Writers Jam

I wish I could I write about ‘the one’ that ‘got away,’ but what if no one was truly there, to begin with? Or at least, not in the way you wished they would be, for you, once, twice, or ever?

It would be wonderfully easy to frame my past experiences as missed opportunities. As fuel for regret. So, fucking, easy. But who does it serve but my already (nearly) non-existent ego? Who else could it serve? Does it need to serve anyone or anything?

Can I just reminisce those stolen moments where mere proximity made life worth living?

Of course I can. It cannot be utterly attributed to my shortcomings that my poor little heart can’t help but sigh in a daze upon the sight of an emotionally constipated man. Yes, yes, you saw it right.

Loving an emotionally constipated man is like waiting for change without action. Like praying to the Lord or whoever is up there looking down upon us to give us immortality when arguably, the only real point of his existence (ahem, he’s up there, hello?) is for us to feel comforted by something other than ourselves (though perhaps, it is just our egos cosplaying as God) when life gets tough as it inevitably does. As humans, we can’t really get through anything alone—if we wish to make it the other side unscathed.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t as if I was naive. I still consciously chose to love these men, time and time again. It was a symptom of something deeper, something I’ve yet to capture within the many faces of my ego. Something must have told me that loving these kind of people was worth the price of trying to throw your energy into a black, black hole. And at some point—

You cease to live. Metaphorically, you mean? No, please, I wish. Breathing becomes a chore. Things pile up. Your mind is overextended, but you can’t stop. Love is just but one aspect of life. Life doesn’t dare allow you to stop, thinking that an endless pursuit of success will simply lead you to greater heights. We believe that we can privilege ourselves with many dreams—till life quietly proves otherwise. You’re not allowed to. Or more accurately, you don’t allow yourself to. When it feels like its impossible to achieve them all when your love never becomes reciprocated. Your precious time, energy, emotions. And so, you’re begin to feel that falling in love with these men becomes your currency. Life, taunting, appears to say; “It’s not like you can’t and aren’t allowed to fall in love.” But because you don’t want life to stop, you don’t wish to give up on your dreams, life seems to claim your love as tax for your success. And boy, the tax sure makes your wallet feel heavy.

Sometimes, I think of another me who never sought companionship with a vacuum. But rather than thinking that he’s the one that got away, I’d perhaps like to think that he’s the one who is yet to come. And shall. Whenever it may be.

After all, if you’ve never had anything, it can only go up from here.