Sadness and Desire, Chapter Eight

Let me tell you about this girl I met in my first years in college. This was before I met Kristelle and the LRT girl. She wrote for the school publication in our university. And we had this sort of thing.
If she was not at the publication’s office on the fourth floor, she was at the library devouring books like potatoes. I’d inch my way through the narrow long tables and sit beside her. Most of the time I would be disturbing her reading, but sometimes she wanted to talk.
We would talk about a lot of things, but mostly it was about the crowd. She despised people like some perverted cactus, while I told her I couldn’t decide if I hate people or love them, and maybe I stuck with her because I would love to be convinced. Or maybe I loved how I thought she would be convincing me, or I loved imagining, thinking about how she would convince me. Fantasies after all are just products of the mind.
She would talk to me about the pleasures of being an introvert, of being alone. “I could read all the books I want, I can listen to all music, and I don’t have to deal with awkward conversations and norms.”
“How are you supposed to meet other people, then?” I asked.
“I really don’t have to. If people are interested with me and would like to talk to me, then they should just go on and do it. Like you did.”
“And you like them at once?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not,” she placed a bookmark on her book. “Once they talk to me, I’d know through intuition if that person is worth my time or not.”
“So I am worthy of your time?”
“In a way.”
“In a way,” I repeated as if it some ancient prayer I need to plant in my hollow heart.

What is the heart if not a grave?
I have, for so long, met, befriended, and even loved a lot of people. They opened the doors of my solitary bedroom, entered, sat on a stool, sat on the bed, tucked me in, told me stories about their bright lives, and I listened, wholeheartedly, listened till my ears fell off (but continued listening anyway). We had drinks, shared food, shared laughs, shared memories that money can’t buy (which sounds like a lump of cliché, but life is cliché), and just like everything they faded like shadows greeting the night, opened the door of my bedroom once more, and stepped outside, closing the door behind them.
Most of them never returned. Time moved forward, the earth rotated around its axis, revolved around the sun, and the sun zipped pass other stars and star systems and the galaxy dashed past other star clusters and supernovas and black holes and dark matter and whatever the universe contained, nothing remained in place, nobody remained in one place, everything changed, everybody died, everybody dispersed like cigarette smoke in the warm misty afternoon air.
And all that remained of them are the memories we kept in this heart, which soon, will also fade.
Our hearts are the trash cans where people disposed of their refuses, until all the garbage and junk and kisses, letters, laughter, and drinks piled up until it’s no longer a trash can but a grave. Soon, contractors will arrive and build a mall at the top of this grave.
Such tragedy.
Come to think of it, a thousand years from now, these graves will be dug by archaeologists to be reminded of what once was.
Would they see my dreams and desires?

She crashed on my flat one night after a fight with her boyfriend. Meaning, of course, I was some sort of rebound.
“I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” I told her as I carved a roast chicken I bought from the stall outside.
“It’s just one of those things,” she said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She asked me for a cigarette (another surprise) so I handed her one. She lit it and fell silent for a time. The chicken was all chalky, the meat tough even against the knife. When it was all carved up to my desire, I took two plates, scooped some rice on them, and placed them on the table. We ate in silence before she took her phone and from it played a Belle and Sebastian tune.
After eating, I bought some beer from the nearby 7-11 but she told me she couldn’t drink.
“I don’t drink after a quarrel,” she said.
“Fine by me,” I said. At least I’ve got all the beer to myself.
She lit another cigarette. “The crazy thing about this relationship I’m in is that we don’t have to love each other.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know, we’d just go wherever we like, do whatever we like.”
“Sounds a bit complicated.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said. She blew a straight stream of cigarette smoke. “I don’t know really. Sometimes I feel like I want to do things, but then a big part of me says ‘don’t, you’ll get hurt’”
“You wouldn’t know unless you tried,” I remarked. I took a quick swig from my beer. It was cold and bitter.
“You know what, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should stop thinking about anything else and just do things.”
“Have some beer,” I quipped.
She embraced the bottle that I handed to her. It was perspiring between her slender fingers. After giving it a thought for about a few seconds, she raised the bottle to her lips and took a swig.
She cringed because of the bitterness, but after swallowing, she gave a spirited sigh. “That’s nice. That feels so nice.”
“It’s good when things feel nice. Especially when stuff is as good as beer,” I remarked.
She agreed. “I wanna ask you something, though,” she placed the bottle on the floor. “Have you ever felt responsible for anything that you’re doing?”
“I fucked-up a relationship so yeah, I was pretty much responsible for that.” I was referring to a different girl who recently broke up with me.
“No, I mean, like, in life. Choices,” she choked, as if in between drinking and talking.
I decided to be honest. “Well, um, personally, I think that whatever I choose I’d end up in the same track. Like, most of my choices don’t really matter.”
“Me too,” she replied. Then she looked down—on the floor or on her feet—I wasn’t sure. “That’s why I don’t know what’s gonna happen to this baby. That jerk’s chickening out.”