This Uncharted Territory
There’s this man. He means a lot to me. I hope I mean a lot to him, too. But I think I am part of his “Most Important People” list. I really hope that’s the case, because he’s part of mine.
I love this man. I may not say it a lot of time – heck, I never said anything like that to him – but I do.
I love him. He’s like the number one man,
my number one man. I haven’t told him how much he means to me because affectionate words aren’t my thing – aren’t
our thing actually. Funny, I come up with meaningful words and phrases in my blog post every week, but simple words like “I love you” seem like the hardest to say. It’s not that I don’t actually love him, because I do, I love him so much. Maybe I’m just that girl: good at written, humorous words, but sucks at deep and honestly meant ones. Yeah, this kind of person exists; go to this blog’s profile page and you’re looking at her.
Let me tell you something about this man, though. I’ve known him since forever. I grew up with him. He watched me grow old and be eaten by hormones; I watched him grow older and be eaten by time. He witnessed me grow taller than him; I witnessed his figure shrink before my eyes. He once wrote a journal entry about me on my birthday (he didn’t know that I was nosy); I don’t always remember the day he was born, and I don’t know how old he is. He comes up with endearing, although silly, versions of my name; I don’t call him by what a civilized human should call someone like him. He always loves me; I sometimes hate him.
When I was young and not puberty-stricken yet, he would take me on a joyride; I would hint indifference because we’d take the same route over and over again. When I was young and not hating the world yet, he would tickle me until I die and strangle me until I run out of breath; I would give him a seething look but like it anyway because I know it’s our version of “bonding”. When I was young and still living with him, sometimes a day would pass without us acknowledging each other, as if we don’t live under the same roof. When I was young and everything wasn’t awkward yet, I could act all silly and throw tantrums and wish that he would notice that something was wrong – sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn’t.
I remember seeing him drunk with his amigos and me not giving a damn because that’s how he lives his life. I remember that one Facebook moment when he sent me a personal message of how sorry he was that our life was screwed and he wasn’t being what he was supposed to be; I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say and because it felt so awkward. I remember not seeing him attend any of my awarding ceremonies when I was in grade school, not climbing up the stage with me to receive any of my honors medal.
I remember him bringing me to the mall and asking me to choose clothes for myself – we went shopping! It was memorable because it was the only memory I have of him buying me clothes. (We weren’t always rich so shopping wasn’t my childhood hobby.) I remember him taking me back home when I accidentally took a splash in the canal one totally-embarrassing-that-it-would-haunt-you-forever night. I remember being fetched almost every day from our neighbor because I always forgot that I have my own home. I remember him bringing us to the carnival: we loved the rides; after a minute, he wished to stop and hop off because he easily got nauseated. I remember him soaping my knee when it stupidly got stuck in between the gate’s metal railings; I was so scared that they would need to cut off my knee that I just cried. I remember asking him why the lenses of his eyeglasses had different “textures” and why it looked weird and hurt my eyes; he said that one part was for reading and one was for normal stuff (I didn’t understand this). I remember him asking me what I wanted to take in college and suggesting that I take Engineering; I told him Engineering is a pain in the ass and Mathematics hates me anyway.
I remember him being what he was supposed to be towards me. I remember having him as how I should have him.
I don’t always see him, only on several holidays. Sometimes a year will pass without me seeing him, knowing how he is, being aware of how he looks. It’s the same thing for him, too. Sometimes I miss him, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I hate him for doing what he did that led us this imperfect life. Sometimes I just wish that he’s happily living with the people he’s living with now.
I miss him. I miss
having someone like him. I miss the
feeling of having someone like him. I miss
myself having someone like him.
But I can’t be selfish and ask God to flip events so he could be with us rather than where he is now. I can’t afford to always feel that our lives suck because a man left us. I can’t act all shitty and shallow because losing him isn’t the end of the world. We survived without him for half of our lives, we can survive for another. I
don’t hate him. I try not to keep grudges and think ill of him. I try to stop it when the ugly hopelessness starts to overshadow me. I just try to keep in mind that it didn’t work, so I shouldn’t push anymore because worse damage can be done if I don’t stop.
He’s still my father anyway, however you put it, whichever side you look at it.
And I love my father. I love him.
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
This Uncharted Territory
There’s this man. He means a lot to me. I hope I mean a lot to him, too. But I think I am part of his “Most Important People” list. I really hope that’s the case, because he’s part of mine.
I love this man. I may not say it a lot of time – heck, I never said anything like that to him – but I do.
I love him. He’s like the number one man,
my number one man. I haven’t told him how much he means to me because affectionate words aren’t my thing – aren’t
our thing actually. Funny, I come up with meaningful words and phrases in my blog post every week, but simple words like “I love you” seem like the hardest to say. It’s not that I don’t actually love him, because I do, I love him so much. Maybe I’m just that girl: good at written, humorous words, but sucks at deep and honestly meant ones. Yeah, this kind of person exists; go to this blog’s profile page and you’re looking at her.
Let me tell you something about this man, though. I’ve known him since forever. I grew up with him. He watched me grow old and be eaten by hormones; I watched him grow older and be eaten by time. He witnessed me grow taller than him; I witnessed his figure shrink before my eyes. He once wrote a journal entry about me on my birthday (he didn’t know that I was nosy); I don’t always remember the day he was born, and I don’t know how old he is. He comes up with endearing, although silly, versions of my name; I don’t call him by what a civilized human should call someone like him. He always loves me; I sometimes hate him.
When I was young and not puberty-stricken yet, he would take me on a joyride; I would hint indifference because we’d take the same route over and over again. When I was young and not hating the world yet, he would tickle me until I die and strangle me until I run out of breath; I would give him a seething look but like it anyway because I know it’s our version of “bonding”. When I was young and still living with him, sometimes a day would pass without us acknowledging each other, as if we don’t live under the same roof. When I was young and everything wasn’t awkward yet, I could act all silly and throw tantrums and wish that he would notice that something was wrong – sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn’t.
I remember seeing him drunk with his amigos and me not giving a damn because that’s how he lives his life. I remember that one Facebook moment when he sent me a personal message of how sorry he was that our life was screwed and he wasn’t being what he was supposed to be; I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say and because it felt so awkward. I remember not seeing him attend any of my awarding ceremonies when I was in grade school, not climbing up the stage with me to receive any of my honors medal.
I remember him bringing me to the mall and asking me to choose clothes for myself – we went shopping! It was memorable because it was the only memory I have of him buying me clothes. (We weren’t always rich so shopping wasn’t my childhood hobby.) I remember him taking me back home when I accidentally took a splash in the canal one totally-embarrassing-that-it-would-haunt-you-forever night. I remember being fetched almost every day from our neighbor because I always forgot that I have my own home. I remember him bringing us to the carnival: we loved the rides; after a minute, he wished to stop and hop off because he easily got nauseated. I remember him soaping my knee when it stupidly got stuck in between the gate’s metal railings; I was so scared that they would need to cut off my knee that I just cried. I remember asking him why the lenses of his eyeglasses had different “textures” and why it looked weird and hurt my eyes; he said that one part was for reading and one was for normal stuff (I didn’t understand this). I remember him asking me what I wanted to take in college and suggesting that I take Engineering; I told him Engineering is a pain in the ass and Mathematics hates me anyway.
I remember him being what he was supposed to be towards me. I remember having him as how I should have him.
I don’t always see him, only on several holidays. Sometimes a year will pass without me seeing him, knowing how he is, being aware of how he looks. It’s the same thing for him, too. Sometimes I miss him, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I hate him for doing what he did that led us this imperfect life. Sometimes I just wish that he’s happily living with the people he’s living with now.
I miss him. I miss
having someone like him. I miss the
feeling of having someone like him. I miss
myself having someone like him.
But I can’t be selfish and ask God to flip events so he could be with us rather than where he is now. I can’t afford to always feel that our lives suck because a man left us. I can’t act all shitty and shallow because losing him isn’t the end of the world. We survived without him for half of our lives, we can survive for another. I
don’t hate him. I try not to keep grudges and think ill of him. I try to stop it when the ugly hopelessness starts to overshadow me. I just try to keep in mind that it didn’t work, so I shouldn’t push anymore because worse damage can be done if I don’t stop.
He’s still my father anyway, however you put it, whichever side you look at it.
And I love my father. I love him.
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Profile
Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
Accounts
FACEBOOK
TWITTER
INSTAGRAM
GOODREADS
