Sunday, August 3, 2008
Of Time and Pink Ink
"There is no such thing as 'too soon,'" concludes X, the primary character (the gay gigolo who gives a full-blown series of confessions about his romantic entanglements) of the film "Boy Culture." I do NOT know what went into my head that pushed me to watch a movie about homosexual men and their sexual escapades. All I know is that my brother sort of hated me (although he might never admit it, being the self-righteous person that he is, not risking giving the impression that he could be—and I believe he is not—homophobic) for tagging him along ("Lara, do we really need to see the first part? Let's just get outta here, you said you were hungry, didn't you??" with a matching mono-eyebrow and a strangely commanding tone for an assumptive question O.o).
TOO SOON. Too long. Too fast, too furious. Too, too timebound. And yet what is the ticking of the clock when the world seems to stop for that "one, single, momentary moment?" What is the flipping of the calendar when you meet your oldest friend after, say, a decade, and it only seems like you just sat by the swing yesterday?? What's ten years? What is a week?
Time is man's invention. You could be together for five [or so] years, past the four-year itch and everything, but you may still end up parting ways. You could meet and hit it off straightaway and talk from night 'till morning, and decide that you’re for each other "2008 and beyond," only to say a casual “buh-bye” after a month or so just because it didn’t “feel” right anymore. You could be walking down that aisle and go through a twenty minute-ceremony (that’s emptied your pockets too, by the way) and promise someone the rest of your life; fast forward ten years later, and you could be wondering, “what the f**k was I thinking??” Damn time, to hell with watches and first dates, and courtship stages, and eternal vows of love and what have you. No. It doesn't take much experience to say that time is overrated. God never invented the days, did He (or is it a She?)? All He said was "Let there be light," and there was light. He never said "Let there be Monday" and in came *poof* a Monday! Is it Julius Caesar's fault? Or Gregory (didn't he invent the Gregorian calendar??)? Who came up with the "hands of time" whose constant ticking keeps us awake at night, haunting us, chasing us. If there were no time, there wouldn't be words like "hurry," "rush," "late," "early," and oohhh, the most dreaded and yet the most used: "cram," and sooooo many others like it (e.g. “procrastination,” “que sera sera,” etc.).
And yet, the world is hard to imagine without time. It's like...the world...without Baygon. Haha. What am I blabbering about? I HAVE NO IDEA. I just find time annoying, that's all...recently, that is...well, it's not like I can do anything about it. Looking back, the worst (or best, depends on how you see it) thing I did for love was scribbling a thousand letters and tracing through them one by one because my pen lacked ink (and I didn’t have any other pen and it was already too late in the night to get myself another pink one—yes…pink…ink. Told you it was love). I stopped at the very final period and saw my right middle finger—purple and bruised. There was little blood, too. I did not feel any pain ‘till the end because each and every one of those tiny pink letters was for him and him alone. And I thought there’d be no end, I was only too glad to write more letters for him, to paint my finger a darker shade of blue. Now, my finger still has that one scar to remind me of what I thought was forever. But no, for some reason, (and as much as I am ashamed to admit it) I can’t seem to get past those four months filled by so much love and smitten sighs and hate and passionate declarations of “I’ve had enough!” all at the same time. There goes that word again. “Time.” She and the world. It's like Philippines with Gloria...impossible to get rid of (although I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for the riddance of the latter). Just the same, I am a slave to the alarm clock. Once it turns off, I rush to come closest to the normal idea of "living one's life." And if I don't get to wake up on time (which has been happening most recently and most miserably)?? Well, I come closest to "dying" running and puffing on my way to Docla's class ("GET OUT!!!"). Tsk, tsk, either way, time does not help much. And yet, it kind of OWNS us all. Pity.