outgrowing

I stumbled upon some saved conversations of what started past trysts, and promptly closed them after twenty-some lines. Oddly, a huge smile was bubbling up inside me as I read, which is a weird reaction to embarrassment. I can only attribute this to the fact that I have grown sufficiently out of that version of myself that I no longer feel affiliated with her, and thus I can laugh at these mistakes with a wise shake of the head. Or maybe it's because the partner-in-crime is no longer in my life, nor was he ever in any significant way, which means, among other things, not only no unexpected reminders from sightings in day-to-day life, but also no sudden recollections that make me squeeze my eyes shut against my will.

I spent a lot of blog posts about this particular incident, partly due to timing and partly due to the above-mentioned lack of knowledge, which made room for idealization. I spent a lot of time fantasizing how the story's extensions might play out, but reading the ignition of the whole thing, I realize that it might be best left as a full movement in itself. If he came back, he'd come back with these memories of the nonsensical and silly things I've said, and though I just said I have no problems recounting such things, I have no desire to know that there's someone else who could recount them as well.

**

perspectives of the militia

Regarding my last post, I can't tell if it was crafted with an underhanded move of denial or not. But that's not my main concern right now, if weightier feelings were to surface later, they'd, of course, be dissected with the due obsession I give everything. But "right now" is dominated with a slight frustration at the too-familiar sine curve I've found myself on.

"Bad Luck", that's how someone identified it to me. For general conversations in the generic bubbly air of coffee shops, "bad luck" suits just fine. But I get the feeling it's not just fine, not for the person who coined the term and not for me, who nodded in consensus. I think we feel like we should take responsibility for it. I think agency is bursting to charge forth in front of us, plant its stance resolutely, and announce: "this is somehow because of you."

"Because of your ways", it'll say, with the kind of tough love a general reserves for his fleet, "because of how you look, because of what you think." I think it'll say this with sharply clipped syllables, no mincing of the words spared. I think it'll march away with too loud clicks of its heel. I think it'll leave behind a trail of dust and shame hovering over my face, taking the veil of the "bad luck" argument with it. I think it'll do all of this if I let myself slip into the crutch of excuses. So I don't. I think it'll show no mercy regardless. And I'm right.

**

re-education

I feel like I haven't written in here for a while, at least not personal things. Even though I really wanted to record them somewhere, I'd stopped myself for fear of whom my audience might constitute. However, I think my desire to pour memories into words is outweighing the apprehension.

There were, of course, escapades that made great material for lighthearted gossip. They provide great release but evoke very little emotional unveiling for me. Then came the major plotline of the week, which, at this point, has become such a familiar pattern I hardly think it deserves yet another rehashing. My mind seems to feel the same way, as it has mostly vacillated between the realms of indifference and fatigue since. I sort of just feel...exhausted, not at the specific situation but the fact that an encore was not something I was looking for.

On a practical level, the timing is impeccable. The let down came at the tailwind of a letting go, molding my reaction into one of almost detached interest rather than a melodramatic internal affair. On the other hand, I almost miss the exquisite pangs that accompany struggling for something I care about. It's being a really long time since I really felt anything of such magnitude. Maybe not even in three years. And while the fluffy stories are fun enough, I can't help but feel like I have missed something crucial in my reformed education.

**

nostalgia

“Ah, no nostalgia hurts as much as nostalgia for things that never existed!”
—Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

I don't know if this is true. On one hand, does it even count as nostalgia if you've never had it? On the other hand, I certainly know what Pessoa might be gesturing towards. I too, had glimpses and ghosts of things and people I could have "had", yet they could not quite make it into the definitive realm called existence. These things I indeed have great nostalgia about, if it can be called as such. But I personally do not count them so. They are usually too diluted with fantasy and falsity to qualify for true, grounded nostalgia.

Nostalgia is a gritty thing. Not light on its feet nor painted over with too-bright colors. Everything is as is. All the unpleasant details. The smoke in the room the first time you poured your heart out. The chilling raindrops that fuzzed your vision after a homecoming. The melting makeup at the end of the night when you get your heart's desires. All of these you remember, and here's where nostalgia's sucker punch's going to get you: despite all that, all the smoke and the messiness and the imperfections, you still want those moments back, blemishes and all.

**