I got into a car crash today.
I was not in the right state to drive at all. Thank goodness the guy was nice; he let me go after I explained myself. I hope he let me go because he too, has been through the same feelings.
I always hated the Photos app in my phone for it has so many memories I couldn’t dare to delete.
Aren’t we all too scared to let go of memories that would hurt us like a sand paper stroking down our throats? When I met him, I never thought I would want to look for someone else ever again; I thought he was perfect. Apparently not for me.
Perfect scenario: Me and him in our own two stories house, with a crystal lamp my mom loves, my Casio and the photo booth he likes in the living room. Our kids are sleeping upstairs. My mom is so proud of me for finding a Vietnamese guy she always hoping me to marry. We’re chilling on the couch watching Mr. Nobody I like but he hates. And we’re happy.
And I woke up.
We are too scared to let go of what we are used to, and what we are constantly daydreaming about in hopes that the Law of Attraction might one day applies to us. We’re afraid to have to start over: the whole process of the first date, of putting out our perfectly played masks that we put on to society, the underpinnings of dating and romantic gestures we “have” to portray… Once we’re too used to the feelings a human gives us, we succumb to their presence and ignore all the differences just so we don’t have to begin again.
“Begin Again”. That terms of hope that everyone wants to hear, hidden under many shapes and phrases.
“I’ll begin to work out again”, “I’ll definitely begin to eat healthy again”
We rarely hear “Okay, I’ll begin to love again”.
I don’t think to fall in love is as easy as working out but for most of us, working out is a hell of a trip that we procrastinate one year to another. Yet we never procrastinate to be in love.
Would you let go if those memories are nothing like cotton candy and rainbows to you? Would you let go if all that moments you shared together were so sweet and so unreal to the point that when everything falls apart, the fragments of them haunt you at night, keep you from sleeping without even think about them?
I would if I could.
I wish what keeps me up at night was that simple. It was how I care for people makes me think that maybe I don’t deserve to be loved by anyone at all (except my mom because she’s stuck with me). My mom hates that about me, too. She thinks I don’t have that much privilege to be picky since I’m not that elegant and that special to be choosy. I’m neither rich nor pretty, I’m neither exceptionally smart or sophisticated to be selective. Well, yeah. It’s true. Maybe I would just stop at any random guy who would want to cuddle and that’s it. We’re fucking married.
Not so perfect scenario: We’re living in a mobile house, with my untouched ukulele hanging near the fridge. Our kids are crying. My mom is watching the news with her glasses on, falling asleep thinking why the cops were all over the streets tonight. We’re sleeping on our bed, back to back. he’s snoring, probably dreaming about whether to bet our savings on Dream Catcher or Flash on the race track. I’m laying down, motionless.
I tried to wake up but I couldn’t.
The problems were never about anyone. It was me. It was all me who can’t seem to overlook one’s flaws since I don’t care about them as much as they do about me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just want to run on a one-way street where all the men running after me, for me to have all the privileges in the world but give them nothing they want at all. And I don’t want to run the other way.
That was not me. That was never me.