Blue Eyes
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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Wed, Jul 18, 2018
Nong bata pa raw ako, lagi ako nagsasalita ng mag-isa. Sinasabi ko na meron daw akong kinakausap na isang kaibigan na ako lang ang nakakakita. Nong una raw iniisip nila na may kausap akong masamang espiritu o isang nilalang na ako lang nakakakita, pero bandang huli baka imaginary friend ko lang raw yon, na common na magkaroon kapag bata ka palang. Pero sa totoo lang , hindi ko maalala ang mga yon. Sabi nila Mama, na tumigil akong magsalita ng mag-isa noong 8 years old na ako. Pero hindi nila alam na hindi ako tumigil na magsalita ng mag-isa, ang kaibahan lang ay wala akong kausap, literal na ako lang mag-isa ang kinakausap ko, pero syempre kapag ako lang mag-isa sa bahay, baka isipin pa nila Mama na nababaliw na ako. Nakakabaliw nga isipin na mag-isa lang ako nagsasalita, pero I just remind you that I am perfectly normal, wala akong sapak sa utak okay. It just became a habbit, and I don't know why and how it became a habbit. Siguro dahil doon sa imaginary friend kong kuno raw nong bata pa ako. Pero sa totoo lang, I have a feeling that when I'm talking to myself... ...somebody is actually listening.
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A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.

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