1350–1400; Middle English diaria - Late Latin diarrhoea - Greek diárrhoia a flowing through, equivalent to diarrho- (variant stem of diarrheîn to flow through) | Anything, e v e r y t h i n g that comes out.
Now, I hate this line of words between us. So cold, so
distant, always not enough to tell a story. And so you and I are forced to fill
in the gaps with imagined scenes, with fabrications. We say hello much too
cheerily to compensate for the growing distance. You put too many emoticons in
your chat messages -- another smiley face instead of a sad one. We both think
that it’s enough, that the other won’t see anyway, that the other won’t feel
that we’re drifting apart. Maybe these words don’t really connect us at all.
They've begun to become a wall instead.
I've always wondered if it was fate or mere coincidence that
brought us together. We began (at least I did) with an apology. We then wove
our story with lines of poetry, a whole new world strung together with words,
always words. I loved them, and so did you – was that all?
What was it like, from
your point of view?
It was true I never saw you since I left. Out of sight, out of mind.To see is to
believe.But you were always real
for me, even without us seeing each other. It was as if you were transmuted
into those words that floated between us. I was happy to send my thoughts
floating toward you too.
Floating free.
Floating, nothing to ground it. Was it only believing that made you real?
In my fairy tale, you were the knight who came charging to
rescue me. You were the shy guy who unwittingly makes me smile. You were the
song I'd “heard once in
fragments but had been singing in my mind ever since.”
In yours, who am I? A name, or a number – a face and a
voice? Was it chance, or meant to be?
Ne me quitte pas, mon
chere. Truthfully, it feels bad to start our tale with a sorry and end with a hello.
My baby cousin, Ethan, regarded me with wide, wondering eyes. He wore a what-the-hell expression: one raised eyebrow, wrinkled forehead, slightly pursed lips. After two seconds, he began to wail, and it was my turn to screw up my face.
What the hell?
It follows that I waved his rattle toys before his face, the jingling sounds increasing in tempo the longer he cried. It didn't work. I made faces and tried to talk to him, "Sinong pogi? Si Ethan!" It didn't work, either. Not knowing what else to do, I turned on the music and sang to him in Japanese.
It actually worked. He went silent and just stared at me. I spent about half an hour that way, peering at Ethan, singing, "Akachan dango wa itsumo shiawase no naka de."* (The baby dumpling is always in the midst of happiness.)
The whole activity got me thinking. The house was quiet besides my singing voice and Ethan's slight whimpering, so I could almost really hear my thoughts. Calm, silent... what now?
I'd always liked imagining the future. I would picture scenes that I'd love to see happen. I would play quirky conversations in my head, as if rehearsing them. I would make plans, feeling like I could do anything, if I so willed.
But I never thought of things graver or farther reaching than that. I never took the time to ponder my beliefs, my dreams even -- are they really mine?
So when faced with the decision of whether or not to quit being a campus journalist, I was quite baffled. In the first place, I applied for the publication thinking that it's the most natural thing for me to do -- having been an avid writer in high school. I didn't want to leave that part of me -- the bright-eyed, inquisitive journalist -- behind, so I rashly dove in.
Then it spiraled out of control.
My grades were fine, actually, but I was constantly nagged by the thought that I could have done better. My articles were alright, but they took huge effort to finish, requiring me to forgo my introvert tendencies. My friendships were strained; I was always too stressed and surly to talk. I am was a mess.
It scared me. What if that kind of writing turned me into a person I don't know? What if it made me realize I'm not for engineering school? What if it forces me to choose?
It was too much, too soon, and I suddenly felt so young to be confronted with such choices.
Ethan began to cry again, and I hastened to shush him. I picked him up, grateful for the distraction from more disturbing thoughts.
"Hey, little cousin. Mukhang pareho ata tayo ng music. Magkakasundo tayo nyan," I told him, smiling. He stopped crying.
I rocked him for a bit, and soon he was asleep. I couldn't help feeling a pang of envy. The future, after all, was for him only his mother's arrival -- milk and bedtime (again).
*Lyrics from Dango Daikazoku, an ending from Clannad.
