Monday, April 21, 2014

The Coffee Memory.


I Romanticize Photography

Coffee is not just a beverage for me. It is a memory. In fact, it is tied to all sorts of memories. My first memory of coffee is its smell. Mom would make it every now and then in the evenings even though both my parents usually preferred tea. The smell of coffee in the evenings meant laughter and cuddles and long conversations between them that made little sense to me. I just wanted to hop from one's lap to another and beg for a sip only to regret it a moment later because it was so bitter for my young taste-buds.  

Coffee reminds me of 8:50am. Ten minutes before class and I just had to get that cup before I make a run for it. It was always 8:50am when I showed up at 6th Street Cafe with pleading eyes because I couldn't keep my act together to wake up earlier. First year of college.

Remember when Motorola Razr was the coolest phone ever? Yeah, I dropped it in a cup full of coffee.

Coffee also happened exactly at 2:20am. It was like an internal alarm clock during exams. It was my body's way of telling me that if I wanted to stay up any longer it wasn't going to happen without coffee.

Mom sometimes made coffee for me in the mornings. She knew I wanted it and I would spend so long to make it myself. So when I'll come downstairs, she'll have it ready to go in a traveler's mug. Of all the coffee I have ever had, my mother's is the most delicious.

I owe it to coffee to have written so much. If it weren't for the countless cups of delicious coffee, I wouldn't have written a single word. I would be so lifeless without coffee - devoid of so many wonderful memories. In this way, coffee is a lot like love. And because I believe in love, I believe in coffee too.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Wait.

From weeks to days to hours – to finally – it has come to minutes. I am sitting at the train station profusely writing and simultaneously staring at the split-flap display to monitor the incoming trains. I see train after train but there is no sign of Dylan. Every time a train comes by, I stand up with hopeful eyes, and every time it goes off to whatever destination, I sink down in this bench to scribble a little more. I am almost afraid that he did not get on the right train. And if he did, it seems like his train is not a train but a little caterpillar taking forever to get here. Ah, there is no end to the ridiculous scenarios a waiting mind conjures. As you can imagine, I am at the brink of patience right now. I have waited for far too long to see him again. 

We spend an inhumane amount of time just waiting. We start with waiting for the buses, and the trains. Waiting at the airports to find a glimpse of a familiar face. Waiting for someone to come into our lives, waiting for someone to get out of our lives, waiting for some good news, waiting for that package in the mail, waiting for the sun to set, and then waiting for it to rise again. We lie awake waiting for an embrace. We wait for the dinner to end; for the cake to finish baking. It seems as if there is an endless wait (or perhaps it is a 'weight'). I have just sat here and waited. Waited for something – someone – to happen, because I knew that I was always producing and hoarding more love inside me, and there was no release. I wanted it to flow. I wanted that overwhelming feeling of joy – that which I would not have to contain.

And oh, there he is, in the distance looking lost. Carrying his bag like a school boy. I feel that overwhelming joy creeping in. The agonizing wait is over. For now.

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

The Idea of You.

We have preconceived notions of a person we think we'll love. If someone would have painted a picture of Dylan to me before I met him, it probably wouldn't have been too appealing to me.  Not because he was lacking something, it's just that he didn't fit my profile at the time. He didn't fit my idea of a person I would love.

For so many years, I lived with the idea of a man - not really a man. I liked how it made me feel. It made me feel content and comforted - that idea of you. It was when I was at my best and you were yours. I never really lived with you, I lived with all the thoughts I created in my head about you. All the time I had been seeing you, it was really the idea of you that I wanted to see. I didn't really love you, I loved what I imagined you were, what you were supposed to be. And boy o' boy, did I love you?! I loved you so much. Now, it isn't you I am letting go, it is that idea of you in my head, and that's what pains me. The idea of you that I nurtured, and loved, and cherished is what I have to let go.

It's so terrifying but we all have to recognize at some point that we don't truly love anyone until we let go of the idea of what we are supposed to love - to let go of the person that exist only in our heads. Loving real human beings is hard, but that's the only love that lasts. 

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Just Yet.

I had written something devastatingly glum for this occasion. My lucky streak was over. Tonight was supposed to be the perfect timing to commemorate the memories of what I once had and how with time I have become lonely and selfish and overlooked. Life slowly grows quieter and people forgot that you existed. New years are forgotten, fewer people show up to thanksgiving dinners and happy birthdays turn into belated birthdays, or no birthdays at all. You learn to accept that.

But then.

But then, we are too quick to jump into the pool of sorrow that's not necessarily ours. We are too quick to pity our miserable existence - too quick to label it a miserable existence. We shut the joys out because it's too terrifying. It is incredibly taxing to forget about one little scar we got years and years ago. I have held on to anger for far too many years. I have been standing on the edge, ready to jump in and drown in my sorrows, and tonight would have been perfect for that.

But then.

It isn't my time. Just yet.

Thursday, March 06, 2014

Your Rose.

More Photos: I Romanticize
"People where you live," the Little Prince said, "Grow five thousand roses in one garden... yet they don't find what they're looking for..."
"They don't find it," I answered.
"And yet what they're looking for could be found in a single rose, or a little water..."
"Of course," I answered.
And the little prince added, "But eyes are blind. You have to look with the heart."

The Little Prince went back to the roses again.

"You're not at all like my rose. You're nothing at all yet," he told them. "No one has tamed you and you haven't tamed anyone. You're the way fox was. He was just a fox like a hundred thousand others. But I've made him my friend, and now he's the only fox in all the world."

And the roses were humbled.

"You're lovely but you are empty," he went on. "One couldn't die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass. Since she's the one I sheltered behind a screen. Since she's the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose."

It's the time you spent with your rose that makes your rose so important. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed. You're responsible for your rose.


~ The Little Prince -  Antoine de Saint-ExupĂ©ry

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