Human Tetris

You know how the game Tetris works? You put pieces that fit. You put them into place. The longer you find places for each piece to fit, you win the game. The thing about the game is that it ends, no matter how hard you try to find pieces that fit. Its impermanence and a thousand possibilities of facing the losing end in a fleeting moment is what make Tetris a game of odds and chances. And as humans, we have been taught repeatedly how so many of the good things in our lives tend to transform into something finite, lose its luster, and eventually fall apart. All these happen, they say, for us to eventually make room for better things to fall together.

We all go through life embodying a Human Tetris—the idea that someone will fall into place in our lives. And as we go through it, we realize we do not seek people to come to us. We do not necessarily force pieces that don’t fit. We simply let be. We go through it, I supposed, as waves constantly crash along the shore, or the way the sun rises every morning. Pieces—people—have a way of finding us without us having to force our way into their lives. If it’s a piece that fit, it will find a way to stay. If it’s a piece that is meant for another, we should gracefully find the courage to let go.

The idea that someone will find a place in our lives is the same idea of falling together. You see, falling together is not falling in love. But the way I see it, falling together is a way to fall with love. It does not identify with everything romantic, but it does identify with love. You can fall together as friends; you can fall together as lovers. You can find a click that works, and a “Hey, me too!” that sparks friendship. Falling together could be the universe allowing souls to form bonds that go beyond this lifetime. Falling together could simply be God saying, “Yes.” But whichever the course goes, falling together is the idea of two people—friends or lovers—finding a place in each other’s lives, following a pattern of Human Tetris, a routine that maybe only them could understand. It’s a language that only them know like the back of one’s hand, or inside jokes which will set only the two of them in series of hysterical laughter.

Falling together like puzzle pieces, like human tetrises, allowing to let someone know you from the inside out can take a long time. Falling together begins in an utterly defenseless and vulnerable way—the way you would struggle to find a place to let the piece fit with only seconds before another tetris falls right behind. Falling together—fitting puzzle pieces— takes a lot of work. It takes patience to create something beautiful. It takes courage to leap and fall together with love—always with love.

But there are countless times when pieces don’t fit. The idea, that is the Human Tetris, is also a game of odds and chances. While we may set our minds to a particular piece, we must always allow some room for not knowing—the inability to know what the future may bring, but the courage that allows us to take giant leaps of faith into the great unknown. There are times when the human tetris whom we have already considered our person—who knows us inside out—becomes the person who decides to leave. Leaving does not necessarily mean the connection was meaningless, that the click detached, that the feelings were something one simply outgrew. And while it may take a lifetime to get over someone who knew us inside out, leaving could mean that there is nothing else to grow from, that the pieces broke because the spaces between two souls were significantly getting wider—the way other tetrises fall behind faster every second until there’s no place for a piece to fit. Leaving could mean that falling apart is just as constant as falling together. It may seem like we have found our person—our human tetris—but we only realize how we may have already put our hearts on the line for someone who could only love us part time. We may have blinded ourselves for finding permanence in a temporary world.

But if there’s falling together then falling apart, there is also falling back. And when we have reached the edge of falling apart, we see light in the end. That’s when we know that while falling apart is a series of dark stages, of feeling hopeless and of wallowing in sadness, there are also countless of silver linings that await—a complex yet beautiful dynamics of a Human Tetris.

We begin anew; we give ourselves a fresh start. It’s a way to fall back into a routine with hope, writing a new chapter in our lives. And while we may falter along the way or meet seemingly almost perfect human tetrises, we’ll have the lessons of the old whom we have mistaken as our person to teach us that in choosing to fall back, we risk putting our hearts back on the line. We brave our way through a blank space and quietly say, “Jump, heart.”

Artwork: (Yet) Unknown Artist

Originally found in http://madkidss.tumblr.com/post/122889493617

Disclaimer: There is a band called “Human Tetris” but it has nothing to do with this article. 

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‘Let’s drift apart.’

Let’s drift apart―not because we want to, but maybe because it’s necessary. I find myself contemplating about the idea on whether or not a guy and a girl can truly be just friends. And you know what? It is possible. It’s possible to have a platonic relationship with a guy or a girl. It’s possible to treat them like a brother or a sister, without having to make them feel as if you have just put them in the friend-zone (or sibling-zone).

But I’ve always felt like it’s different with us. When I met you, I was fifteen. And I could have sworn I liked you right there and then. We were two seats apart, and I was trying to subtly catch a glimpse of you. When I did, you were already looking. It was a unique sensation―to have been given that kind of attention, to have been noticed.

Maybe I liked you because you saw me. And then, we became friends. I tell you things the way I would tell some of my closest friends. What can I do? You get these feelings; you hide them. But the attachment is still there. And so, you turn these feelings into friendship. And you channel everything into that particular ship that you know has a chance of sailing. And so, we sailed. We’ve been friends from then on, and for the last five years.

I remember telling you I liked you. I remember spilling clumsy words such as ‘I like you’ and hearing terrible phrases such as ‘We can still be friends’ and ‘I’m sorry’ from you.

But I held out hope when I knew I shouldn’t. It was a different kind of hope, though. I hoped that we would still be friends even after I told you how I truly felt, and we were. We played the role of being just friends quite well.

I’ve gotten over you, you know? There were years in the span of five years when I felt nothing. I felt like we were really just friends, and that I can tell you anything. It was the way you would tell me about all these grand gestures you were willing to do (and really did) for this girl you really liked. It was the way you have left an impression that you truly are a hopeless romantic, a gentleman, and a man who stands by chivalry.

But by Year Four, I grew tired. I grew tired of the role we were playing, and my feelings were coming out like volcano eruptions that I had no control over. I told friends about the girl you liked because hearing them and keeping them to myself was a burden I do not wish to have. I needed a place to fall apart when you told me about that time when the girl you liked rejected you and put you in that friend-zone (like, it did not hurt at all when you did the same to me). I needed people who would listen to me when I listen to you mumble on about the girl of your dreams at 3 a.m. I needed someone to comfort me when I am hurting over you while you are hurting over someone else.

And life, with its irony, allowed you to find out how I tell friends about the girl you used to like. You looked at me, betrayed. And I couldn’t tell you why I did it. But even if I did, would it make a difference?

Year Five has gone, and we’re living in a world where we play the roles of virtual friends and real-life strangers. Truth be told, I miss you. You were a good friend, and I sometimes blame my heart for getting the best of me. But maybe we needed to drift apart precisely because we have finished playing the roles life has given us.

And maybe someday, we’ll come across roles that are about a boy and a girl, who once knew everything about each other, fell apart, detached. But when they saw each other, a smile hangs across their faces.

And right then, they knew that they’re happy to start life all over again―this time, with one another.

Art by Deanna Staffo

Are you awake?

Yes, or as Katy Perry would sing, “I’m wide-awake.”

You know what’s so special about the time between 1 A.M. and 5 A.M.? You have all that time to yourself. The world expects nothing from you. You can think. You can dance like nobody is watching (because, really, nobody is watching―everyone’s travelling around, sound asleep in the city of dreams). You can listen to songs countless of times from Eminem’s Mockingbird to Sam Smith’s I’m Not The Only One to Bon Iver’s Skinny Love. You can quietly belt your heart out to Tori Kelly’s Dear No One, or reminisce so many almosts with Tamia’s Almost. You can think some more. You can feel too much. You can feel less. You can feel again.

You see, the thing about the time between 1 and 5 in the morning is that you are you. You feel yourself going through the calmness of time and inhaling the silence it brings you. You can feel yourself exhale, “I’m alone, but it’s ok. All is well.” And really, it is. It isn’t some petty attempt at trying to be ok. It’s real―you are ok. You feel good about the quiet this time brings you; it does not bother you. You feel yourself doing something productive within these hours―be it your homework due in less than six hours, or just some writing you love to do for fun.

The thing about this time is that you feel too much. Whether it’s hashtag 2, 3, or 4 AM feels, you know that when this time hits, you are bound to feel all things at once (or sometimes even overfeel―but who is to say whether or not you feel too much?) For some reason, you reminisce about what used to be good. You would think about that time in high school when you and your friends would just sit on the grass and talk for hours, or that time you all ordered pizza and ate ice cream and felt good. You would even remember that time when you all passed silly notes in class, or how the bus ride going home would be the best part of your day. You would think about that time in college when you aced your Math and Accounting exams (because the feeling of acing a wildly known difficult subject is something that is truly quite unforgettable). You would think about that time when you cried during your Philo orals because wow―the feeling of learning so much more about life and love and hope and even doubt overwhelms you.

You would look back at that time when you used to talk to someone about everything, and how now you two are just strangers again.

“It isn’t all that bad,” you’d say, “At least, we’re still Facebook friends.”

And you’ll repeat these words in your head, and you’ll realize how sad it was that you live in a virtual world―you have your online friends and your online life. And you’d think, “But it would be better if we are still friends now―if we aren’t just keeping each other in our lives for the sake of it. If we didn’t feel obligated to be friends because we have been doing that for the longest time. It would be nice if you aren’t just ‘there’ online, but you’re actually there. It would be nice if we still talk. But even on Facebook, we stopped conversing about life and love and hope and dreams and the future. You know what―I miss you.”

And there will be many instances, you know? Those times when you’ll look back and imagine what it would be like to still be friends with the people that you had to let go of. Not because you didn’t care about them anymore, but because there is nothing to grow from. You have to let go of them because they no longer positively affect your life. They hinder your growth. They turn into toxics, and you are exhausted from having to keep up pretenses all the time. But you are there in your virtual world in the hours between 1 and 5 in the morning. And you are tempted to type their name in the search box, and see what’s going on in their lives―if they are ok, if they are well, if they are happy. And you almost click on that message box and tell them, “Hey, I miss you.” But you didn’t. You almost did, though. You almost did.

And so you see, the time between 1 and 5 in the morning makes you do the craziest things, makes you live in a different world, makes you feel so many things all at once. And at some point, you’ll get tired from having to feel so much during these particular hours because the feelings consume you. And you grow tired from having to think about people who no longer think about you. Because the truth is, there is a hauntingly beautiful idea behind the rawness of your feelings between 1 and 5 in the morning. Because these are feelings that you rarely show to anyone. These are the feelings that people you meet had to break walls for because your heart is surrounded by great towers, protecting the very essence of fragility that is your heart.

And soon, you’ll realize why the hours between 1 and 5 in the morning are the best hours to spend your time getting lost at the idea of you consumed by your own thoughts and feelings. It’s when you’ll learn to discover the limitless emotions that your heart can feel. It’s when you’ll realize the countless thoughts your mind can think of. It’s when you’ll know that everything you do is a step towards being awake―being wide-awake from the reality that will overwhelm you. And when you sleep and dream and wake up the next day, you’ll know how to face tomorrow because you know what it’s like to lie in bed, wide-awake, and wait for another day that you ultimately hope has the potential to be better than everything else that happens in between 1 and 5 in the morning.

And when that potential you hope for blooms and grows, you’ll see it; you’ll feel it. And when it happens, you’ll just know.

Photo Source: http://themobilemovement.tumblr.com

Wavelength

One day, it will hit you. You will realize why there are some people who are not worthy of you. You will realize this at 3 in the morning when your mind wanders off to the land of the could-have-beens and should-have-beens. You will realize why people come and go. And why, despite your best efforts, people decide not to stay.

You will lose friends along the way, and you will leave pieces of yourself in the things and the people you used to love. You will cry your heart out, and you will want to do something to get them back. You will want to chase after them because you would think, “They are worth it.”

Don’t.

Don’t look for the people who leave you broken. Don’t go after people who stay only when it’s convenient. Don’t wait for their text at 1 in the morning. Don’t get upset over the utterly frustrating feeling of being seenzoned on Facebook. Don’t let yourself be dragged down by toxic people in your life. Don’t chase after people who didn’t want to stay. Don’t ever think that it is impossible to find happiness just because you were once broken. These people come into your life and leave when it’s time. The role they play in your life has passed and you will feel an overwhelming sense of sadness over people who you thought were worthy of your time. Because in the end, you want what everybody else wants―assurance. You want to know what it’s like to be sure. You want to know that people won’t come and leave you when things go rough. You want to know that friends are not just there when things are easy. You want to know the feeling of liking someone and not just the idea of it. You want to know that you have people who are in the same wavelength as you.

And that’s the hard part, isn’t it? Because the truth is, it sucks when we are no longer in the same wavelength as someone. It sucks when things are no longer the way they used to be. No more hours of talking online, asking how your day was, how you feel today or any other day, what your plans are for tomorrow, or the next day, or in five years. No more phone calls and text messages, no more gossiping about who likes who or who had a crush on who. No more spontaneous night-outs and unexpected visits. No more random sleepovers and pleasantly-surprised-we-saw-each-other-in-the-mall moments. No more sending of hilarious videos, or songs that made you feel infinite, or movies that made you feel something else. No more routine, no more familiarity.

And it will feel like people throwing darts straight into your heart―hitting bull’s eye, unknowingly ripping your heart out. And you’ll think and think and think and think and overthink. And you will ask yourself whether it’s you. Did I talk too much? Am I boring? Did I laugh too much? Did I vent too much? Did I say too much? Did I cry too much about almost relationships? Did I send them way too many messages―Facebook, SMS, Viber, (for crying out loud, name all the damn apps!)? Did I speak too much? Did I feel way too much? Was it all just me?

Two things: first, you can never be too much. You are enough.

Second, it’s not just you. Any relationship is a two-way street. Be it a friendship or a love relationship, it takes two people to form it and it also takes two people to break them. I am not saying that you had it all figured out, that you had it all together, or that you exerted all the effort. The thing is, if you’re the type of person who’s all in, good for you. You know what it’s like to go all the way for someone to make it obvious that you want them in your life. But when the other person doesn’t exert as much effort as you do in the relationship that you have or that they do not reciprocate at all, you will doubt. You will ask the above questions, and you will blame yourself for people leaving.

Don’t.

You have done your part. You have done what you can. You didn’t just go halfway there, but you went all the way. You want them in your life, and you have shown it to them. You were there when they needed a person to talk to at 2 in the morning, or when they wanted to watch a movie on a Saturday afternoon. You were there when they wanted to eat at Burger King at midnight. You were there when they cried over failing Math for the second time, or that time when they just felt lonely. You were there to offer them your shoulder when they needed a good cry. You were there―every piece of you was there.

And while you know in your heart that you are someone who would always go the extra mile for another, you have got to start learning that you have to leave some for yourself. Do not ever forget about yourself. While you may love someone with all your heart, never forget to love yourself first. Learn to let go of people who treat you like you are temporary because you deserve so much more than a friendship or love that is based on convenience.

Instead of asking why people leave, ask yourself about the lessons they have left you with. Maybe they taught you how their absence will feel like drowning, but eventually you will find yourself swimming through it. Eventually, you will keep your head above water. Maybe they taught you how leaving is just like sunsets disguised as pain because in the end, there will still be a sunrise that awaits you. There is a tomorrow for you. There’s a new beginning―a chance to start over. Maybe they taught you how different wavelengths are just ways for two different people to cross paths with each other and know that despite being different, there are a thousand things to love about the idea of being unique. And maybe the thought of them gone forever is a reminder that the pain will change you but it will never define you. They will leave claw marks and scars, and it will hurt in ways unimaginable. But soon, you will heal. It may take some time, but you’ll get there.

So when people leave, let them. Don’t hold them back. Don’t cling to them. Allow yourself peace, and know in your heart that you cannot go after people all the time. Know that despite wanting to be with them, you deserve so much more. Know that your worth goes beyond the way they took you for granted. Know when it’s time to say that you’ve had enough. Know that choosing to move on from people who chip away at your happiness is a step towards creating a braver version of you with a heart that is slowly learning to be happy on its own. Know that this time around, it’s about you.

Painting by: Joanne Lee

Her, her friends and my favorite shirt

I’ve been having a life-long affair with this girl. She’s the type that likes being held 24/7 and she likes smothering you with affirmation. She always tells me that I deserved every star that died and clashed to form the every atom in my body. She makes me feel like the oxygen that trees produce for me was an ode to my existence. I just love being with her, I live for her—and the more I get to spend time with her, the more I want to inch in a little closer and linger longer than the last time.

Her name is Happiness, she also goes by the name of Contentment, Euphoria—well whatever you want to call her. To me, she really doesn’t need a name, all I know for sure is that she is pure and true but like all great and beautiful things she has this one flaw:…

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I will surround myself with colors

When we think of our lives as canvases, what colors do we paint it with?

Maybe there will be days when we’ll paint it with yellow just like the sun because we want to find light and allow it to illuminate the dustiest corners of our lives. But maybe yellow is more than just light. Maybe yellow could be the worn out stack of letters hidden in your drawer. It has been years since you have last read them, but you have memorized every word in each of those letters. You have understood the sting of words begging not to be forgotten. You have understood the inevitable pain you felt when you realized that the possibility of ever seeing the people who have written you those letters is slim. You have touched the worn out edges over and over again. You have traced the handwriting of this person, and you know that deep down you hope to not only read these letters they have carved in ink. But you wish to see them scribble down random notes to you and you want to feel a rush of happiness as they give these letters and notes to you themselves. Maybe yellow could be that yellow paint that Van Gogh swallows―

Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possibly have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possibly work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, then you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.

Maybe there will also be days when we’ll paint our canvases with blue―the way the ocean would extend infinitely. We’ll find ourselves swimming through the depths of the great unknown. We’ll find ourselves crashing just like the waves and even with the waves. We’ll find ourselves drowning―no longer in the fluidity of water, but in someone else. We’ll keep drowning in them because we do not ever wish for a mediocre love. But we hoped for a love that allows us to drown in endless thoughts of another person―in the possibility of drowning while staying afloat. But blue isn’t just the ocean nor the crashing waves. Blue can also be the sky and how every day we daydream that we can fly, or how at night we look at the sky and see moonbeams and starbursts. And how we identify with the constellation of stars―the way it spreads itself into many different singularities but ultimately, finds itself whole again. We look at the stars and we remember the many times we have closed our eyes and made a wish―hoping for the good things to happen in our lives, hoping for someone to want to stay. But blue can be the sadness we feel when someone decides to go, but we still thank them for the time when they have decided to stop by―to make us feel something worth knowing bursting in the seams of our fragile hearts.

Maybe there will be days when we decide to paint it with red―just like the blood that comes from a wound, which eventually turns into scars. And we can hide away the blood and put band-aids into these wounded parts of ourselves. But there will come a time when we need to strip ourselves off every band-aid that we have tried so hard to attach ourselves with. We have to rip it away fast and although it may hurt for awhile, the pain will subside. Then, we’ll be left with scars―the reminders of the pain that we went through but that in the end, we have survived. But red can also be the very thing that keeps you alive―the one that thumps and pumps itself up. Red is that same one that beats every time you see that person. Red is the one that leaps for joy when you hear words that pertain to love, “Have you eaten?” “Are you okay?” “I miss you.” Red is your core; red is your heart.

Maybe we’ll have to paint the canvas with orange once in awhile just like the sunset. We need to be reminded that there is an end to everything, despite a whole day’s worth being lovelier than anything else. We also need to be reminded that despite the many ugly weeks that may come our way, there is a beautiful sunset that awaits us. We need to be reminded of the familiarity of a sunset―the streaks of orange and its fiery response to the lightness of blue. We need to familiarize ourselves with the beauty of a goodbye. And how despite the bittersweet feeling that may come from having to let go of something beautiful, we need to understand that there are still many sunsets that we will have the privilege to see in our lifetime.

Maybe there will be a time when we’ll decide to paint it with green just like the leaves. And we’ll see how the leaves will sway with the wind, and how it will try its hardest not to be detached from the stem. Green will stay put. Green will be calm. Green will want to hold on because it is home. And how can you be apart from home when home is a place you very much would like to be in? But then again, green will be calm. It will know things through the calmness that it channels from within. It will know that despite the time you have loved spending with your home―be it a place or a feeling―there will be instances when you’ll have to move on. But you know deep down, that if home is indeed a feeling, you will never move on. You will stay.

Maybe even then, we can paint our canvas with purple just like the lilac sky. And how despite red will turn away from blue or blue will deny its hues to mix with red, there is something magical that is created when these two are together―that magic is purple. And we’ll have purple with us in the way you and I were meant to never be together but we did―we were; we are. We’ll form our own version of purple in the way you fell for me and I for you. Purple will be our middle ground. It’s where you and I would meet for us to realize that despite you being blue and I being red, we can find ourselves becoming and evolving and growing into an infinite possibility of magic. Because in the end, we became the lilac sky; we are purple. We are something else.

Maybe there will even be days when we’ll splash the canvas with black and white because we feel the need to brave through the darkness and come out with a clarity of the mind, a changed perspective, and a happy heart. We’ll have moments when we’ll even have to crawl out of the dark, just so we can survive. But the feeling of having survived darkness is an all-knowing feeling of what it means to be alive.

We’ll create a canvas that is comparable to that of a rainbow because every once in awhile we want to know what it’s like to be surrounded by hope. And hope is the many different versions of the colors that we put in our lives. And so when things are bad and life exhausts us, we can slowly feel contentment in our hearts as we say, “I will surround myself with colors. I will live.”

Photo Source: http://arteascuola.com/2013/10/portrait-inspired-by-the-paintings-of-erik-jones/

Temporary

Attachment is a tricky thing. Some people find attachment to be a refined process of establishing connections. It is what binds a person to another. It is the root of how feelings tend to grow. It is a way for people to understand that despite the ability for everyone else to become independent, there is always a possibility to open oneself up to another. It is an acknowledgement of a greater sense of love―the kind that overflows. However, there are some who consider attachment to be toxics. It weighs you down, right into an abyss. And suddenly, you find yourself drowning in an ocean filled with people who are slowly detaching themselves from you. Because the sad truth is, we get attached to temporary people.

It always starts off unassumingly, unexpectedly. You’ll meet people who were then strangers to you, and you’ll converse with them―not some false, pretentious words thrown back and forth. But you’ll see them, and you’ll talk to them―genuine and raw conversations uttered in minutes, which have turned into hours. They’ll tell you how many siblings they have, or the time they got lost in Hong Kong, or the fact that they don’t know how to ride a bicycle. They’ll tell you stories about how their parents met, or how much they cried when they first saw Titanic. They’ll tell you how much of a hopeless romantic they are, or how much they enjoy watching scary movies. They’ll tell you what it was like to confess their feelings to someone and how tragic it felt to have only heard the words, “Sorry, but maybe we can still be friends?” in return. They’ll tell you how much they loved it when Rachel got off the plane and ended up with Ross, or how ridiculous it was that it took nine seasons for Ted Mosby to finally end up with Robin, but they still loved the show anyway. They’ll tell you how beautiful it was to be sixteen, and how much they wish they’ll find themselves their own Jake Ryan―just like in Sixteen Candles.

And in return, you’ll tell them the time you felt your heart leap when you saw the person “you know you’ll marry someday.” You’ll tell them the time you felt lost because you don’t know what to do with your life. You’ll tell them the time you realized how painful it was to outgrow things but even more so, to outgrow people. You’ll tell them the time when you were 18 and your grandmother died, and how every night since then, you lie awake at 2 in the morning crying about how much you miss her. You’ll tell them the wedding scrapbook you made when you were fifteen and how you used the face of Brad Pitt as your groom-to-be. You’ll tell them how you have always wanted to teach and how that dream continues to be as it is―a dream.

They’ll tell you how much they are afraid of heights, or how much they love to eat ice cream despite the weather being cold. They’ll tell you how much they think time zones are cruel because they would have wanted to talk to you, but in the place where you are, birds are chirping the morning away. They’ll tell you how much they love the beach because it’s a good place to lose yourself―a place to listen to the crashing of the waves; it’s a place to watch sunsets, or the beautiful lilac sky.

You’ll tell them the first time you’ve seen snow, and how giddy you were to build a snowman. You’ll tell them your first impression of them, and how it’s true that first impression doesn’t last. You’ll tell them the time you think you have liked them, and when they ask you, “Until now?” You’ll laugh a nervous laugh and deny the gnawing truth that creates a tiny zigzagged-rip right across your heart. Because you know the answer to the question that you have just been asked―”Always.”

Then, slowly, it happens. They’ll find someone else that complements their weirdness. They’ll find someone else to have inside jokes with. They’ll find someone else to tell about the many times they have decided to take a drive-thru at McDonalds at 1 in the morning. They’ll find another. On the other hand, you’ll find someone else to talk about how much you miss them, or how much you have wanted to show up in their doorstop with chicken nuggets in one hand and Some Kind Of Wonderful DVD in the other at 1 in the morning. And you can blame it on the time zones, or the fact that you’re in the same one but the both of you never had the time to converse with that same rawness you had in the beginning, but slowly, you drift apart. And you blame a lot of things for turning a constant to a temporary attachment. But most of all, you’ll turn to the person you may find the most difficult to forgive―yourself.

And it will come―the regret that will turn every waking moment into an inability to leave your bed for days. It will come―the time you almost drunk dialed their number just to tell them that you have missed them. It will come―the time you wanted to punish yourself for the attachment that you felt.

And then soon, it will be over. You will find a way to forgive yourself, and you will move on. You will realize that it’s okay to have mistaken a lesson for a constant. You will realize how it’s okay to temporarily let the sadness consume you. But eventually, you will learn that despite meeting the wrong people to have these temporary attachments with, they are the same people who will leave you with scars. And you must never mistook these scars as imperfections but as constant reminders of the great possibilities of raw conversations; it is a reminder of your ability to know that despite the impermanent stay of these people in your life, you have learned what it was like to put yourself out there and to make genuine connections. You may have been broken, but you know what it’s like to be whole again. And you will be―you already are.