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I rarely expose my emotional nudity to the public or through this blog. If you know me personally, I don’t really share problems over spilled beer except for the few instances that I cannot longer fit my powdered emotions in my state of mind capsule. This post may be Tumblr-ish or may be a form of a long Twitter Blabber–but I don’t care. These are the few moments in my life that I play an extreme sport on my slippery through and I’m willing to have a public exhibition. John Maxwell even said that in order to credible, you have to show your weakness. Quite ironic, but I’m not doing this for credibility’s sake but for the passion of emotional writing.

June 10, 2011. Amidst the excitement and inspiration exuded by the NBA Finals, I was suffering personal and technical fouls inside my emotional hardcourt (LOL, yeah, those are basketball metaphors). Anyway, the problem is, I’m in a one-man game. I felt violated–but a realization told me that I was, apparently, the violator. One-man game, Alps, one-man game.

Asking “what if?” is not only for formulating a Plan B but also for crying over what-could-have-beens.

Too many shrapnel shells inside me but I choose not to explode. So, please, don’t let your lovely flame flirt with my sensitive wick.

I can’t freeze time but I think I can freeze myself. I hope you can find me so I can melt adorably. Last na, last na talaga. Bye.

Those are my emotions in 140 characters or less. Now, my question is, how do you manage an emotion that is so painful only to realize that you were really the one who is killing yourself? Is that kind of realization another form of pain? If it is, how do you manage it if it shouldn’t be a problem in the first place? How do you accuse someone of murder if, apparently, you are really committing suicide?

Why am I mourning on the loss of someone if consanguinity or affinity dictates that I don’t have any right to do so?

Why am I crying over spilled milk that was never mine, is not mine and, more likely, will never be mine?

Why?

I’m currently searching for an answer. While I’m doing this journey, I decided to dig my memory box. HAHA. Call me queer, but I actually preserve all the things that merit eternal glory. I could pull an inspiration from it anytime. Actually, I already stopped “collecting” memories because, err, I think I’m getting old–but I’ll start to get fresh ones soon. Those memories include written letters from all the girls I loved before. Chos.

Reading them made me laugh and giggle. Reading them made me wonder why the 15-year-old-me and my 15-year-old affairs take life and love seriously. Wow, even tweeners can become this gaga about love. Then I said to myself, after five years or so, I’ll just laugh at the issue I just shared.

After more digging, I found things that made me smile:

My first Beauty King title sash! Haha.

And, of course, my second Beauty King title. HAHAHA. The next title I should have is a Bikini Open title. I’m so serious.

My favorite sash is my Mr. Perfect sash. Haha. It started as a ridicule during my third year in high school. The one who started such ridicule crowned herself as Ms. Perfect! James/Jobel, a.k.a. Ms. Perfect, I miss you!

There were some things that surprised me, including these:

Haha! The youngster me keeps his bad ol’ porn inside his memory box. They are safe there because I prohibited my parental units taking a look at my sacred container. Apparently, the box is not completely sacred. I don’t need these anymore because my hormones are not as crazy as before. Mom, dad, if you are reading this, I’m already 22 years old, K.

I want to have a progress of recovery this weekend so I asked my mom if we could have my favorite hearty meal and red rice for lunch.

Phew, that was a long time out for the hard emotional game I am currently playing. To continue this drama, I started to feel an avalanche of unrelated petty problems. They seem little ones but if you feel all of them all at the same time, the implosion can pierce your surface so you can show them off. The problem is, when I start to feel a major problem, minor ones seem to follow. I’m learning to focus at one problem at a time and placing it in a vacuum so other annoying things won’t meddle with my problem solving process.

Moreover, my emotional struggle lead me to think that I am not getting the liberty I deserve and I should innately have. The 7 Habits told me that the highest form of liberation is innate in humans–but I am still training to maximize its usage.

If I can stretch myself from normalcy to anomaly, then I can fall in love with life again. You see, my heart needs a rebel artery.

Yes, I need a rebel artery. Monotonous heartbeats bore me. A normal blood pressure kills me. I want that heart attack, that cardiac arrest and that hypertension. And, you know what, you’re the only one who can give me those.

You, spilled milk that was not mine, is not mine and, more likely, will never be mine, I still adore your creaminess(?). LOL, metaphor fail again. Anyway, I guess I was just an anonymous bystander who witnessed the spillage. Psychologically, I should not care about it or I should just feel indifferent. But you were a different case, special spilled milk. I believe there’s something in me that makes me cry over you, there’s something in your spillage that directly hits home. Yes, I was just a stranger. I blame myself because I was just a stranger. But I hope you know that in that very short moment of spillage, I felt that we knew each other for a long time. After the shock, I promised to become a stranger again and walk away. That’s what I promised.

You, spilled milk, if you are looking for clues, you came to the right place. I’m here. And I’m that stranger you don’t know how to approach. You should know me by now. I just want you to know that I cared even if I was just a stranger.

At this point in time, I know you are enjoying your newly-refilled glass. As for me, I’m still wondering if mine is half empty or half full. While we live separate milky night caps, I just want to tell you that I love(d) you. Cheers.