"I'm not always the best at expressing myself to you, so I'm taking advantage of the fact that I will be completely unresponsive when you read this and therefore incapable of messing things up."
"I want to thank you for giving me a chance. When I first saw you, I knew I had found something incredible. And since then all I've wanted was to be with you as much as possible."
-(From Vincent's letter to Kate in the book Die For Me by Amy Plum)
Today marks the third year of Désolé Boy, the alter ego. It was in this same humid month, the margin of Philippine summer that leads to its rainy season, where once, a boy 23 years of age wrote in his naivety "I fell in love with a stranger." It would be the beginning of three years of writing painfully self-absorbed confessions and musings. It would be the beginning of a series of failed attempts to love, where words became witnesses of joy, cruelty and sincerity. It was three years since then and as I look back at the letters that formed I felt sadness, shame and fear.
Sadness because most of the stories are indeed sad. Sadness because there I saw, that at such a young age, I should've been dancing with love the way boys and girls of my generation did. I shouldn't have made myself hurt me. I shouldn't have slashed my thighs with that silver blade. I shouldn't have begged for his attention. But they happened. And the scars and words are monuments to them now.
Shame because I wanted to write a different story for Desole Boy. I wanted to write "Désolé Boy No More" and show that there, I finally got my happy ending the way those people I've met finally got theirs. I am ashamed that three long years have passed and I'm still walking the same Fate. I am ashamed to admit that I still fall in love and repeatedly I still get hurt.
Fear because I don't know how the next three years would be different than what I've already written. Fear because I don't know if I could still make it, handle all the thoughts swirling in my head and the reality I am entrusted with. I was never strong. In fact I cry a lot though far from anyone's eyes. Sometimes I even need to cry myself to sleep. This uncertainty of growing up sends shivers that everytime it passes my thoughts I feel like swelling, like I could hear the planets rumbling and the stars bursting one by one.
But more than anything, I take pride of this Désolé Boy. He's been my companion for the past three years. He's the metaphor of my self. He's the musician. He's the soft writer, far different from the hardened journalist I became. He's the honest voice amidst my cynicism, the romantic boy beside the street-made that is me. He's gone a long way. And although at times I wish he never came, I'm glad that he did and that he's still here.
In one of my entries I borrowed Jonathan Carol's words and said I take this blog as my love letter to someone I haven't met yet. But actually, this blog is also my love letter for my future self. That hopefully, in that future he inhabits, the world is much kinder and the 23 year old désolé boys in there aren't that sad but a lot stronger than the Désolé Boy three years ago.