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Nothing to do with the Prose Title

June 10, 2011

Happy Weekend!

It has been quite a while having myself busy tapping this keyboard for my blog. Guys, thanks to those who are
still digging into my stuff. But don’t worry, as a sign of gratitude, I’ll break the ice right now! Yey!

Had been busy with work lately and realize that I could hardly open any of my accounts in the net. Poor me, but with strong persuasion from a friend to update this blog…chanang! Here we go. And of all the social network accounts that I have, I don’t know why it came to my mind to open my friendster account. Maybe because I had heard rumors about it closing down or whatsoever, that you need to email their admin and ask for your stuff. We’ll, I guess I bought it, I dug down into my profile and to my surprise, had found this my old friendster blogs. And to my delight, it would save me a heck of time sharing these to you than making a new one.

This one is classic. Wrote this one after I dumped a girl after months of investing my time and money. We’ll at least I have the courage to say “It’s Over”. Hehe, reminiscing my emo days.

Believe me, this is going to hurt me too.

The pain you are about to feel will also be my pain, although not too long ago, mine had not been yours. I should have warned you before everything began; I should have told you about my flaw before I let you in my world. Maybe I would not need to do this. To hurt you will not be easy.

It has been written over and over, happy is the person who finds joy in sunshine through a window, bliss in smilies and random text messages, music in the laughter of playing children, pleasure in a borrowed book read over a lazy weekend.

And many believed.

Yet few realized the repercussions of living in the little things. Because just as they are the trinkets of happiness in our every day, they are, when neglected, constant reminders of what is unrequited.

The little things never were important to you, in the same way, I am inclined to think, I never was.

I am angry. I am hurt. And before all the hurting turns to hate, over which I am afraid I have no control, I must hurt you back. You are the reason. Somehow, you have yet to see that.

I remember how, as a child, I used to skip dinner whenever my mother would scold me. It was cruel, knowing how she would later feel guilty about her son hungering the whole night; it was nonetheless the perfect strategy to get what I wanted.

At a very young age, I discovered how pain changes people.

It is solitude in a vacant seat that shows us who and what really matter, indifference in empty conversations that reminds us of the people and things we have taken for granted.

Pain confronts us with the realities happiness cannot. Pain is liberating.

Do not be afraid. It is still I, the one who taught you the magic of finding the right beat in the dance maniax stall, the one who showed you the warmth of his tears that lonely night, the one with whom you transformed the unrelenting rain into a shower of sanity.

It is still I, I who will hurt when I see you hurt.

This is a cycle that must come to pass.

When it does, I do hope you forgive me, as I would forgive you.

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