“Sabik nang may maramdaman.”
I was walking on my way home with my earphones on, but I am starting to get sick of this song already. It’s almost been a week of listening to it so I can write something about it, but I can’t seem to string the right words.
I don’t have something to talk about anymore.
“Walang sagot sa tanong kung bakit ka mahalaga.”
Last month, I can’t even stop writing. I had to have a blank notepad on the side just in case something overflows, but lately, it hasn’t been like that.
What’s weird is that I’ve never felt this empty before. I just feel hollow. Nothing. I can’t cry. I can’t laugh either. It’s like all the love and evergy inside me has been sucked out from my entire being.
“Walang papantay sa’yo, maging sino man sila.”
What happened to the girl who has so much love to give, by the way?
Or more like, what happened to the love that she keeps on giving away?
“Ikaw ang araw sa tag-ulan, at sa maulap kong umaga.”
Annoyed, I snatched away the earphones and put them back inside my bag as I fumbled for my apartment keys.
Wait, I think I might have stepped on something.
That is when I saw it.
Flowers. Three red roses. No card at all.
I hated roses. I hated them since I was young. Not for anything, but I just didn’t see the point.
I laid them down on the lobby’s sofa so I can enter my apartment. I knew I should be grateful for these roses, but I cant seem to be at peace with the sight of them.
I can’t stand them.
It’s sad when nothing would compensate enough to the hollowness that you feel – not even flowers.
Not even anything. You just feel nothing. And no matter how much you wanted to accept the gift, how much you wanted to give back and say thank you, you just can’t. Because you feel nothing.
I remember the chat conversation I’ve had with someone who previously was into writing – about how difficult it is for him to write again. The thing is, I think it is happening to me right now. I can’t write. I can’t feel. I’m like a dead zombie waking up in the morning to work eat and then sleep.
I finally understand how it is to not feel anything when you badly want to feel something. And by looking at the flowers that were apparently for me, I can’t help but hate myself for not feeling anything. Even gratitude. Which I think, is just so wrong.
At the end of the day, I can’t be stuck on feeling empty. I had to find a way to NOT feel empty. I had to figure out and find my way back, then start writing again.
I dashed out the door and picked up the flowers from where I left them. I realized I didn’t take any time to check how beautifully they were made.
They may never be what I wanted, and I know they are not from whom I actually wanted them to come from, but they’re here.
No matter what I wanted, they’re already here. No matter from whom they were, and even if I am sure enough that they didn’t come from someone that I actually wanted, they are here.
So I took them in my room and arranged them in a vase. They won’t last forever, but they can be received and appreciated while they last – while they’re here.
If someone made an effort to grow them, cut off their thorns, arrange them and bring them here, I just can’t leave them there to die and be wasted.
Not what I wanted, but who says I can’t accept them?
That didn’t happen to my love, though. But at least I can do that to these flowers, I thought.