Zergliederung Shashin

I’ve become a woman of tears.

Four years ago, there was a silent struggle that was going on somewhere inside my head. For once I’ve learned how to be strong and to stand on my own. I’ve learned when to feel sad, and when to cry in pain. Or perhaps it was the other way around — when to be happy and when to smile even in the face of adversity.

But I’ve learned to love again after that, and once again I exposed myself to factors that have scarred me before. I am vulnerable again. I don’t know how much strength it would take me to say please don’t go out of that door, but I know right now that deep inside my heart that it will also take me lots of courage to say I miss you, please stay by my side.

I never said anything, because I know you’re not coming back.

I was rummaging through my drawer one Saturday afternoon when I mindlessly found your letter. My fingers played on the creases of the envelope; looked at your small penmanship that forces me to squint to read what you have written.

It’s been seven years. How time just passes by without really worrying what other people might think, or feel. I think time is mean in that aspect: it doesn’t care. Do as it pleases; never really gave a damn if there will be other parties that will be affected with the changes it brings forth.

Which reminds me, do you even think of me now? We’ve made a mark in each other’s lives, but I wonder if the imprint’s hard enough to become permanent. Perhaps it’s so selfish of me to ask this, but I need to know. Somehow, I have this desire to know.

Nonetheless, I think I know the answer. I shouldn’t be even wasting time asking you about things like these. We’ve changed in such a short span of time. We’re standing on different avenues of life now. Which is another reason to be sad about our state of affairs, because really, I’ve never really said anything to you. I’ve never really asked. I’ve never answered any questions. I was just there, listening, absorbing every nanosecond that I spent with you.

No words. And now I’m sorry because I’ve never tried to do anything.

I was never scared. At least, I know how to prevent myself from being scared. A big part of me has seen a lot of things, and so I let myself believe that there is nothing out there that could shock me. I am strong. My heart will never, ever falter.

Or so I thought. Maybe I just grew accustomed with fooling myself.

Right now I want to eat the words I have said before. Here I am, standing before you, ready to say something that I have been trying hard not to admit. I am scared. I am a walking apprehension. After all these years, I have never recovered from the bruises that someone else has inflicted on me. Right now, I have this tough-looking façade that breaks easy. Inside, I am still that fragile little girl that yearns for love and security.

But I am planning to keep that exterior, and instead of protecting my weak self, I desire to become stronger. I do not want to keep hurting myself anymore with the anxieties that I am creating. Please let me hold your hand again. I want to trust you more, and with that, I hope that you will put your trust in me too.

Ito ang ika-walong buwan na wala ka.

Sa ika-walong buwang ito ay unti-unti kong sinasabi sa aking sariling kailangan kong maging masaya. Kailangan kong ngumiti. Kailangan kong sabihing hindi ako nahihirapan. Subalit nangyayari ang mga ito sa kadahilanang kailangan kong magsinungaling, hindi lamang sa iyo, kung hindi pati na rin sa aking sarili.

Hindi maiwasan ang mga bagay. Hanggang ngayon, nagtatanong pa rin ako sa sarili ko kung bakit ganito. Kung bakit may “tayo”. At kung may iba pa nga bang dahilan kung bakit kailangan nating pagdaanan ang ganito.

Matindi pa rin ang pangangailangan ko sa iyo, at sa iyong presensiya. Ang masilayan ka kahit sa malayo ay sapat na subalit pati ito ay ipinagkakait sa akin. Libo-libong milya, labing-limang oras. Mga bagay na kung tutuusin ay madaling buwagin, subalit kay hirap gawin.

Hanggang kailan ulit kita makakasama? Tahimik na ihip lamang ng hangin ang naging tugon sa aking mga panalangin.

Pristine slowly opened the latch of her window and let the cool breeze in. The glass walls and roof of the building where she was staying served to strengthen the beauty of the sunshine that fell gracefully on everything it touched. Suddenly, a heavy feeling dawned upon her, and the small smile that had been on her lips a minute ago turned into an ugly strip of line pasted on her face, like a cut-out from a magazine.

She walked away from her window and flipped though the wall calendar. She stared at today’s date: May 16. It has been three months, she said to herself, as memories of good and happy times with a particular person flooded her mind. Three. Funny how people associate meanings to numbers; how people count ages, monthsaries, anniversaries. Numbers are important, as it gave validity to things and events. To some, the higher the number or the frequency, the strong the meaning becomes. Sometimes, the reverse is the same. For Pristine, though, numbers equate to length, and she had been counting, no matter how hard she tried to shun the pesky digits from her mind. She still keeps on counting, as this is her only way to know for sure that things did happen, to measure the length of days that has passed by since she became alone again.

After gazing at the wall calendar for a while, Pristine sat down on the couch, tucked her knees and stared blankly at the wall in front of her. She then felt the chair covers with her hands, absorbing its rough texture beneath her small fingers. She then reclined back, trying to absorb every single comforting feeling that she could extract from the position. It was this very chair where they usually held each other while watching the television. She took a glance at the small dinner table, and she saw a mirage of two individuals – there was no doubt who they were – playing around while making a meal together. It was just an image, she was well aware, but the crisp sound of laughter that resonated in her head seemed real, as if the scene was happening now, at this very moment.

But Pristine has to face the cold, hard truth: all of these were once real, but now they are just a fragment of her memories. People said she has to discard these memories because they only made her unwell. She deserves more, they added. Something better. Someone better. She knows that too, but isn’t she entitled to grieve? Isn’t she allowed to sit here, and remember all the good and bad feelings that all came together to squeeze and make her heart thud? Isn’t she allowed to be frail and weak? She lost something – someone so dear to her; how can people expect her to be so strong? All she has are memories, and these were the only ones that she could go back to, regardless of whether they gave her a mixture of comfort and sadness.

Pristine looked around her and saw everything had become remnants of what they had together. They’ve become containers that enclosed bits and pieces of what they had before. We used to be together, and now only a shadow of one person is all that is left. Pristine repeated this thought over and over again, as salty water started flowing from her eyes like never-ending rain.