Love can be a dangerous thing for it unravels the dainty stitches that hold your heart together and neutralizes your senses without warning. It is a trespasser that digs a hole underneath the palisades that fortify the epicenter of your fragility. All those years of painstaking caution and/or offensive strategy (do unto others before they do unto you) becomes a thing of the past once you’ve met your match. There is no time to brace for the dawn offensive. The assault is swift: pain shocks you from nowhere and you realize a poisoned arrow had just zinged its way into your ribcage. Behold the bloodshed. Try to stop the bleeding, but you’re helpless for the first time. Suddenly, you identify with the carnage of hearts around the world. Suddenly, you’re on the other side, standing side by side with your lovesick comrades, immobile in front the firing squad of old flames. You’re not so smug anymore.
Left and right you, one by one, they fall down, clambering for mercy, and many simply admit defeat in mute resignation. The question now, will you surrender? For a moment, your very tormenter is witness to your wretchedness. There is nothing more humiliating than loving a person who returns your devotion with indifference, cold stares, silence, and pity disguised in his white lies and alibis. There is nothing more humiliating than crying in front of that person. Come to think of it, we despise the ones who fall in love with us despite ourselves while we chase those who run away from the love we insist upon them, in despise. Why do we run away? Deep inside, we, too, despise ourselves knowing full well that we can never return the endearing affection they offer. Everyone wants to be loved back by the one he loves, simply human nature.
When they persevere, the fools that they are, we are annoyed in love to them (but love different in their order slip).
I have experienced love at its highest, its turmoil, its delights, its enormity, even its wretchedness and shameless exploits. Or should I say, my shameless exploits all in the name of love.
I am but a nobody, but by happenstance, love has put me on a pedestal. Did I expect and desire this? I don't know. I don't know. These days, my answer is mostly I don't know. Strange hearing me say that, a known know-it-all.
Like all great love stories, theirs is just as tragic…
November 18, 2010
She sits in the backseat of the tricycle waiting for more passengers to fill the vacancies. One in front, one beside her, and two behind the driver’s seat – actually, a motorcycle with a sidecar equals a tricycle, Antique’s motorized rickshaw. She eyes the pharmacy store near where the tricycles were queued. Watching people wait for their purchased medicine makes her yawn. Those pharmacy girls are pretty slow, she frowns. One day, their dilly-dallying just might cost a life. Uhum.
She stares at her feet. Ugly feet, she thinks. She doesn’t like them at all, so she transfixes her gaze into space, thinking deep, looking at nothing in particular. My, I want to go home, she yawns again. She has forgotten the transparent folder with her transcript of records on her lap. It has her scanned yearbook picture, in a toga. She likes that picture, even with that very awkward smile. Long hair, and hardly gaunt-faced. Cheap lip gloss is very obvious though. PHP15.00. Everybody else had PHP350.00 make-up. Folder falls on the road with a thud.
A boy, two, three years younger than her, occupies the seat beside her. College, senior year. Not wearing his school uniform. He studies in the city, Iloilo. His eyes roam and lands on her face. Oooh-la-la, his man-brain thinks. He notices her eyes are locked onto something. Must be something, he thinks. He tries to search for what she’s looking at, just out of curiosity: the crazy woman (pregnant) eating pan de sal? The slow traffic easing nearby? The spicy-peanut vendor picking at her nose? the high school girls in their red skirts huddled outside the bread shop? Had she spotted her crush? But no good-looking dude her age was around.Well, except me, he thinks with a smile. He thinks she’s his age (22) or younger. She’s 24. He gives up, I think she’s lost in thought. And looks back at her. Stares at her. It’s the first time they’ve met. Or the first time he notices she exists; she hasn’t yet. Where have you been all this time? He catches himself thinking. A fleeting thought which makes him smile. He erases the smile for fear people might think he’s crazy and returns to his regular pouty look. She might catch him and think him a pervert so he looks down to check his Nike. He looks again at her. She feels his stare and raises an eyebrow at him? “Huh?” she mutters, barely audible. He shakes her head, and before he ll could say a word she looks away and yawns. He expected a scalding. Women, he noticed, hate unsolicited gawkings especially from the opposite gender. She’s nice, his first impression. Must know her name. Hi, I’m a stranger sitting beside you in this tricycle and if you don’t mind, can you tell me your name? Real suave, Jose Mari Chan. “Uhh…” She doesn’t even hear his pathetic murmur. Back to his Nike. Or pretends she doesn’t notice the spell she has cast upon him.
