I don't even know your name. I don't even remember your face.
(Chaching, short story. Inspired by some indigenous performance I watched a while ago which made me realize that I can end up marrying somebody from the Kalinga and I'd be perfectly happy with it. Hinthint.)
Here is a story about a love self-contained. One-sided and spanning five acts, it's just like any other. Isn't all love the same when you strip it down? Not to bare hormones and chemical - well with that, all love is similar as well is it not? But to just that: love; without the fancy adjectives and differentiating words, a thought and a name for a thought or for a rush of blood to the cheeks.
Five acts, 14 scenes, resounding gongs and bamboo twangs. By Act 1, the second scene, I thought I'd list you up in my prospect list. As the third scene came on I thought it's just another one of those crazy, desperate things. But you know, we never know.
By Act 2 I thought I loved you. No it's not cheesy at all. I saw the rest of my life flashback and you were in every single frame of that grey matter filmstrip.
Act 3, I thought things over. But you know, nothing ever comes through that cloud of love just conceived - well the idea at least, it's always in the mind.
By the second scene of Act 4, while I thought the last dance was on, I was sure it's just the crazy hormones. But the idea of it all still makes me chuckle and do a secret tap dance - which is secret because I don't really know how to tap dance.
Act 5 was on though and the show was about to draw to a close, there's still one more dance. I stay through it until everybody started to leave. I took one last look at you and you know... Let's just say that grey matter of filmstrip with you in every single frame of still exists.
I told you, it's self-contained and one-sided. I was probably the only one that knew the other existed. There was hardly a connection - in my imagination perhaps? Let me rephrase that: The connection was only in my imagination - or perhaps there was a grain of it somewhere? It lasted barely 2 hours.
But how can I even call it love? Simple, because I say so. Because it might seem so. And in this world of tangled lines, severed truths, and a thousand multiple multiple multiple possibilities it might seem so is as good as it is so. Who knows, in one of the many dimensions there could be, it might even be a (tangled, severed) truth.
What should I call this then? For you it could be about how you and your boyfriend are, or how you love your husband, or how you feel for that girl in Math class. To me it's a story about love that lasted barely 2 hours.
At least it's longer than that 2-second love affair when I passed by the could-have-been love of my life as I was walking around the city.
Here is a story about a love self-contained. One-sided and spanning five acts, it's just like any other. Isn't all love the same when you strip it down? Not to bare hormones and chemical - well with that, all love is similar as well is it not? But to just that: love; without the fancy adjectives and differentiating words, a thought and a name for a thought or for a rush of blood to the cheeks.
Five acts, 14 scenes, resounding gongs and bamboo twangs. By Act 1, the second scene, I thought I'd list you up in my prospect list. As the third scene came on I thought it's just another one of those crazy, desperate things. But you know, we never know.
By Act 2 I thought I loved you. No it's not cheesy at all. I saw the rest of my life flashback and you were in every single frame of that grey matter filmstrip.
Act 3, I thought things over. But you know, nothing ever comes through that cloud of love just conceived - well the idea at least, it's always in the mind.
By the second scene of Act 4, while I thought the last dance was on, I was sure it's just the crazy hormones. But the idea of it all still makes me chuckle and do a secret tap dance - which is secret because I don't really know how to tap dance.
Act 5 was on though and the show was about to draw to a close, there's still one more dance. I stay through it until everybody started to leave. I took one last look at you and you know... Let's just say that grey matter of filmstrip with you in every single frame of still exists.
I told you, it's self-contained and one-sided. I was probably the only one that knew the other existed. There was hardly a connection - in my imagination perhaps? Let me rephrase that: The connection was only in my imagination - or perhaps there was a grain of it somewhere? It lasted barely 2 hours.
But how can I even call it love? Simple, because I say so. Because it might seem so. And in this world of tangled lines, severed truths, and a thousand multiple multiple multiple possibilities it might seem so is as good as it is so. Who knows, in one of the many dimensions there could be, it might even be a (tangled, severed) truth.
What should I call this then? For you it could be about how you and your boyfriend are, or how you love your husband, or how you feel for that girl in Math class. To me it's a story about love that lasted barely 2 hours.
At least it's longer than that 2-second love affair when I passed by the could-have-been love of my life as I was walking around the city.
posted by Byeong | 11:40:00 PM
1 Comments:
... or how you feel for that boy in your math class
... or the girl in your computer class...
wow.
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