November 1st, 2009
Writer's Block.
I've had writer's block for years.
I guess strong emotions had stirred the writer in me again.
Unedited version of course. I didn't want to undergo those torture that we call proofreading... yet.
Yes, this is based from true events.
Her feet on autopilot mode as she made her way through Makati malls and earphones blared with surprisingly calm music, she let her mind wander else where.
Surrendering is the best option for the
inevitable.
She hated this time of the day. She liked working because it kept her minds off of things. Thoughts that constantly visit her mind whenever she wasn’t doing anything else.
However, it didn’t help that every time she surrendered, she itched to listen to tunes that seemed to amplify the very meaning of these thoughts of hers. She frowned upon masochists but knew deep inside that every afternoon on her way home, she was a hypocrite. She, herself, was the very definition of a masochist. She knew she had dug her own grave for allowing these thoughts to take over her. Let alone, make it a daily routine. No, make it a habit. There were lapses, nights that wasn’t planned at all. Try as she might, this was a plague that she couldn’t avoid.
A plague on both your houses! She laughed. Noting to watch that movie again—that’s twice this week—she made a quick left turn to the shortcut by walking inside the large apparel store. The employees there knew her by now, after a whole month of doing the same routine, taking the same shortcut, they’d be able to recognize her by now.
Nice dress, I’d look good on that. She’d stop and look for dresses once in a while whenever she took that shortcut. Ah, too expensive. She winced. Besides, who was I trying to impress?
A face flashed through her mind. Ah, him. That permanently engraved a frown on her face. Upon exiting the first mall, waiting for the green light for her and co-pedestrians to cross the street to the next mall, it started to rain.
It’s a good thing tears never show in the pouring rain…
She sighed. It was torture to even guess when exactly did it all began. Was it years before? Or was it just because of the constant teasing?
Recalling the day she swallowed her fear and talked to him—the object of her thoughts for several months now—it seemed absurd that everything that has happened led her to this misery. A far cry to a really sad, tragic story, I suppose. But still, the agony of these feelings is admittedly hard to bear alone.
No one is allowed to keep such feelings to herself. I suppose I have friends who I could talk to about this. But have I told them enough? Of course not.
Shall I continue?
