February 18, 2010
Dear J.,
I know Sunday opened a can of worms, and up to now, I don't know if that was the right thing to do. On one hand, we both agreed that we needed the honesty, the effort, whatever we'll need to do. Part of me, though, tells me I shouldn't have gone down that road, that things would have been better if I didn't say anything.
While we were in the cab going from the play back to the hotel, you were asking me to tell you something, anything. You asked me about her. I remembered the pain. You must know this, J. -- it is the pain I remember, not the one who inflicted it. You told me you won't leave, that you'll be there, always. And frankly, I don't know what to make of things now -- now that you told me we have to stop right here, and think, and hope that fate will be on our side this time. Like this time is something else. Didn't this time start last December?
I decided what I would do. I'll go over to her place and dump all the shit she left in my house, and it's quite a haul, too.
The other day, I read one of my friends' poem -- something about lilies and getting killed in Maguindanao and searching for the right words to write pain with. I started to write. You asked me what it was about. I told you about it, and there was this ghost from the not-so-distant past telling me, Jonar, you should be writing about her, not about it. This other friend told me, Jonar, you're washed up, you're nothing. This guy's been writing a lot of good poems lately. You have written nothing.
I stopped writing that very instant. What was I writing for, anyway? Was it for you? For the "people", whatever it may be? For myself? I suddenly realized -- I was writing for nothing. I was just pushing words around.
Yes, I'm confused. And yes, it's been quite some time since I wrote my last songs, too. I'm a jealous guy, you know, and there are times when I wish that I'd written something, if I'd just looked at something long enough and thought hard enough about it. Maybe in the future. But not now -- I need to be a man first. Look at myself. I love you to bits, that's for sure, but this guy needs to be a man first.
I'm not going anywhere, just like you said you won't be going anywhere. But for now, I need sleep. I need to think. I need to start writing again, doing new songs. I need to walk back to your workstation and smile inside when I get up from the Lazy Boy. We need to rest.
But no, I'm not going anywhere. And I'll keep on writing until I get that beat back into my words and I'll have something I can show you.
I love you,
J.
I know Sunday opened a can of worms, and up to now, I don't know if that was the right thing to do. On one hand, we both agreed that we needed the honesty, the effort, whatever we'll need to do. Part of me, though, tells me I shouldn't have gone down that road, that things would have been better if I didn't say anything.
While we were in the cab going from the play back to the hotel, you were asking me to tell you something, anything. You asked me about her. I remembered the pain. You must know this, J. -- it is the pain I remember, not the one who inflicted it. You told me you won't leave, that you'll be there, always. And frankly, I don't know what to make of things now -- now that you told me we have to stop right here, and think, and hope that fate will be on our side this time. Like this time is something else. Didn't this time start last December?
I decided what I would do. I'll go over to her place and dump all the shit she left in my house, and it's quite a haul, too.
The other day, I read one of my friends' poem -- something about lilies and getting killed in Maguindanao and searching for the right words to write pain with. I started to write. You asked me what it was about. I told you about it, and there was this ghost from the not-so-distant past telling me, Jonar, you should be writing about her, not about it. This other friend told me, Jonar, you're washed up, you're nothing. This guy's been writing a lot of good poems lately. You have written nothing.
I stopped writing that very instant. What was I writing for, anyway? Was it for you? For the "people", whatever it may be? For myself? I suddenly realized -- I was writing for nothing. I was just pushing words around.
Yes, I'm confused. And yes, it's been quite some time since I wrote my last songs, too. I'm a jealous guy, you know, and there are times when I wish that I'd written something, if I'd just looked at something long enough and thought hard enough about it. Maybe in the future. But not now -- I need to be a man first. Look at myself. I love you to bits, that's for sure, but this guy needs to be a man first.
I'm not going anywhere, just like you said you won't be going anywhere. But for now, I need sleep. I need to think. I need to start writing again, doing new songs. I need to walk back to your workstation and smile inside when I get up from the Lazy Boy. We need to rest.
But no, I'm not going anywhere. And I'll keep on writing until I get that beat back into my words and I'll have something I can show you.
I love you,
J.