people used to write in their journals and diaries to keep track of all the things that have happened in their life. i always had this notion that one day i’ll die and people would find my old diaries ranting about love and school and future but now i can see that the internet already archives my life for me.
i sat in an uneven chair during research and listlessly decided to look through my old gmail and gchat’s.
it was littered with emails from clubs and organizations that i forgot to delete, gchats with people who asked me what time the meeting is tomorrow or if i’ve done the assignment.
but within all the thousands of emails that i’ve received, there are those gems that tell me blatantly who i was.
the emails from my best friends that show exactly how much love and care could be compressed into a 13inch computer screen. i wistfully wish that i could go back and not have forgotten to write a reply.
the gchats with high school boys who haven’t yet been jaded by so called ‘experience’ with love.
elaborate ramblings to boyfriends about the future, chocolate, and the types of people we aspire to be.
paragraphs upon paragraphs from those very few who took turns carrying my heart
the random heartfelt emails from confidantes and childhood friends recalling those specific days that never seemed to special until i started daydreaming and it appears
the thank you emails that unexpectedly pop up and made me realize the power of my actions
so i guess i owe a lot to google, or maybe google owes me a lot for keeping all of the precious words that i occasionally read again…
do you ever just sit down with a group of people that you are either artificially close to, or perhaps on the verge of linking arms and hearts with and the conversation of, ‘ tell me, tell me about your love life’.
people talk about love to get a glimpse of the type of person you are, or were. to envision you as a person who was drugged up on love and high on the best thing bestowed to mankind.
i’ve sat and talked about my love life, sprinkled with some sweet smelling crushes, tossed with a few bad apples that almost ruined what was left, a bit of some experimental spices, and the ones that got away.
but the question that has always grappled my mind was, “what was the authenticity?” i know love cannot be measured like one measures diamonds or leather made in france. what qualifies and can really be deemed as love, in it’s full right and splendor?
does every type of love count?
middle school first love and puppy love, the hormone raging teenage love, the lost everything-to-you love, the “i am still questioning if my feelings were true”, and the elusive true one.
when i sit and talk about the people in my past that once meant the world to me and have elicited probably 10 full length movies of daydreams and fantasies and added smiles and laughter as if they had a remote made for me, it shows me the blurry, shiny past. i always put a glossy finish on all the people that has been a big part of my life at one point. because the bad parts are ineffable.and i can never imagine those same people that i talk about, talking about me. and what would they say?
but please don’t forget, i remember your advice… ‘ dont trust anybody completely… that’s just stupid’.
so i find myself folding my words in half and waiting for the moment and person to finally throw away the piece of advice you told me, to prove that it isn’t stupid.
a couple of years later,
a couple of years full of opening my mind and filling it with eros and sprawled on the bedsheets of different places that i called home, here i am.
i thought i would be different when i embarked on the journey a number of hundreds of days ago. but i’m exactly the same. i thought once i left the town that i grew up in, my old humble suburban home with its great and famous brother, i could go out and make a name for myself. but here i am.