I originally posted this on Wednesday, November 19, on my way home from work.
It’s not in my nature to dump my feelings –however silly, mundane, or cosmically altering they are – to other people. And by people, I mean family and friends, let alone casual acquaintances or complete strangers. The personal matters I choose to share with another being took me a great deal of mental preparation to even consider divulging, and there’s still much that I choose to keep to myself. It has nothing to do with trust issues. If Freud was to be believed, my mother has sufficed in her natural, expected role and I was fully satiated as an infant (and lookie here, I’m fucking using psychoanalytical, Freudian logic) and I have no problems with trusting people. Like, say, people who say “I love you,” but they left out the part about loving you when it is only convenient. Something like that.
But, not to divert from what I really wanted to say, I seldom talk to people about me. Believe me when I say that I draw from a deep well of what fortitude I have in me to pull someone to a corner and ask, “Hey, I have this thing. Can I talk to you?” or randomly type up a “Hoy, kumusta?” (or a bolder, “May kwento ako sa’yo.”) on Facebook message at 2 in the morning. I always have this perception that people will engage me in a conversation and then at the middle, will lose interest, and carry on with what they’re doing before I interrupted them. So either I sleep it off, eat my feelings, or cry them out. At best, I’ll write about whatever’s bothering me and maybe even post about it on my little blog. World’s too busy to care about you, miss.
Maybe this is why I write. Mostly because I’m painfully awkward, despite of the social triumphs I seemed to achieve (i.e. Talking to new people without getting crazy looks), I appear snobbish (which I don’t understand because even though I’m pretty much a person who laughs a lot, doesn’t mean I do it all the time, even without reason aka lunatic in a literal sense), and if I’m being completely honest, I get tired of being rejected, which I associate with any of my romantic endeavors and I’m not even trying to appear haplessly hopeless. It’s just the truth.
Today, I learned some of my friends will lose their jobs. It’s not as much as, “Am I gonna lose mine, too?” because God knows as far as finances go, I don’t need a six-figure amount to keep myself alive, but, because time and again, I feel like it’s equivalent to maddening goodbyes that I loathe so much. I like these people but because life happens, it screws with you. I have a good friend whom I’ve shared my petty stories about my crushes, and now she’s leaving. I can’t remember the last time I felt genuinely upset because I’ve been enjoying these little, childish things only to end up getting snatched, completely blindsided.
I wanted to talk to this boy, too, simply because I like talking to him. But of course, I wouldn’t because does he want to talk to me, too?
So I’ll just listen to music, wishing I can talk to it, too.