Velleity

Velleity. It's a word I stumbled upon at 3 in the morning, after typing words on my laptop's Dictionary and clicking through words I have forgotten and have not encountered, and their origins in Latin, and Dutch, and French, and Old English, and Welsh. I found some amusing and most of them interesting, and then I remembered wanting to look up the word 'vellum', but 'velleity' came up first. And made me pause and wonder what it meant sounding it in my head and mouthing the words aloud. It means 'a wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to lead to action'. Like saying 'almost'; I almost won or I almost missed my TV show. But also not quite. There is a similarity in the sense that what was desired may or may not have been fulfilled, and in the case of 'almost' it is fifty-fifty but with 'velleity' it just never happens at all. What you thought of doing never translates into anything, there is no effort or even luck at all.

It's actually tragic, pathetic even; and this thought is what niggled at me, that lead me to think of how many times in a day that occurs, well at least in my life. Inaction, either deliberately or mistakenly. From there, the thought segued to Newton's Third Law of Motion, of how for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I wondered whether my not having an action also results in an equal and opposite reaction or if that just cancels out like a math equation where you get zero if you add two zeroes together and such. (I guess the first law would apply to this so yeah). But more than physics and math and plain english, I thought of how much I don't want that to happen. That no matter how much I procrastinate and bemoan my current life as a student, I do not want to be inactive, non-productive, or not strong enough to make true my wishes and goals. And this is probably too philosophical or taking the context too deeply and out there, I will blame this whole thing on jasmine tea with strawberry lemonade for keeping me up with think-y thoughts. It's not about being successful or self-gratification, or Abraham Maslow's tier of self-actualization (some or most may argue differently), because I know that there is a part of me that can coast through life like a professional slacker (Hello, high school years of my life and then some). The part of me that is greatly disturbed is the person that I am now at 21, not me at 16 or me at 20, because I am seeing an incongruence at this current age and the past and I know that I have change. And will continue to change. (Just observe how differently I have been writing, grammar where are you and incorrect punctuation marks, hello.)

Slowly but progressively, I am changing, hopefully into a better and more pleasant something of a person. I no longer want my world or my life to be just about me because there are so many people in the world right now that I want to get to know, and help, and inspire, and be inspired by. I no longer want to be the person who's sister, or parent, or whoever else is holding their hand. I want to be the one who reaches out and comforts, be the shoulder to cry on, have the hands that hold someone else's. As optimistic, and idealistic, and uncynical (I blanked out on this word because it has not been part of my vocabulary for a year and some months now. And idealistic and cynical are totally antonyms anyway) as I sound right now, I am sorry I cannot help it and I do not want to. Because I have seen heartache after heartache, tears, and more-than-a-knee-jerk type of response to pain and loss, and I have felt the same and you have too. I cannot stop any of these but I can help and offer myself because I want to even when this is not enough and does not even come close to what you need, it's a start. The only way from here is up or to move forward. I don't want to just wish or have a notion intrigue me and have it remain a velleity. As easy as it is to give up without even trying, I do not want a life of regrets on things I could have done with people and for people.

There was a point to this before I just collapsed into a ramble and got into a tangent. I tend to talk about five things at once and confuse everyone even myself. So yeah. At the end, it's more of a declaration of personal intent really. So what's yours?

sentimentalities for a friend

I hope you take care of your heart
And I don't just mean physically or with what you eat,
Take care that you don't easily fall in love, too fast,
Too many times, that when you one day open your eyes
You'll see how worn out and patched up it is
Only it may be then that you'll blame it on love
When in fact love had nothing to do with any of it
I hope you take care of your heart
That should you fall out of love, you'll do it gracefully
Or as graceful someone could be while breaking hearts
As you side step the wreckage that yours won't be part of.
The moment you have an epiphany that cynicism is better,
It is not, pass, do not collect 200 dollars
Because cynicism will lead to years of bitterness
And a dozen or so of cats and moldy take-away.
I hope you take care of your heart
Guard it with your life so that when you finally receive
Someone else's heart, you'll have yours to give in turn
Baring out your scars and patches, while you map out theirs
Knowing each line of heartache, minding every last burns
Take comfort in the realization that this is a promise
To care for their heart as you've cared for yours
As you've fallen both in and out of love, broken a heart
Yours as much as another's, in both epiphany and stupidity
Since most of the time, one could appear to be the other
Because this promise has everything to do with love, and not just
Falling in to it or being in it, but in taking care of it.
I hope you take care of your heart so that you will know
When someone else starts taking care of it as much and more so than you.

Nothing in common

It surprised me when I checked my inbox and saw an email from you. Of you apologizing of all things for things unsaid. And I wondered who put you up to it. We've drifted, it's been years, we don't talk. And that about sums it up. You've moved on and I am, well, I've learned to just let go. I've stopped chasing after you awhile now because I don't know really, I just got tired of it. Cynical. We have nothing in common anymore. I'm certainly not the one you need in your life, I'm finally learning that I am no longer a little kid and you are moving into a life where you fit in with someone better. Someone who isn't your younger sister. I could try and chase after your coattails as long as I could, but I no longer wish to. I miss you, yeah. I miss getting emails and chats and silly jokes. But I no longer feel compelled to chase after you because I know that even at my pace I'll meet with you at the same stage sooner or later, but with less heartaches, with less bitterness. I've learned that you are your own person and you do not belong to me and I can't keep you with me forever. I've been seeing that we can never own people for our own selves because we can only share bits and pieces of each other. That I can't possess people because the moment I do they become possessions and no longer persons. And I'm sorry if you felt the need to coddle and hold my hand far longer than any other persons would allow just because I refused to let yours go, that I shackled you to my leg only letting you go so far before I dragged you back beside me again. This is me letting you go, unchaining you from my side and stepping back. It's past time that I stopped using my insecurities and my own self-bondage into blackmailing you into staying. Thank you for indulging me and coaxing me along life but I can manage on my own now, but thank you. And I won't begrudge you of running off into the sunset when I myself have realized freedom. I'm happy for you, and I always love you.

I do it for love

I do believe that I'm two months into my vacation, or what I usually call/shout for joy in my head as "Freeeedddooooommmm". Yes, exactly like that.

I've spent time in San Francisco to see relatives, and Yosemite, and well, a place other than Arizona. I've spent time in hospitals that had nothing to do with my clinicals but with people I personally know being there, and oh for an interview, followed by medical appointment to see if I'm TB-free or something, and an orientation for the volunteer work I applied for. I've been in other places, like the library fifteen minutes away by car, and restaurants and shops, and movie theaters, and other places, like the post office and the FedEx store, sometimes to apply for work and more often to simply be a patron. I've read books, some new, some old, some borrowed, and some bought. And then there were the days when I slept for hours and hours, and didn't the next day, and then took naps. I guess I've been having fun, no, no. I am having fun.

I'd have been in Canada to see my sister and my cousins, and their babies, but that wasn't what happened. Instead I'm currently in California, though not in daisy dukes or bikini tops. I don't have those in my luggage. And I'm not really here for vacation. I'm here to help my aunt around the house since she had a fracture on her leg and it's less painful to stay on the bed than on her feet. Although currently I'm more house-sitting than anything since she hasn't left the hospital since she got injured while working there.

Solitude wasn't really a problem until I ran out of books, could not get a decent Wi-Fi signal that didn't require a password, and couldn't use her car since I needed a remote for the community's gate to get back in. For days it was wake up, fix bed, bathroom, open computer, cook/eat, wash dishes, computer, cook/eat/dishes, throw trash out, and bathroom breaks in between. The first time I tried watching TV I just got sore, teary eyes. I wasn't used to watching TV for long hours since I started school. The radio was okay to tune into until it wasn't anymore. Oh, and the telephone rang all the time. Fun. My cellphone ran out of battery and the parentals brought my charger home since they thought it was their charger. This whole thing felt like being dumped in the Wonderland, but a silent and solitary type of Wonderland.

If I sound like I'm complaining, I'm not. Honestly, I'm more amused than any other emotion. I was reminded of being a high school student and alone in a house in a middle of a farm with a lone wooden bridge connecting it to the town that was in the middle of other small towns up north continents away from where I am now. I had no internet, no functioning computer, no telephone, barely a flicker of a cellphone signal, and barely a signal from the TV's satellite dish. I called it the Land of Nothingness. And it was fun. I could be alone with my books with no one to bother me whether I did the dishes or cooked a full meal.

I survived that and I'm surviving this because I find it fun to figure out ways to be resourceful, and in getting lost when I take walks, and figuring out how much weight I can carry when I walk back from the grocery store, and enjoying how much better cook I am, and how much obsessive I can be when I clean, and how vigilant I can be against spiders (HATE THEM), and ants (Admire them from outside the house), and just learning how to be okay with just being with myself again. I'm finding that I've grown so much more compared to when I was a high schooler, and that makes me smile. I hope five years from now, I can look back and still smile at the fact that I've grown wiser and better than when I was twenty-one.

Even as I say these words, I give you this promise.

I'm hardly the type of person who plans what to write. I just type or jot down and I don't stop until the words run out. I used to have just notebooks or pieces of paper scribbled with words, and phrases, or paragraphs, and poems. I love words. I think words can have so much impact and they don't often cost a dime (unless of course you go to the theatre, then you pay to see people spouting off words). People make their living off words; journalists, write stark or sensational news; authors, use words to draw us into their worlds; poets, are all a-rhyming; and so many various others, like screenwriters, ghostwriters, and the kind that writes the small print for the credit card companies and the banks, that I'm almost tempted to say, 'Yes, there is an App for that'.

I write on this blog stuff that mostly only make sense to me. Because I like writing for myself. I used to write letters and letters to my friends back in high school. All silly and ridiculous and serious the lot of them. I think words are lovely because they can be loverly, intimate; like they can curl up beside you and stay there for days, decades, and you would be able to still savor them even when they're just imprints on your shoulders. And then there're the kind that make you squirm, flinch away, because they sting even when the echoes are only heard from the depths of your soul. Because words are also unsafe. But there's so many kinds of words. Words of wisdom, words of anger, words of inquiry, words of passion, and words of doubt. Words and words of words.

I especially love the kind that leave you speechless. The kind that makes you pause, and just be there for you to really feel them. The words that touch you, the kind you can't unhear, whether they be right or wrong. Words that are like a balm that soothes. A lullaby that assures. Words that comfort when you need them.

I know she's bone tired; she hasn't been sleeping well. I hear him in the kitchen, making her coffee, tapping off the teaspoon. The weariness is in her voice when she asks quietly, "What would happen to me when you're no longer with me?" I hear him shift, his footfall loud on tiles as he walks to her. "Then I'll come back. I'll come back to you, my love".

Yes. He will. A reason why I love words is the emotions behind them as they are said. Even when you say the wrong ones, you redeem yourself as quickly as you say the right ones. Words of promise, of hope; I think they're the best kinds. Because they're the kinds you share with another, despite and because of how they shift lives. The kind of words that are looked forward to. The kind that means no more words need to be said. I long to say them. Out loud, and not just write them. But I'm saving the best for last, like the closing to a letter.

Sincerely,
Katrina