The Words That Could Have Saved Us

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“Every love story is a ghost story.” – The Pale King, David Foster Wallace

I am adamant when it comes to discrediting my own feelings – romantic ones, in particular. I refuse to acknowledge its existence, despite the overwhelming evidence. So when the time comes that I can finally allow myself to feel everything, it’s almost always too late. How so? My stubbornness, it seems, does not constitute the patience and, alas, the love from the other party, which led me thinking that I am not worthy of the wait. But I cannot compromise, for fear of being hurt – plain and simple.

Perhaps I was brainwashed by Radiohead:

In pitch dark I go walking in your landscape
Broken branches trip me as I speak
Just cos you feel it doesn’t mean it’s there
Just cos you feel it doesn’t mean it’s there

We are accidents waiting
Waiting to happen
We are accidents waiting
Waiting to happen

And I believe these words still. For words and music are all I have. How can I understand what I do not know? One too many times my thoughts collide and then delude me into thinking that there might be something. But that auxiliary is a dangerous word, for it merely express possibility. Although one would argue, “but in love, nothing is certain.”

One thing is: pain is always imminent.

I don’t want to casually throw the word ‘always’ but in my case, it is. It’s hard to generalize, to speak for others, because what do I know?

If there’s one perpetual state that I am in, it is a state of almost. 

Almost – not quite, very nearly.

Malayo man, malapit din.

Isn’t that the saddest thing? Almost love, almost us.

Being in a relationship (because God forbid that it wasn’t) that is hanging between platonic and romantic, it’s soul-crushing when it terminates because then what will become of you? What do you call it? Is there a name for what the two of you are, were? What will you hold on to, but dreams and memories and lost time?

“Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I’d finally try to say the words that could have saved us.”
Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

I have a TinyLetter (where this post appears as well), where I hope I can air more cheerful, mundane, thought and less grievances.


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