As sixteen year-olds, we lit red candles at the old cathedral because we were told that they were for love. We did not even clearly know what it was about love that we wanted.
Eight years after, he knocked on my car window and asked me to roll it down. He stuck his head, almost in a cartoon-like manner, and asked for a kiss that I was always ready to give. “I have read that when couples kiss before they separate ways, car accidents are less likely to happen.”, he said walking backwards as if shying away.
In the impossibility of hindsight, love thrives. As it needs no warning signs to be. In defiance to warning or advice, love takes form. You don’t have to see it in its totality before deciding whether or not, it is worth the foolishness. You just find yourself levitating in a trance. It’s insane that in love, even superstitions make perfect sense.
No amount of axioms can put into perfect logic how one really loves. For it is the language of the heart and not of the mind. This is not to be confused with intoxication, where one is ecstatic and impulsive. In fact, it is the opposite of that. Here, nobody is enslaved by impulses.
I love you.
There is only certainty and commitment.
It is I who loves you.
It is you that I love.
It is love.
I live in a tiny room in my parents’ house. I have a bed that can only fit one person. Beside it is a table with balms, books, and devotionals. I also have a study. It occupies the same amount of space as my bed. My study is blank except that there are books stacked on one side. Beside it is a bookshelf with titles that went through careful discernment. I take pride in my Didions. I needed more space for my books that’s why I don’t have a cabinet for my clothes. I don’t even read that much.
My room is known to be the cleanest and the quietest. Mostly because it is only occupied with a cat that creates no mess and no sound. But in different days, I play smooth 70s music or romantic comedy soundtracks. I love pretending I’m Julia Roberts. I am my mother’s daughter.
I’ve always lived in my parents’ house. But it wasn’t until university (where I studied philosophy) that I’ve lived beyond the house. This became more pronounced when I left law school. I just knew I had to stand up for myself. It is tough specially with a hazy self-image. The problem which used to be just one doubled and I only have one hand for each. One, I had to stand up for my decisions. Two, I didn’t know who I was. Perhaps, all I knew was if there is one person that I should fight for, it shall be me. In decisions, good or bad. Indecision, in general.
I’ll be here until I marry. The difference though is that I am now capable of happiness beyond the house. It is a constant uprising. Too much commitment but I’d say, unlike before, I now know who I am. The only thing that I can get a good grip of when things become turbulent.
Then again, this woman is not one-dimensional. She is a tesseract. This confession is only the beginning. Here, let me quote something that brought tears to my eyes this morning:
The father wants his daughter to be a weather girl on television, or to marry and have babies. She doesn’t want to be a TV weather girl. Nor does she want to marry and have babies. Not yet. Maybe later, but there are so many other things she must do in her lifetime first. Travel. Learn how to dance tango. Publish a book. Live in other cities. Win a National Endowment for the Arts awards. See the Northern Lights. Jump out of a cake. – Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street