Too Much to Ask

When you were old enough to understand the harsh realities of life, you realized that losses were inevitable. You can love someone or something and in an instant, they could be taken away from you.

Then you grow up, grow old, and the losses just keep on happening. They keep on happening that you begin to question what is it that you did wrong. You question why the universe is keen on taking what you love away from you, when you know you have taken care of them with all your heart, and that you did everything you can to keep them safe; protected.

There comes a point when you have already cried too many tears for all your losses that when another one happens, you tend to lose the ability to cry—but you do not lose the ability to hurt. You hurt so bad that you just want the world to stop. You hurt so bad that you try to replay the situation in your head to justify it; try to see how is that that within seconds, you could lose something you love when things seemed normal; fine; going well.

You want the pain to stop but you have no idea how.

You want to keep on hoping that this won’t happen again, but you’re scared now.

 

Maybe, there really comes a time when you don’t want losses to happen anymore—even though that seems impossible.

But is it too much to ask the world to just be sane for you, even for a while? For the heartbreaks to stop? For the hurt not to linger?

Is it too much?

 

 

“Sometimes I think the human heart is just a simple shelf. There is only so much you can pile onto it before something falls off an edge and you are left to pick up the pieces.”
― Jodi Picoult, House Rules

Four

1

For four years I’ve wondered what it would be like to share my life with someone again. There were many mishaps; many misshapen turns. I. I have crashed and burned so many times. I have fallen hard, and realized that skinned knees were better than broken hearts; that love doesn’t come easy; that just because you think you feel something does not mean the other person feels it, too.

I was deadest on spending the rest of my life alone. I was fine with it. I was tired. To be honest, I did not think much of you before—then you came crashing back into my life, and changed it in more ways than one. From Clementine erasing Joel from her mind, Elvis and Anabelle saving each other, to reading that shady, crazy book—we shared the most profound memories; we laughed, had adventures, started something—whatever it was. Because really, it didn’t have a name for a while. But that didn’t matter.

You often told me how much you loved me. You wrote poems and musings that no one ever did for me, and it scared me. It scared me because I knew that if I gave my heart away, I would give all of it.

But isn’t that what love’s supposed to be about? Or so they say.

For years, I thought life was just going to be the way it was—mornings spent alone, watching endless movies and television shows, going to bed late, late at night with no hand to hold.

I was filled with lies, and I consumed them. I lived in them. I became a huge walking lie until one day, we both decided it had to end. It was not easy, but it was our choice.

It was far, far from my fairytale. But it was our story. And I liked it that way.

2

We had fun—and that would be an understatement.

Late nights in the city, the rain on our faces, our bodies drenched but our hearts happy. Days walking in the park, under the trees, under the stars. All those dreams we shared. All the memories we made.

I was so used to being alone, but then I realized there’s warmth that stuffed bears and bunnies wouldn’t give. There’s a certain kind of happiness that comes from laying next to the one you love, even when you just hold hands and listen to your own breaths; the kind that makes you want to stay in bed. The kind that makes you realize what home is.

They say that when love is good, it is magic. And it’s true: days become better, nights no longer feel lonely. You have someone who’s your other half, not because both of you are broken, but because you’re whole enough to share your life with someone else. And that in itself is magical—more than any other magic can bring.

We built our own furry family, we tried to enjoy life with whatever we had.

We were living our life, and we thought that was enough.

3

There comes a time in relationships when you begin to question things. You wonder who started it all; you wonder if it matters; you wonder if this is what it’s supposed to be. It happens. It cannot be helped.

I was used to being alone, so I had to struggle being surrounded by people all the time. At times you think I didn’t try. But I did. But like most of the things in my life, it just wouldn’t fit. But you did, no matter how different we are—and would always be. Some things just would not change.

From all our happy days stemmed days when fights and arguments became prevalent. When tears do not seem enough to convey the pain; when shouts and screams don’t seem enough to end the noise inside.

There are days when I know we’re both confused. Is it possible that you still love each other when there are days that you just want to end it? Or is it just in your head?

They say that love is not always enough. And it’s true.

Love isn’t always enough to cover certain things that hurt. Love is not always enough to let each day pass by.

But then again…do you really wish for the alternative?

4

Four years tomorrow. Four years now.

Sometimes, you do not even feel the years anymore.

Nothing is perfect, of this I am sure.

Sometimes, I would sit and wonder exactly when things have changed, because I know I have. And you have, too. It makes me wonder about that first year, when we were both so positive; when no matter how I’ve seen the harsh realities of life, my idealism was still there.

You often tell me that you miss that person; the person I used to be.

What I don’t tell you is that I miss the part of the person you were, too. What I don’t tell you is that I miss the person I’ve been, too. I don’t know where she went, but I believe she’s still there.

I miss who we’ve been.

Because relationships are one thing—but love is another.

 

Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, they say. So take my hand. Let’s not fail.

 

 

Wonder

It was just a normal day; you’re doing whatever the hands of fate have strung your way, and asked you to do.

It was a normal day—and it still is, but you couldn’t get that photo out of your head. That photo that a certain website reminded you of; a photo of years gone by, spent with people you no longer talk to.

You wonder how he’s doing—that old friend who had your back and nursed your wounds years ago, back when you were spiraling out of control. That friend who was there for you when you felt you had no one else—even if you actually had. Well, it didn’t matter, because he was the best of the rest of them. Head on his shoulders, your hand in his—you felt like everything was possible. That if someone could feel safe and secure, it was within his arms, and with his heart.

You remember car rides with him, your hair flowing in the wind; wondering how it would be like to watch fireworks in one of those overlooking spots; wondering how life would be like a year on; wondering—just wondering. And yet, it was enough.

You wonder how it all ended, or if it even really began in the first place. You wonder whether all those words meant something, or if they were just in passing. You remembered holding on to his arms, knowing he’d keep you safe from the firecrackers you were so scared of. You remembered the laughter; you remembered the tears—especially that time when you broke down under flickering lights, and the harsh fall of raindrops; each drop leaving a scar in your heart. You remembered all those times you’d talk about dreams and nightmares; broken hearts and broken promises. It was all so easy. It was all so fine.

You wonder how it stopped—because you wouldn’t be thinking of this now if it went on, and on, and on—like the other things in your life. You wonder who stopped talking to whom first; who didn’t reciprocate the messages. You remember how hurt you were. You remember all the questions you asked.

Years later, you no longer wonder why. Yet, you couldn’t help but wish that he stayed—that whatever you had stayed. Because you’re so used to loss—you’ve had it all your life. But whenever you see old photos of that time, and whenever you think of him—that person who had your back once upon a time, and who was so good to you, you found hope again—you couldn’t help but feel this strange stinging sensation in your heart. You couldn’t help but feel sad. You couldn’t help but wonder.

 

Empty

Every day is a wheel of prevailing emotions; emotions that you couldn’t show to the world; emotions that you’ve learned long enough to hide that already became natural to you.

You work yourself to death and ask yourself why. You begin to wonder about the state of your life. You begin to think that you need change—but you don’t know exactly what you need.

You feel like there are not enough words being said; you no longer feel good about anything.

And then you hear the words you need—but they don’t make you feel like anything.

Maybe, they do, but you cannot hear them clearly.

You could not see them clearly.

Because you’re empty.

Doors

When she opened the door, she wished.

She wished for long, cold nights

For a healthy heart

She wished for the sweet smell of flowers

The drizzle of the rain

She wished for a clean mind

A clean slate

She wished for contentment

Without losing the will to dream

She wished for a good life

And the strength to deal with the bad

When she opened the door, she found

She found a reason to live

With her hopes and wishes came strength

And it was enough

Enough to make her stay

 

Every Version of You

One, you were full of daydreams; nothing you can remember anymore

Two, you opened up your eyes to harsh realities; some you blinded yourself from

Three and four, you found hope

Five, you started to be confused; about life, about the world

Six, you were a big sister

Seven, you were a little lady

Eight, nine, ten, you were meek; you were shy

Eleven, twelve, you were painfully awkward; the world was harsh;

Thirteen, fourteen, you lost one of the people you loved most

Fifteen, you were full of dreams; had your head in the clouds; only going up, up, up

Sixteen, you fell back to earth; had to stop; didn’t know where to go next

Seventeen, you had a breakdown; tried to pick yourself back up

Eighteen, you had the world in your hands

Nineteen, your world came crashing down

Twenty, you were full of grace

Twenty One, you didn’t know where you were headed

Twenty Two, you tried; oh how much you tried

Twenty Three, you were full of lies

Twenty Four, you went away; left that world; built something new

Twenty Five, you were back with your fairy tales; you know they never left; they never will

Twenty Six, you were good; you were alright

Twenty Seven, you’re fine; and then you’re not

 

I still see every version of you;

Every version of me;

There’ll be more

So much more

There’d be hope

Hopefully more

 

A New Day | Another Day

You open your eyes to a new day and realize it’s probably another version of your day yesterday. You have the same job, you have to do what you have to do, and you just go through it the best way you should.

Sometimes the world just feels like it’s turning so fast; like time just slips right through your fingers without you being able to do anything about it. Days just seem to fly by, with you floating right along them. And you can’t help but wonder if you’re doing everything you could with your time.

Nothing seems to be sacred anymore, you think. These days, lives are judged based on what you share in those ‘grams; in those tweets. Gone were the days when you wrote in your journals; gone were the days when you had the patience to write down all of your feelings inside, until you feel your heart breaking, shattering, getting tired. You have replaced all that with control. You have replaced all your noise with silence—because talk is cheap, and you just have no idea how to share what you feel inside.

These days, lettering is an art, and painting could make money. Reading books is a challenge, not just a hobby. Gone were the days when bookworms were really just in their own world. Gone were the days when reviews and critiques were just in your head. Gone were the days when you wrote on notebooks, on scraps of paper, without having to photograph them; without the need for likes and admiration from people you don’t even know.

Nothing is sacred anymore.

Change is good, you think. Change is inevitable.

But sometimes, you can’t help but wonder if you have allowed yourself to change a whole lot.

If you have allowed yourself to change so much—and now you don’t know yourself at all.

Old Friends

You look at that old album, one that has not been opened in years, one which contents you thought have gotten out of your grasp; out of your memory. In reality, they’re still there, just waiting to be opened up again.

You see photos of that girl—that one girl you’ve been friends with for years. You remembered how you fought over stickers and papers; how you would braid each other’s hair; how you would stay at each other’s homes just talking for hours while dissecting what’s on television; how you would talk about those silly boys who made you smile, and made you confused, at the same time.

You smile as you leaf through the pages, the remnants of your old life unfolding right before your eyes. You remember that girl, and remembered how you promised to stick for each other through anything; to be the kind of friends whose kids would also be friends; to just be with each other forever.

And then you remembered that little girl is not in your life anymore—has not been for years.

You remembered the accusations, the ugly words said. It didn’t matter whether it came from you, or from her—what only matters is that they’ve been said.

You don’t remember the exact time you wished you would not be around her anymore; how the thought of her coming over started to irritate you; how you stopped telling her everything; how the jokes became too much, too cruel; how you no longer got each other’s back; how you no longer fit in each others’ lives.

You’ve both lived different lives since then, and you can’t help but wonder: will these new versions of yourselves still like each other? Or is that all your friendship is going to be?

You wonder, and then you stop.

Because then, you realize that this life is what your life is supposed to be; that this life, without her, is better than with her in it.

And it’s okay.

Counting On

She looked around quickly, to see if anything had been taken. Dark clouds enveloped her; everything was hazy. She was confused.

She looked around and saw everything was being taken away–every part of herself, being shredded. She couldn’t help but wonder why. She couldn’t help but think about what she may have done wrong—or if that even matters at all.

Because the world takes, and takes, without fail. The world gets too much from you—all the way to your core. The world has broken her; stopped her from being here. The world has taken her innocence, replaced it with hurt. It took away her rose-colored lenses, and replaced it with bashed ones: that is what life has done.

She looked around again, and noticed that while life may be dark, the clouds have moved to make way for a blue sky. She ran towards the blue sky. She fell down, got scathed. She fell, but got up. She walked again.

She turned around. The dark clouds were getting farther and farther away. With a heavy heart, and bloodshot eyes, she smiled.

She knew that little by little, the world will be better again.

And though the black clouds may be looming, she knows that her hope and perseverance would pull her through.

That’s what she’s counting on.

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A/N: Have been in such a novel-writing rut lately, so I decided to just put out some short writings from prompts. This will just be one of many.