Priorities

So, I usually have my priorities set straight.

Well, every weekday, I go home (after whatever after-school activity I had attended), I turn on my computer (or eat a cookie first), and I check my email.

Then, I choose two routes.

A. Go on Facebook.
B. Go on Google Docs.

Mogley said today that I have an "unhealthy obsession with Google Docs."

Uh, excuse me? I so do not. Besides, Google Docs happens to be readily accessible without too much hassle of sending attachments. I, like many people in this world, happen to not carry around a laptop with streaks down the middle of the screen all the time.

If you want to talk obsession, talk about my love for Avant Garde Bk BT. Now that's an obsession.

Anyway, today I chose the latter, and I have obviously ignored my blog. As such, I shall post my story (or what's left of it) here in compensation as I rack my brain tomorrow for something interesting to write (perhaps along the lines of the electric circuits lab I'll be doing with Nyx and Camel--oh, and, did I mention my successful attempt, on the first try, in blowing out a light bulb completely unintentionally? I shall have to do that later, I suppose.)



Love's Got Plenty.

-a story for those who keep me wondering.

1. The Beginning.

How many times have I said, "I had a dream once," only to leave it at that? Left my words hanging in mid-sentence, an utterance that did not make any sense and only left a hollow, intangible feeling?

Lately, I had been asked, "Why do you only write sad stories?"

I closed my eyes. I opened them again, and I started, "I only write what comes from my heart."

Perhaps this was a sobering reminder as to what I had been surrounding myself with. I am not a tragic person by birth, I would like to claim. I am an optimistic person. I love my life.

I could go on, but I would be guilty of distorting the truth. I know of no other life--no other real one, at least, so I have no other life but this to love.

There are many reasons as to why I write, and one of them must be this. I write to preserve what little lingering hope I have of another life I might love more, and those hopes weave themselves into dreams that I cannot make out anymore.

2. Make Believe.

His eyes tell me, "I think you're insane." He tries to reassure me, with silent words, yes, it's fine, it's not just you, but his eyes are saying, "You are the craziest person I have ever known, and not in a good way."

He is not an eye-reader. I tell him, "I don't care what you think," but my eyes are screaming, I do care, and you're breaking my heart right now. Of course, he only hears half the message. And so am I, so perhaps I should be more lenient. But it's so hard to think straight when your heart is on the verge of being shredded.

"I still think you're weird." Oh, well, I think you're fine anyway.

Don't lie to me. "Well, okay."

"I don't even know why I'm talking to you right now." I'm sorry, I have to go, I've got to meet someone.

Glad to know. Glad to know. "Oh, all right. I'll talk to you later." Or not.

"Oh, please, just go away." Sure, later.

And I think we're such cowards, because we can't just vocalize our true thoughts. We have to go through this complex way of deceiving each other and pretending that we are such sugar-coated children who could do no harm.

3. Hanging On.

I lean against the concrete wall, eyes trained on the yellow sheet of paper in front of me, but ears strained.

What is the volume of--"Who wants to go up to the board?"--3.4 moles of nitrogen gas--"Yeah, you're--"--under STP? Show--"Hey, come on!"--all calculations and--"What, what did I do?"--use significant figures.

I write down some numbers and throw in some units. I flip through my formula sheet, looking for anything that matches. I tap my pencil against the paper, then, realizing that this gesture made too much noise, I stopped and squinted instead.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps, making their way closer and closer. I keep my eyes focused on the paper, but I am not seeing. I read over the same line three times. I only see someone--anyone--walking, ready to leave.

The door opens, with a soft but gratifying click. I feign nonchalant, and after a few seconds, I look up, pretending to have been disrupted from a long session of deep thought. I look into blue eyes, but they're the wrong shade, and I smile.

"Hey. What are you doing here?"

Just waiting, I tell him. I don't tell him for what. He leaves, as does everyone else, and I remotely note that something golden floats in the air that drifted past me.

4. Forget Me.

I have one last thing to ask of you, and I know that it is a lot, and I have asked a lot, but I hope you will grant me this one last wish.

I hit backspace. There was no way I would even have the guts to start asking that question. I would regret it, I would back-peddle. I would fall apart even before he could begin to comprehend my message. I typed a few words, and deleted them as well. I could not think anything else but him. I breathed in his very being, and I exhaled a part of myself every time.

There was something very, very false about the way I conducted myself, and I could not bring myself to care. Here was something real for once, no matter how far-fetched it was, and I had a feeling I would not take part in something similar for a long time.

Was I ready to risk it all? Did I have what it took? I closed my eyes again, trying to figure out what it was that I wanted, and came to a blank. The emptiness consumed me.

I have one last thing I wish to ask you, despite all that you have done for me.

5. Nothing Left.

The blinking light should not have been my only reassurance of his existence, but it was, and I could do nothing about it anymore. Some say you could not change the past, and I have to say, it extends to the present as well.

I waited for a while, biting my tongue, wondering if I should really go on with it. I could hear my heart, a constant reminder that I may not be making the right decision. But adrenaline ruled my world for now, and I should have walked away, as those anger-management sites always advise me to do so, but I was caught up in a what-if world.

"Hey."

I counted the number of dots it took to write his name.

"What?"

"Do you have a copy of the worksheet we did in class today?" I had thought it over, and I realized that it was quite telling that I had to think it over.

"Yeah."

"Did you get anything for the last column?"


"Nope."

"Oh, okay. Thanks anyway."

"'Kay."

It was progress, albeit a piteous one, and I for a moment forgot why I had become so engrossed in this matter that should have been so trivial. There was a new world open to me now, and, having seen its image, I began to waver.

6. Choosing Gold.

The way they walked together was harmonious, and I should have been envious, but I could not bring myself to care anymore. I purposefully set my steps so I was always, perpetually trailing behind them. I told myself it should not have mattered, that I had every right to do whatever I wanted, but even as I said those words, I could taste their ridiculousness.

She said something, and he laughed, a chipper laugh that left me with a bitter taste on my tongue. I stared at the tuft of hair that stood up, and it was so fascinating, it really was. He said something back, but I did not hear. His voice was harsh, grating, as it always was, and I heard her response resting in the air. It was not a significant moment, not enough to be noted elsewhere.

They slowed down, and I, for lack of reason, walked on. I heard their voices, now unforgiving whispers, and I quickly glanced at myself. I felt their eyes boring on my back, but it was only my imagination. They cared for me no more than any other passerby.

7. Dreamed Upon.

A  harsh word, I tell myself. Cold, not just right. I make every step a calculation, every word a wager. I took out the element of realism and morphed it into something I could manage. It was more of a false hope, really.

He waves, a gesture of habit more than politeness. I nod my acknowledgement--another habit.

I sink into my seat, a reminder of what I had at stake. I look over, but he has already looked away, and I divert my gaze as well. I take out my notes, my fingers brushing past the photocopied letters in a tired manner, the way an old man regards an unknown young boy.

There is a voice somewhere--I hear it, yet, once again, I do not comprehend. I take it in my hands and I roll it around until I have molded a piece of heartbreak, and even then, I cannot bring myself to swallow it. I merely toy with it until it loses its flavor and its meaning.

I look over again, and this time I catch his eye, but not quite. It slips, and I find myself reverting back to the clock.

8. Worth It.

"You're a jerk." But I can't stop talking to you.

He rolls his eyes, as if he had heard the same, hackneyed phrase over and over again, and I do not doubt he has. There was a fine line I am treading now, something that could decide many things I had been reluctant to look over lately.

I walk away, keeping my head high, what little self-assurance I have left. And he does the same, except he is that much more confident in himself, and that much less reliant on my reaction.

So when I turn around, I only catch a glimpse of his hair and his strides, and I realize again, if I had not known before, that I have lost, even before I began.

9. Don't Care.

I had this propensity towards imagination, a bit of chewed off uncertainty within my reign of comfort. I would wake up in the mornings, not sure of what I had been doing or what I should have been doing. And yet there was a type of calm in this uncertainty, and I had a sense of great mastery of the situation, despite not knowing anything of it.

Sometimes colors jumped out at me, as it was this morning. Red was the aura the air took that morning, and so it was: everything bathed in a sea of red. I breathed it in, silently, slowly, for however long it took to make sense of my surroundings, and amidst this revelation of the inner self I found an antithesis.

But it was short-lived, as with everything else in the mornings of drowsiness. I half-opened my eye and took in the lack of light, and an instant later I had fallen back into my reveries. What battles there needed to be fought, what lands to conquer, I had forgotten. Sweet, mind-numbing softness was pulling me back to a place where I needed not remember.

10. Mere Musings.

He was in the second row, facing the other way, and I was in the fourth row, except I, unlike him, had a better grasp of the present. We both faced a vantage point, but I had him in my peripheral vision. I had his voice in my head.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, the words reminiscently false. "Just tired."

"Oh, yeah. It's been a long week."

I averted my eyes. "Yeah. I can't wait for the weekend." When the dreams begin and reality ends.

When he turns around for once.

"Me too. I really wish this week was over already."

I nodded, thanking whatever entity I never quite believed in--yet never quite denounced--for a short weekend. I did not know if I could stand the disappointment if I always got carried away.

11. Letting Go.

"What do you want?"

I want a chance. The words I had prepared choked in my throat. Why do you keep holding on to me if you do not want me anyway?

"What?"

I thought I knew the perfect way to disguise my frustration, but his eyes threw me off guard. I plastered on my favorite smile, the one that did not reach my eyes, and felt safe in knowing he did not know how to read eyes.


"What is it?"

"It's the way you say it."

"What?"

I tried to steer my gaze away, but his eyes held me in place. "It's nothing, really." And instead of holding his imagination as I thought it would, he merely grunted.

"Well, okay then."

I should have known, but I was too reluctant to swallow it until then. My voice hung, and I could hear the unspoken desperation, but alas, I was released from his grasp.

12. White Lies.

I sat, my head leaned against the cool wall, and a book in my lap. I ran my hands over the pages until the lines of text blurred and I could not make out individual words anymore. There was a certain degree of solitude in this that I could feel on the tip of my tongue, but it was only fleeting.

People walked by, not noticing, or not caring. I would not have been surprised either way. I sat, in silence, observing their behavior. The girl with her school sweatshirt and a skirt underneath, carrying a backpack and walking by in short steps. The boy with his mop hair and nearly worn-out sandals and his devil-may-care attitude, only he cared more than he cared to say. They were fascinating, people beyond my normal order.

I aimlessly flipped through a few more pages, not reading, as I watched on. A teacher, coffee in one hand and bag in other, rushed into the offices. Another one came out, waved to another girl down the hall, and went on her way.

I closed my eyes, then, when I opened them again, I looked at my book again. It had long since lost its appeal, and, with a last glance, I looked up just in time to meet his eyes.

"You're here," he said. "Reading. Outside."


"Yeah, I like it." I said. "But I'm going to go in anyway."

With that, he left, and I followed him soon after. We sat next to each other, but neither of us talked to each other for the rest of the day.

13. Seeking Atonement.


I sink into my end of the seat, dizzy with the euphoria of life, when someone mentions, "We could have won."

It is a sentiment seconded by many, and I nod weakly along. Naturally, placement of blame goes around, with everyone assuming a small part but also pushing it away. When it comes to my turn, I look at them with hooded eyes.

"Winning is overrated anyway."

They stare at me in a dazed silence, then he is the first one to speak. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. Just because it's overrated doesn't mean it's bad."

"I'm not saying that. Winning is everything. It's why I'm doing this."

Of course. To him--to them, winning is everything. I watch as the bus pulls in to its final destination, and then I turn back and face him again.

"If I cared about winning, then I would not be doing this."

14. Happily Ever After.

A twist of the knob turns the volume up. A few taps, just the right blend of melancholy and inspiration. A deep, reflective white, empty beyond words. A vision--a means.

A belief, a willingness--to love.

I have been asked: what is it that you really want from this life?

Everyone asks this question sooner or later, usually later. I, too, like the majority of the world, do not know. I wish I could answer this question, but I have not yet wandered far enough to comprehend.

If it takes distance, that is.

So this is a story in an attempt to find out if there is an answer out there. And this, above all, is my happily ever after.