At the end of the day

Now this is how it feels, to be alone at the end of the day.

I arrived home at 6:20 after leaving work at 5:00 and having done my grocery that I hope will be enough to last me for a week. As soon as I got to my place, I took my clothes off, washed my face, and flopped myself on the edge of the bed to reach for my iPhone charger. I opened Spotify and searched for Amy Winehouse’s songs.

I fell asleep for a good one hour.

When I woke up at around 8:00 I knew I had to force myself to eat. I prepared a simple dinner of salad and eggs for one.

This, it is now clear to me, is the life of a man on his own. The sensation is new. I don’t know if I will ever get used to it. Certainly I can imagine a life of independence. I didn’t cohabit with any of my partners right away, but at least then I was sure I had a partner. We lived separate for some time, but I practically spent most of the time with them until eventually it was decided that I had to move to their place.

I’m mature enough to understand the nuances of most agreements. I’ve become more adept at reading the fine prints as well as inferring the implicit meanings of phrases used to set the terms of the contract of a relationship. I have to keep a place of my own and not to think of it as a dead investment but rather see it as an emergency fund. It’s sitting there without earning any interest, in fact losing its value to inflation and the changes in the purchasing power parity of the currency, but it has to be there, depreciating in value, because someday, I will have to open the door of the unit using a set of keys that is barely used while trying to carry several pieces of luggage, boxes of books, a decor or two bought in one of the travels I had with my partners, a box of love letters, and a microwave.

This is how impermanent relationships are, as all things. In the meantime, I have to force myself to endure the silence, not to be ashamed of solitude, and maybe see myself free from images in the background or foreground, and to know the person standing in front the full length mirror better.

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In and on love: delirious ramblings written on the eve of Valentine’s

I love as if it is my last day alive. I am never scared to risk it all for love. I love to love because the act of loving is more than a reason to fall in love and to remain in love. I am confident that all the people I loved in the past and the person I love now never complained and will never complain that I lacked passion, that I did not love them with fiery intensity, only the opposite, that I loved them too much. Love propels me to reach for higher grounds, to do things beyond my human abilities. Love may have caused my past follies as to write the most prosaic of poetry, but my best prose was made poetic by love.

I am the happiest when I am in love. I walk with insouciance, almost flying; I defy gravity. When I am in love, all the food I eat taste like my mother’s specialty dish; I finish all the books I read; a ‘hard read’ isn’t true; I write in the most fluid of manner, unblocking my constant writer’s block; I lift the heaviest of weights, run the longest mile, and swim the most laps; I hug the tightest. I kiss the wettest.

When I am in love, my hypothalamus hypertrophies to a size bigger than my skull, my heart beats so powerfully that I fear it’ll rip my ribcage from inside, that member stands most proudly (its hardness and length rival that of my femur).

When I am in love, this one without any attempt on exaggeration, I become a better version of myself.

I don’t stutter when I am in love. I am calm when I am in love (like a cold gush of wind from an evening breeze). I chew my food slowly when I am in love. I imagine I look good when I am in love. I listen more, talk less when I am, of course, in love.

When I am in love, I quit being sarcastic. I cut on my acrid remarks, dramatically doing away with my often sardonic way of laughing when I think that the world has become hyperbolically un-clever. I become nice, even nicer than a nice cup of tea. I knowingly leave my stiff upper-lip on a train to Stratford-upon-Avon and from there totally forget about it. I become warm, warm enough to boil water 24,000 ft above sea level.

I am not irritable when it’s Valentine’s Day. I look forward to it like how I did for Christmas when I was seven, that is, if I am in love. Like today.

I want to remain in love, to love until the world gets fed up and decides to burn me in stake because of this love. There’s no sweeter reason for dying than to die for love.

And no better reason for living than to live for love and the person I love.