i seldom have good, long talks with people i care about. i rarely confess secrets to friends. for me, i act as a good friend by being a listener, a repository of their dreams, fears, rants, raves, hopes. friendship for me, generally, is a one-way street with all the traffic going my way. so it was a relief when i met up with coni, and we had a good, long talk.
after telling her updates about my family, she commented: god, it’s f*cked up. she’s the only person who can get away saying that about my family. she’s found out secrets about me, and i about her. and there is no judgement. that’s what i was thankful for. it was still the same, me teasing her for her big breasts (yes, she’s blessed) and her carrie (of “sex and the city”) habits (except the promiscuity); she teasing me about my work and my hopeless romantic habits.
she’s such a beautiful person with a massive willpower. she knows that God is reserving a suitable man for her to be her husband, and he is to come in 2009. she’s never been kisssed, but she’s dated, and had messy heartaches (yes, i can rant about her men, especially that guy with his emo songs, but i love her, so i’ll shush), but she’s that strong-willed. she knows that God doesn’t want her to have strings of ex’s, or her “detours,” so she’s waiting. patiently. while i, for one, am adamant about remaining controlled and well-behaved, even if we’re in the midst of global warming effects, and my doomsday mode is pushing me to live life to the fullest.
a friend is ill. i wanted to hold his hand. but silly me, i held the mother’s hand. i could feel her fear. and i wanted to hug her. in my mind, i was hugging her, and i was stroking his forehead and his palms. all mind-works. all so metaphorically rich, and i remain still. even if it means not writing poetry, not listening to myself.
you’re not writing poetry? this was the question coni threw at me. it’s like cutting off your wrist, she said. wisely put, and yes, you got me there.