design-intro-bibliography-period (imagine that) was all i needed in order to achieve my first dream: a happy family. I had to give up that book because of a sudden twist in my life. I got married. Finally. I did it.

Just filling a Sheet

I am loosing it again. Do i need to gulp down another cup of coffee just to get it back?
And later on sink in the pits of black, painfully bubbling the throbs caused by an anxiety attack?
I become happy for a moment of spilling mess and blood,
then for the rest of the day I am in darkness
thirsting for joy.

Spillings

Spoilage foliage of a morning dull. Caffeine fixes, stitches cracks. Then when i write, i could not find the beautifully composed lines of yesterday. I failed to box them, they all flew like manuscripts blown by the wind and into the sea. Ink smudged, washed away. It was water based. My mind was and still is water based. Better to just spill, and let paper drink on until it is drenched, then perhaps later I could dry the words out and see if mosaic has been formed. If it is art, or trash.

As it Was

They used to call me "Prozac Princess" . I popped pills like candy. They melt inside my system as fast as Alka Zeltzer in water. But unlike the Alka's effect on a hangover, it stays for a while like bubbles floating so high in slow motion, unreachable, until one by one they fade. That's when night comes and it is time for some sleep, and ''pop'!" goes the pill into my mouth. It was life, it sucked, it is full of poop.
That was me before. Now i live a good life, or so they say. It is far from perfect, but i guess that's what makes this nice. I never stopped trying, and striving so hard to reach this place, and along the way i have coped in so many ways with this and with that. Call them heartaches, heart breakers, soul smashers - anything that shakes, stirs, and sickens us. I have met people who caused me to grow, and a few fed me with bitter pills- some to help me heal and some to spite me on purpose. I have also been to places i have only seen before in both my dreams and nightmares. And i was blessed to escape the latter and cursed to depart from the former.
My purpose of this blog is to rediscover the beauty of the life i once lived, to revisit people and places that inspired me, and to revive my dreams that once shone in luster and with hope. Somewhere along the trail i left must be some path i failed to tread on. Going back could be one key that would open the door to understanding all these now. My life is an abstract work. I may be a wife and a mother now, but there seems to be something more than being this. I must have left "her" somewhere. She could probably be that woman trapped in the mundane dailiness of the cliche she once thought of as a dream. That probably explains my recurrent flashbacks and temporary in-a-daze state.
I need to go now. I must go there again.