Now Norman has left for San Diego, and Karla's coping well with the year-long distance, I wonder why, unlike everybody else, I haven't been crying.

Karla wrote something about his last day, for now at least, in the country. I've long known about his impending departure, and I've long known about how the two are trying to cope. That's why she left class earlier last Friday - so that she could spend more time with him, maybe in all those sentimental places, and eventually to the airport. I've long known about how hard this will be - to put it bluntly, if you're basically alone and the one you're with leaves you temporarily, it will affect you very much - and when I was reading the entry, I understood it even more. All those places that hold some meaning to the two, all of the terms the two throw at each other, and eventually, the plane, as it flew over the Pacific.

Yet I was the one who never got affected. No emotional connection, no immediate reaction, nothing at all. While everybody else claimed that they were crying in front of the monitor - blockmates, close friends, unlikely people - I could only give a token "sniff" in my reply.

"Masama ba ang hindi umiyak sa entry na ito? Hindi ako umiyak."

"Di naman. Wala namang nagsasabing umiyak dapat eh. May nakasulat ba? Helluhhr."

So maybe this thought bubble came at a very bad time. I just came off some silly argument and felt much worse afterwards. Imagine yourself standing in the middle of a massive outpouring of grief, or support, or whatever, and you're not in any way nudged to act. In some instances, I can even blurt out something that'd get me in a fight and killed - now that's very positive news for you, my death - if situated differently. It could be my uncontrollable impulses, but am I really that insensitive?

Well, maybe not. But what's the fun in a questioning entry like this if I go to a conclusion very quickly?

Society has always dictated that males never cry. Men keep their feelings inside, and whenever they're in the verge of bursting, they're better off throwing fists in the air rather than making their tear glands work. A popular childhood label slapped on me was, unfortunately, "iyakin" - I'd cry almost every week because I don't get things my way. And everyone frowned at it. Crying has always been perceived as disruptive, as something that gets in the way. Many people are surely annoyed at anyone who cries in some talk show, begging for mercy or love or prepaid credit, and yet hysteric behavior rule the world. What more with rape cases and extrajudicial disappearances?

And crying, as ironic as it may seem, has always been laughed at, unless if you're directly involved in whatever it is that's being cried on. Friends watching some film in some theater? One cries, and gets poked at. "Ha-ha, iyakin," insert baby sounds, and an unstoppable joke is born.

But my other contention lies in the fact that, well, I probably will never be in such a situation. I'm a person who has given up on love, yet continues to write on the search for that one true lurve at every given opportunity. How will a bench hold significance for me, much more a woman's arms? I know what's going to happen, and as such it's being blankly anticipated by the back of my head, but when it did come I felt that I wasn't around to offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. I was probably the only one on that entry that didn't get it.

Then again, not everybody else has, either. Jackie was one of those who claimed to cry in front of the monitor, and then offered the shoulder. Who else hasn't, though? Regardless of who you are, what you believe in and what you think is cheesy, you still give a shoulder. It's coping with sadness, one that'd stretch for years, and I was there, sticking out, making her laugh. Sure, my efforts were appreciated, but I was the one who felt that it's inappropriate for the situation. Thankfully nobody was staring at me coldly for doing it differently.

But what gives? That's the only way I could do it. I can't relate. Honestly.

It's almost three days since Norman's departure, and I guess Karla is slowly, but surely, getting used to the distance, with the hope that things will be better once things swing back to what was considered normal. The outburst of support is done, and everybody has moved on with their lives, and I'm still that insensitive guy who couldn't cry for the right reasons. Still bothered, with all honesty, by silly arguments, it has left me with nothing to fend for. I still hate cheesy lines, and I (secretly no more) hate it when people say those three scratched-up words to whoever it is they're supposed to go to. Then you'd probably mention those conversations where you surprisingly got through whatever it is you're going through, and you'd thank me profusely for the sensitivity. But that entails exposure, and that's one thing I'll never get, because I've given up on it.

I guess nobody cares about what happens next, because like me, everybody else is insensitive. Just a shoulder in the night, and they're off. They'll tell me that I'll get through it, but never bother to wade through muddy waters just to get the gold coin. As if my simple words - my crazy attempts at relating at things they're not telling me about - do work, yet they never, ever bother.

I don't have myself to blame for my insensitivity.

And your responses...

still, thanks for the song you recommended to Karla.

Blogger Unknown10/28/2007     

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