Things I Never Want To Forget.

Have you ever met a person who knows you? The type that really, truly knows you? i don’t know how these people find us or if it so happens that we find them, i don’t know what makes them so special. everything seems random. we meet people, share awkward conversations that lead to even longer ones at awkward hours and soon you find yourself walking through a strange street thinking, “wow, someone just met me.” it’s a mix of vulnerability and intimate joy. you never imagine yourself to be known by people or anyone for that matter. philosophy teaches us to appreciate the enigma and understand that everyone around us is as mysterious even when the one happens to be under our very skin.

and yet, in an instant it happens. someone sees you.

had lunch earlier in the week with one of my former teachers from high school. i used to write journal entries for her because talking to paper was required to master the intricacies of the English language. so i wrote plenty and read voraciously. i was happy to have an audience that didn’t know what i would say. i was excited to write for one whose sole expectation was that i write. so i did. in those four quarters of school i wrote up a storm and talked about everything that ever mattered to me. everything i thought to be important found its way through the pen onto the page and into whatever idea i had of the world and it was wonderful.

it was wonderful to be honest and appreciated.

but going to college, finishing and enrolling in grad school is a bit odd. here’s a world where honestly gets you hurt and the little white lie might actually spare you some scraped knees. it’s reached a point where i look at myself sometimes and resurrect that cliche question: who am I? really… i never meant for it to be like this but i guess it happens when we pay little attention to who we know ourselves to be.

it’s going to take some time for me to remember who i was and when, out of utter desperation, i asked my mentor what it means when you like your past self better and can’t seem to make that connection between now and then, she said, relax. it’s okay to have changed. it’s good to move on. but it doesn’t mean that i have to forget or be less like the girls i used to be.

it’s such a revelation (obviously!) and i know i’m making a complete putz of myself by putting this out here in the open. anyone and everyone can read this and on some days i wish i could write more like the Russians (when I feel the gravitas of life) and less like a 16 year old. Or at least i wish i could be more ‘academic’–i am getting my masters after all. but really, with your indulgence, i just wanted to say that i doubt if that’s going to happen anytime soon. and it isn’t because i’m not smart either.

i just care about other things…things that go beyond what you might think of me after reading this or any entry here for that matter. i’m looking for experiences that last: for moments when we can sit facing each other, a cup of tea wrapped in a hand’s embrace and that one look that says clearly: i can see you.

i can see you.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Things I Never Want To Forget.

  1. theweatherstore says:

    Don’t write academic. It’s boring.

    I think we lose ourselves all the time as we age. We think it’s because we’ve forgotten something about who we used to be. I think it’s more like we realized who we were doesn’t quite hold up to what we know at present πŸ˜›

  2. theweatherstore says:

    oh hey nash, link to my other blog na pala: thesismylife.wordpress.com >> it’s my personal blog. haha. but keep weather store πŸ˜› just rename it weather store for the meantime πŸ˜›

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s