Perhaps a Prelude

sigh another preface.

11 days before the year ends and I am stuck and terribly in a creative rut. I settle with plain language now, probably in an attempt to unburden myself of illegibility.

I have been in a constant state of trying to mask a voice that I consider to be solely used for an intimate setting. This is me trying to say that I have been feeling lonely for quite some time now. I am only lonely because I am in a constant state of waiting. Waiting for the arrival of another god that I can offer myself to. I need to abdicate once again—this self-control that I have built throughout the years. I have been too calculating with my decisions, strategic with my train of thought, that not a single lived experience is not within the realm of my expectations. I am too in control of my life and it probably scares me.

What I am afraid of is this abject loss of ambition—of the excitement of living. I began to master every single impulse that once led me to a path of self-destruction. A few days ago, I abruptly initiated a serious conversation with my younger sister about establishing her boundaries at work. It was unprovoked and I opened the topic with nonchalance as if it is something people normally talk about the way we talk about doing laundry, planning the meal for lunch, or mentioning the next non-working holiday. As soon as I opened the topic, I was also taken aback by its directness and with my tone of voice. It was not fair. But I was touched by the moment’s unfolding that exposed the distance between us.

Of course, her defenses were up and she was not really in the mood to talk about it so I slowly moved away from the topic. However, I was thrown into a state of dissatisfaction with how much the quality of our conversations depended on the equilibrium of emotions. My question was sincere but in hindsight, knowing how my sister is not emotionally mature yet to jump into such conversations at will, emphasized my desire to see and be seen.

Recently, I have been reinventing my environment which allows me to be vulnerable and be comfortable with that vulnerability. This requires a lot of trust that I must give myself in order to function. To trust myself that I can be responsible with my actions and reactions as I open myself to other people. But it echoes a type of loneliness that at the moment when I try to be vulnerable, people clinch to the tiny corners of their minds. As if every conversation becomes a war of attrition, where signs of your opponent’s sincerity and vulnerability are perceived as a bluff, as a form of debt of gratitude that must be carefully examined for caveats.