Thinking Too Much

November 1, 2003 at 1:38 pm | Posted in Anger and Hatred | Leave a comment

October 26, 2003

It�s been five days and counting, and I�m still stumped. I can�t seem to put anything down into paper. I guess it�s because there�s really not much to be said about people that do not mean much to me anymore.

Maybe if I�d been a little bit quicker to capture the moment I might have been able to come up with something about a week ago when I was angry. I was angry because I couldn�t help keep asking myself why I gave a damn about where he was and who he was with and what he was doing. I was angry because I felt inadequate and unsure and unworthy every time I didn�t know where he was and who he was with and what he was doing.

I was angry because thinking made me angry and anger made me think even more. The more I thought about it the more I thought less of what I felt and just dwelt on what I thought. And all the thinking I did made me as dizzy as what I just said, and I ended up saying nothing because I thought it was just better to shut up and think. But I just got angrier.

And I was angry because at the same time that I thought about him, I knew I didn�t want him. I was angry because all I could do was think when I should have just stood still and let myself go through the motions without having to analyze things too much. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I did not deserve such self-inflicted nuisances, and that I shouldn�t spend too much time for someone who doesn�t even have the time of day for me.

I just got more angry when I thought about how life seems to move around in circles and every choice, every turn we take is just some obfuscated sign that leads us back down to some place we already know and have been in before. And mentally, this is where I am right now. I�m back at one, and it isn�t a good place to be, where all I can do is think and not much else.

But literally this is where I am: a coffee shop, al fresco, on a Saturday evening, and I am engaging a very cute guy in an otherwise mundane conversation about how devastated we were with the last twenty pages of A Farewell to Arms and how Hemingway makes me want to put out a revolver and shoot myself in the head. The guy had dropped in on my friend and I while we were having coffee, after he saw us having coffee while he was walking by the place. My friend introduced us and he had some chips. In my mind I thought nada about nada and nada when you nada with a nada and nada into nada, which is nada until it is nada. And then he helped himself to some more chips. And I just kept thinking of nada. Then he saw my copy of A Moveable Feast and that�s how we started talking, and talking about Hemingway.

I told him about how I thought of bringing my copy of A Moveable Feast to this coffee shop because I thought I would be doing some reading waiting for my friend, which I didn�t. I was the one who got there late. Anyway, I thought it was impolite to tell him the truth: that I just wanted to be pretentious at that particular moment because of how intellectual it looked to be reading about a coffee shop in Paris in a coffee shop in Manila while thinking about the cobblestone roads of a city I�ve never even seen.

And he told me how he�d like to borrow the book once I�ve finished it. Then I told him it was okay to borrow it right there and then because I have a long list of books I haven�t gotten around to reading anyway. I was more elaborate about how I bought the copy at a discounted price but never got around to sitting down and reading the book because I can�t pronounce the French words right when I read them inside my head. It bugs me that I can�t read right words like Caf� St. Michel or Palace du Precepace or some other shit like that.

So he thanked me and after a while he left to go someplace else where he had a meeting. I followed him with my eyes as he walked away. Then I got to think about how cute he looked and how warm and strong and massive he would feel if I wrapped my arms around him.

But then I got to think how he�s probably straight and thinking about somebody else while I thought about him. I thought how he�s probably pining away for somebody else and nobody�s doing the same to me, and how pathetic that makes me. Then I thought how that could be nothing new and how that has always been the case with me. So I thought it was okay to think about him since I�m used to being on the receiving end of nothing remotely mutual.

And it made me angry because that shouldn�t be the point when you like someone. But I thought about how I can�t help it if that was the way I felt. Then I realized my thoughts were nothing and what I was thinking is nothing, and Hemingway is right about nada being nada and how one shouldn�t try so hard to put down words into paper when there is no bottom-line and the only word I can think of while I thought about him is nada. And then I thought I should probably stop thinking since he�s going to give me back my book once he�s through with it. Then I would run out of things to talk to him about, and all I�ll be left with are my thoughts and I would only start thinking again about things and things that don�t exist.

Then I realized that no matter how bad it looked, it was good. Thinking about this cute guy didn�t remind me of the other guy who doesn�t mean much to me anymore. All the while I thought about him and Hemingway, and I forgot about where the other guy was and who he was with and what he was doing. Then I realized thinking didn�t make me angry anymore, so it must be okay to do even more thinking.

After my coffee refill, I got to think. Maybe getting stuck back at one isn�t so bad after all. There is a certain comfort in cycles, and the point is to learn from your mistakes. So this is where I am. A place where, to be honest, there�s still a little bit of anger. A place where all I can do is think and not much else. But if only for the sake of that cute guy, maybe I should start thinking my way out of this place.


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