Suicidal with no intention of Killing

Suddenly, I feel the need to write. With Twitter, my ability to write more than 140 characters have been questioned by myself. Especially a poet like me, stanzas, verses, rhyming, we can make do with the small spaces we’re given. I can write,

You are wonderful.

..and think that be such a poetic moment.

But yes, blogging has been so last season. Unless you’re blogging for commercial purposes. An event write-up, a product review, and so forth. Of course, political commentary could also garner some commercial values. Of some sort. Let’s agree for just once, politics and money are like air and lungs.

Unfortunately, I intend to write about the state I have put myself in recently, or maybe precisely for the past 40 days. In pursuit of love.

Part of this is suicidal because this post will appear on my FB wall and she might come across it, click it, and read it. But if I were to be negative thinking she won’t check on me, or my FB wall, or even know I’m writing about this, then I’m safe. So, there it is, no killing!

It’s been awhile. Pursuing love. If you have followed my blogging adventure since 2007, my ups and downs of longing and loving, my endless ranting about being heartbroken, you might gather what a total wuss I am when it comes to the topic. Heck, people knows me as the romantic poet. “Your romanticism is killing me,” an audience once said. And I grin like a foolish bean when I read one of those very highly intoxicating lovey poems of mine. Or sometimes, I held back tears and went through lumps in my throat, trying to finish a heartbreaking poem, also, one of mine.

There’s something about entering a relationship. And it being a long-distance pursuit. I don’t know if I’m in one at all. And if we’re even together. But there’s a comfort feeling that makes me feel like I’m settled. At 29, you don’t want puppy love. There’s no more excitement. I’m old enough to be thinking what will happen in the future. Logistically. Practically. What to offer. What I can afford to provide. I’m almost like an old fart.

Friends have been advising, take it slow, enjoy the moment. Affairs are fun to have when you’re together, in each other’s arms. When you’re far, you can’t see the tangibility of an affair. As I write my love letters, I feel like those poets in the 18th century, away in warzones, having faith that their love will be waiting for them, clutching the pieces of papers sent with words of love and romance, as if in fantasy, their souls are dancing together.

Today’s love affairs involve more physical affection, sexual attraction and emotional drama. I’ve experienced all that. Using and being used. Everyone’s in it for something, or at least, get something out of it.

The problem with romantic affairs is that it has a shelf life. A year ago, I kept on thinking, this is my destiny. To just have affairs. As a writer, we feed on these affairs as our muse for our writings. As a poet, I feed on my longing as my muse. My longing in wanting something I can never have.

Now, something I can have is there, in a distance, but possible. I told her, I am not settling with her until something better comes along, because she is my something better. But could I be eating my words if things doesn’t work between us, I don’t know.

What I know is this, I want no one else except her right now. But this intangibility and space between us will suffocate me. And patience, as much as it is my virtue, will also be the death of me.

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