For if you were to create the perfect city fable, it might begin in a small urban village in Manila, with an average man living an average life, having average adventures in an average society – a definite paradox in stereotypical fairy tales. He would live with the passion of an underdog, the purity of the male yuppie culture and the vision that he’s alone – and might always will be. Just like me.
I met a nice girl a couple of years back, fell head over heels for her, did anything she asked (when will I ever stop doing that?), got together, and hoped to live happily ever after. And that was all me, except for the last part, of course.
As is my fate in such stories, my role was never really that of a warrior who gets to marry the princess after defeating the wicked dragon. Rather, I had to be content over and over with the part of being the poor dickhead who licks his wounds after the relationship has breathed its last.
It has only been a few weeks since I said hello to single life once again, and I’m not gonna lie to you – it’s been pretty rough. The worst time for me is waking up in the morning and coping with all that shit, which, by the way, is not exactly the best time to be alone. And alcohol, despite being the staple of losers who need to calm their frail nerves, just isn’t the answer anymore.
I thought that I have finally gotten used to heartbreak by now, being the pathetic idealist that I am. And yet no matter how many times I get burned, it still hurts just like the first. I guess there’s no real remedy for it. It’s as if I have taken a love drug and I could never ever have it again. Every little thing I do or place I go reminds me of the girl, from ordering a vegetarian meal in a restaurant to passing by a lonely avenue during rush hour.
It was a damned chain reaction, where a single emotion spread to ruin other parts of my being. I became unfocused as a writer, and I didn’t feel the importance of typing even a single paragraph anymore.
Eventually, I was reduced to rubble, which later became my downfall – a helpless soul who no longer valued the one thing he was half-decent in doing.
For people like me, losing in love is a time-honored ritual, and we are immortalized in the history of shame.
But my journey into adulthood began with enough optimism and every experience that turned out to be a mixed blessing or a lesson in reality – their worth peaking restively on the aftermath of a shattered dream.
In those lonely late hours as I forced myself to sleep, I soon learned the essence of love lost and hopelessness. Although I was unable to touch the hearts of others, I did, in my own weak way, leave behind a sense of curiosity, and sadly, of frustration.
Certain fantasies are just too good to let go; in the same way that some failures are too painful to accept. No matter how strong or secure I think I am, I’m not sure I can ever get used to having heartaches regularly. That’s why I’m sticking to the role of the poor dickhead.
Things usually don’t work out the way you want them to, and accepting that is never easy. But then again, easy doesn’t really creep into the world of grownups these days, does it?
I remember that as a kid, I would imagine what my life would be like when I reached the ripe, old age of 27. I pictured having all these qualities – optimistic, positive, poised – good things people could actually pick up on from across the room. But as time passed, few ever became any qualities I actually had. And all the possibilities I faced, and all the people that I could have been – they all got reduced every year to fewer and fewer, until finally it got reduced to one – to who I am now. And that’s who I have to be, and the sad fairy tale I have to live with.
E-mail mister_foxy@yahoo.com.