sabi ko sa kaibigan ko, ang hirap maging unresponsive kasi maliban na sa pagiging polite, ako ay loving :D
pero ang hirap talaga ng kinukumusta na hindi kinakausap. pramis. kasi di mo alam kung do you really want to know, and so can i really say, and if i can really say, then can we talk. kasi that's kumustahan.
kasi, tao po ako, tao. nangangausap at kinakausap. hindi ako poste na walang react. liban na lamang sa pagtayo sa kung saan man nakatayo ang poste.
hihi.
sister, ano ba talaga?!?!!!!! *sabay, sabunot hair*
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
haaay, importante ang hair para sa mga bridesmaid no ;))
sabi ng kaibigan kong mahilig mang-asar, bakit ang taray mo? mataray ka ba dahil bridesmaid ka na naman?
sabi ko, hindi no. happy ako. kapag bridesmaid, may bagong sapatos ;)).
Friday, July 14, 2006
size 36
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Actually if I’m really honest about it, I find it really sweet. That somehow you think about me still. And my non-frustrated self always feels it is sincere.
It’s just that it’s so limiting. It requires me to be just so. To be just the receiver of one text message a day. To be the other end of the line. And that’s it.
And of course that’s so constraining. There’s all the rest of me, the 99.9% wriggling goddessawful goddessbeautiful part of me, constrained to be the contained self that just receives one text a day and can’t really react coz you won’t respond anyway.
Not that I even want to land the goddessknowshowmanypoundsof me right on your lap. I feel you fear for your life that I would do just that. (Do I?)
But maybe a more regular exchange of energies. A conversation.
To be able to count on having a conversation. The normal how-are-you’s.
Why so passive, someone might ask? I could always go right ahead and say what I want to say. I know. Sometimes I do. But I don’t like not being replied to. Or I’ve had enough of this dance where I say a thought into the void and it might get responded to now or tomorrow or never. I can’t cope with the uncertainty.
It makes me want to weep like Florita.
So I don’t know. Thank you for thinking about me, but then again, a person – a bumbling fumbling lowdown too vocal too loud too crass person such as myself who can perhaps never ever hope to be able to understand and communicate with a poet such as yourself – cannot be a post. Este, a poste.
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