Jealousy. I read a book about it before. Well, the book wasn’t entirely about IT. Instead it was mentioned that jealousy is the “true mark of love”. Let that sink in for a while before you read on……
What complete and utter bullshit! I say, love is the only absolute mark of love.
While it is true that jealousy can be a measure of love, it in fact is a measure of a disconcerted and a very disordered love; a very needy and selfish kind. See, jealousy is a proportionate measure of something else… insecurity. And we don’t like insecurity here. We shouldn’t. A love that is insecure is one that is void of mutual respect. And isn’t that a much better measure of love than jealousy? Respect? Respect is the very foundation of love. It binds love. You can’t have love without respect. Really. Think of all the people you love. I’d like to be proven wrong. Not.
Let’s use a song to demonstrate.
It started out with a kiss. How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss. It was only a kiss.
Jealousy is like yeast, or bacteria, or rabbits. It multiplies pretty fast, and usually uncontrollably. From a simple kiss, text message, eye contact, hug, handshake, or even the littlest and dumbest of physical contacts, one can go so far as think “Wait! That handshake was a little awkward. There must be something going on. To add on, she came home late last night. They probably were together. AND HAD SEX!”.
Jealousy opens one up into a multitude of possibilities from a single random event. I may have exaggerated a little with my example (when did I ever not). I mean, c’mon, you watched them TV dramas, the scorned lovers always do that; exaggerate with their accusations.
Now I’m falling asleep. And she’s calling a cab. While he’s having a smoke. And she’s taking a drag. Now they’re going to bed. And my stomach is sick. And it’s all in my head. But she’s touching his chest now. He takes off her dress now. Let me go.
This could just be me being too literal with the song but a jealous individual is one that ends up imagining things to the point of daydreaming. Could it be that we all just have this urge to be Sherlocks? Sometimes jealousy knocks us out of our senses and make us imagine things that are otherwise highly unlikely.
Usually, on the onset, one is bothered by the unknown. Then, questions start to pop in his mind. At times when we can’t find the answers that we want in the form of hard evidence, they manifest themselves as unlikely contingencies. We are forced to think the worst case scenario. But sometimes, it’s all in our heads.
And I just can’t look it’s killing me. And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea. Swimming through sick lullabies. Choking on your alibis.
You are not yourself when you are jealous. Usually, you are on the offensive and the more defensive the accused gets, the more pumped up you become. The previously imagined contingencies and scenarios will resurface. Nothing that the accused will say will matter or even make sense, since you are already living in an alternate world, extrapolated from reality. It gets worse as the accused ends up becoming a liar and anything he/she utters is new “hard evidence” in the investigation. Yet you don’t realize that jealousy has taken over that even the slightest of hesitation from the defendant becomes evidence of guilt and the “saint” in real life drowns himself in a sea of fabricated nonsense.
When someone is immensely jealous – and I have been talking in the context of a boy-girl relationship (how awful) or even in the context of marriage, his mind is clouded with shit. Yes, shit. It is mucked with shit that poisons his mind into thinking all the other possible shit can actually occur. It becomes an obsession even; an obsession that forces someone to think of all the possible “contingencies” and helps (note: it doesn’t really HELP) him to imagine all the nasty stuff imaginable. It’s like having a cancerous Sherlock Holmes talking “sense” into your brain and you end up being a pseudo-detective hard bent on finding the accused guilty. Even though he may not be at all.
It just came to me one day; this interpretation. It’s probably not the generally accepted/mainstream version but I have the greatest inkling that this was the intended meaning by the writers.
I don’t know why it came to me…
I have been, for the better part of this youth that I enjoy, blessed to have had the chance to travel – albeit, a shorter distance/radius below what I would consider actual travelling (for a definition of legit travelling, see Wikipedia… because it knows everything). I lived in Singapore well beyond four years – a great, life-defining experience. What I enjoyed there other than the great friends that I met and the sights-and-sounds (actually, by no means better than sights-and-sounds #Singabore) was the food. If one can compare sex with food, I probably would. The hawker center food would then enter the category/genre; interracial. That may sound wrong but it does. Eating food in Singapore (may it be Malay, Chinese, Indian or some fucked up cultural fusion shit) is like having interracial sex. Although, I am yet to taste this sex before I can actually make such a comparison. Yes. I am chaste.
At 14 years of age, I never was a big fan of the spicy. I did not even dare try anything spicy. To me, spicy was for the retarded, thrill-seeking retards (retard-ception) who would rather have the taste of their dish ruined by pain in the tongue; masochistic bastards.
My first meal there was Spicy prawns with spicy brinjal on the side. I was flabbergasted. I didn’t know how anyone could think of eating something so illogical. Tangina yan! Kulang na lang spicy rin yung kanin. I didn’t know how a rational mind can even come up with such a meal. I was even waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out (or a Singaporean artiste shouting out You got Punkd lah!). It was terrible. My tongue felt abused, raped, molested, forced to sex, etc.
But you know what, in a year or maybe even a few months, I eventually started appreciating weird tastes and sensations. I started eating Indian curry, Malay delicacies, Thai spicy shtuff, even Middle Eastern food. Maybe that’s what being a foodie is all about. You get to know yourself more from the utilization of every single taste bud in your tongue; that sense of an expansion of the human horizon for taste.
In the end, I can’t distinguish what I can consider my favorite food. I love food in general but if I do have an actual favorite, it’s as fleeting and temporal as a shampoo commercial. It would not last long. I can’t give a current favorite either for again it would do injustice to the food that I used to crave for and the dishes I will inevitably crave for in the future. In the end, it would be tantamount to asking the question, “Who is God’s favorite person in the world?” That’s as stupid an analogy I will ever arrive at. But you probably get my drift.
They say that the eyes are the windows to a man (or woman’s) soul.
That makes sense. In fact, I’d say I am a firm believer of it.
Her eyes are the most noticeable features of her face. They are simply striking. Black as midnight, deep as the darkest abyss. Yet they really are marvels. I sometimes just stare at them for minutes at a time, wondering; wondering what they were saying. Maybe that was what drew me towards her; never ending possibilities with a mysterious woman. I have stared onto them for the longest time and I still get surprised by their power. Captivating. Mouth-open-saliva-coming-out kind of captivated, I really was.
She had a vein peering off her left (or was it right?) eyelid. Similar to one that I had back in secondary school. But hers is more pronounced, almost attractive. Rather VERY attractive. She doesn’t believe in the power and beauty of her eyes. She says that the vein is ugly – a deformity. “Impossible”, I always thought. She even posits the idea that it could be dangerous – the possibility of it popping from trauma and blinding her. Unimaginable. Why, this very vein is what makes her eyes even more fascinating. A blemish in an already beautiful palette can enhance it – the very testament to a flaw. We don’t notice it; that our very flaws and our ‘impurities’ make for captivating qualities.
I still get to see those eyes yet with a fading luster; perhaps proof of my own diminished feelings for them. How I wish to peer through those windows again, just like in the not so distant past. When all was wonderful. When her eyes showed me an eternity. When they gave light instead of simply receiving.
Back when they looked back at mine.
I decided to change my 30-day challenge because it pretty much is boring. This is purely experimental; probably a stupid thing to do. I feel that I express better about my relationships with people (or at least I want to know how I write about people other than myself). Probably a cheesy series for the sake of retrospection. Definitely not for the lactose intolerant.
Normally I would consider this exercise to be something that is truly worthless and a waste of time. But then again as of late I realize that I hardly know myself. So that’s my lame excuse for doing this ‘lame’ exercise. Enjoy as much as I would.
John Andrew Carbonilla Lachica
A very plain, unflattering, unexciting name. It hardly says anything (if names can say anything of a person at all). Honest to God, I do not enjoy the John in my name. I hardly include it in writing my name these days. It’s such a shame. I feel that John is a rather weak name. And I mean it. :)) The weakness of John does not arise from the way it sounds or the way it’s overused in the bible or whatever notorious historical association with it. Its weakness shows itself in its usage. Otherwise a name that can stand perfectly on its own (which is more than fine for me), John is used mostly as an affix to either a name that is otherwise unattractive or a name that isn’t a name at all. Most of the time, its inclusion in a name ruins an otherwise expressive and catchy name.
For instance, John Lloyd. Lloyd is not a name. Okay. Fine. At the very least, it belongs to the category archaic. Definitely cannot stand on its own. Unless it really stands on its own as in a mononym. Exhibit A: The artist Lloyd. Look him up. Imagine John Lloyd Cruz without the John and just a Lloyd Cruz. He probably would not have been famous. :))
On the usage of John as a name-ruining affix, Exhibit B: myself. Haha. Do you know why I’m named John Andrew? It’s because of tradition, if we can call it that. My three elder brothers all were named John A____. This means that since another male was born in the family, it is logical to name him John. Again. So this continuation thing is a curse. In high school, my brothers were usually addressed by their last names (it’s an exclusive, private, (rich)high school thing). If the need for a first name basis arises, my brothers were called John since it came before their REAL names. So imagine when people started calling le house. And yet it’s a blessing as well. We have the same initials. The convenience in having the same initials is when we put them in our bags, notebooks, uniform patches, etc. We saved quite a lot of money on hand-me-downs. Unfortunately, I’m the youngest. And therefore the tail of the bequeathing chain. So again, a curse.
Just to reiterate my point, John should usually just stand on its own. It sounds way cooler than John Something. Go ahead. Make a quick search but do not hit enter just yet. Check out the search suggestions in the drop list for the search word ‘John’. John Lennon. John Dalton. John Mayer. John Cena. :)) Ok. That was a bad argument.
Anyway, the point is (if I am actually arriving at one) I’ll probably give cheesy names to my kids as well (read: payback time). Continuation is a bitch.
People shouldn’t be brooding, especially just before Christmas. I mean, it’s Christmas. People should enjoy and laugh and have fun and be happy. Christmas is for family reunions. Friends to see each other. Giving gifts, or not giving em. Nobody deserves to feel like crap during this
special occasion. Least of all, me.
For the past few months, I’ve been able to tell myself that I am content. Well, I was crapping myself apparently. I am clearly not. I have been dissatisfied with myself; hiding and cowering and unable to do anything. I thought I could be spontaneous, because spontaneous was good.
I feel bad. I feel terrible. I feel that day-by-day, inch-by-inch I’m losing touch with the world around me. I feel like I’m losing every connection I have with people, with family, even with friends, especially friends; every fiber, breaking, slowly until I have alienated myself with everyone.
I feel like I’m edging on a very dark place. I feel like I’m self destructing the scary thing is, I think I’ll like it there.
What was that? HAHA. I don’t get myself. I need a shrink. Or at least someone to help me analyze myself. Happy Birthday Jesus.
I can’t sleep….. so I’ve been listening to some of my “comfort songs”.
NAKED AS WE CAME by Iron and Wine
She says “Wake up, it’s no use pretending”
I’ll keep stealing, breathing her.
Birds are leaving over autumn’s ending
One of us will die inside these arms
Eyes wide open, naked as we came
One will spread our ashes ’round the yard
She says “If I leave before you, darling
Don’t you waste me in the ground”
I lay smiling like our sleeping children
One of us will die inside these arms
Eyes wide open, naked as we came
One will spread our ashes round the yard
Iron and Wine is so relaxing…………it gets me down. LMAO
Today I lost my nerves…..
My bad temperament really catches me off guard sometimes and it feels like a chronic disease whose symptoms nobody sees coming….. not even myself.
Table tennis is my passion. I understand why I want THIS so badly. I am not collecting jerseys nor am I a competition junkie. I simply and ultimately LOVE the sport.
To want something badly, to be passionate for it, often necessitates caution for the eventuality of disappointment. In colloquial terms, pagkasawi (sound familiar?) Our passions in life may it be cooking, fishing, studying or even playing computer games require investment from the doer. We invest energy, time and money to the things we love to do or at a lower level (but no less significant), our interests.
The more we invest physically and (more importantly) emotionally, the greater the risk of feeling broken/lost/anxious/distraught/depressed/
suicidal when something goes terribly wrong…..and things DO go terribly wrong.
That’s what I felt today….. I felt wasted. Not in the drug-alcohol sense of the word, but in the basic meaning of it. Sometimes I feel like my body endures so much pain and sleeplessness for my ego just because I wouldn’t quit. Even when it seems pointless, even when the only logical thing to do is pack up and leave, even when nobody seems to back me up instead of feeding me with motivation, I stay…… because I am stubborn. See, pride runs in the family and it’s often misused. And so is a short temperament.
It’s good to have a few friends to cheer you up though when you’re down… sometimes through very unexpected means.
I present to you
“How to cheer yourself up in more weird ways than one (that is, two)”
I really do hope I find inner peace……. and much improved bowel movement.