On Solitude: Untitled (5)
“Would I still be loved if I’m irresponsible?”
“How can others love you if you’re so responsible?”
What is the difference between to write and to love?
For my fifth birthday in a foreign land, I chose to spend it nonverbally because there was enough chattering in this world. A 12-hour movement session in a well-lit and clean studio was heaven-like. I needed someone to hold the space for me so badly. I needed to be held so badly. I needed someone to touch and caress me gently so badly. Contentment feels quiet. It’s not something you can say out loud but rather experience it with your whole being. And I experienced that fleeting moment of contentment while sunbathing outside of the studio, barefoot under the sun of Prague, quietly.
Movement is the answer. Body is the answer.
I didn't know the answer to what but I wrote it down as a reminder. Life between 25 and 29 seemed to be too fast. I remember I just left home and turned 25 and here I am again, deciding where to go or where to stay. She shouted at me that I needed to stay while her hair was dancing in the air with loud music banging in the background. He came all the way with a flight and sat on a bus for 8 hours to tell me to stay. Even a stranger told me to stay as he attempted to flirt.
“Flirt and seduce yourself.” Says the woman who looked wise in her grey hair, holding the space for us to move. I haven’t moved like this in a long time. I forgot I could still move like this. It’s always a bittersweet feeling when someone is telling you to stay because it means there are doubts about where to belong. Brené Brown once said the opposite of belonging is fitting in. And wherever I go, there’s always an expectation of fitting in. Fortunately and unfortunately, the existential crisis will follow us throughout the rest of our lives. Once you’ve seen it, you can never unsee it.
My therapist once called himself a Vietnamese Rose, mostly because he bought a box of dried mango in the shape of a rose after returning from Vietnam for travelling and he felt pretty about himself. He said to me often, “Don’t forget to feel pretty about yourself.” He is a sassy therapist. And gay. And sometimes random. So I laughed because I wasn’t sure what to do on the days I didn’t feel pretty or sassy. He told me to take less responsibility. I wasn’t sure how so I said I would practice it. He said, “Don’t practice anything, you work too hard on everything.” He’s right. So now I don’t know what to do exactly but I appreciate someone telling me what to do with my life as I’ve been deciding for myself ever since I can remember and that’s exhausting. It’s nice to share the responsibility with him. At the beginning of my therapy, I had doubts about him. I had doubts about therapy. I didn’t understand why he was looking at me that way. That lovingly and dearly whenever I was telling him something embarrassing and vulnerable. I was not used to it. I was not used to someone validating my feelings, no matter how ridiculous I thought they were. I was not used to someone supporting every decision I made for myself. I was not used to someone listening to me so attentively. I was not used to not being judged. His existence solidified how much I judge myself. I was not used to many things. I’m still not.
My chosen family came to visit me. He called himself my chosen family and I think he is. It took him a day of travelling and he came to cook and clean my fridge because, for some reason, I couldn’t do it myself. He danced with me until midnight. He watched me cry. He told me to stay in Europe. He told me everything would be alright. My family sisters talked about visiting me and it never happened. It never happened because they were fearing what our parents would say so they gave up the idea of visiting so I gave up the idea of asking. Sometimes I’m confused about when people say they love you if they really mean it. How much effort they’re willing to give apart from uttering those words? I was never sure. I stared at the sad cabbage that he cleared out from my fridge, thinking this is what love looks like. A kind of love I never knew existed. An irresponsible one. Love is picking up pieces when you’re falling apart.
My ex wrote me a long-ass email after too long, telling me all the regrets he has. Regret is a funny word. I always find it cheap and too easy. Those weightless words shook me in a way that I tried to pack them away and make a joke out of it. He wronged me. I always wanted to say that. He wronged me so I left. But you can never just leave. Leaving is a process. Leaving leaves a trace. Slimy and long. Winded down the cheeks. Those futile and surreal symbols of human beings. Black and white on the paper yet it shook you in a way. For a very long time, I couldn’t bring myself to admit I flew across the world because of a man. I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do when you claim you love someone. You fly around the world just to cook them a meal. He wrote, “I regret letting you get in that cab.” He wrote, “I regret I wasn’t mature enough to push forward or do something that would make you stay.” He wrote, “I need to move on.” (It’s always about them, isn’t it?) He wrote, “You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve met.” I wish people could tell me something I don’t already know. I wonder why sometimes words seem to be the cheapest things in the world.
It’s always about staying or leaving, isn’t it?
Erich Fromm proposed the four core tenets of love: care, responsibility, respect, and knowledge; in a sense they’re all active verbs. Caring, taking responsibility, showing respect, and acquiring knowledge about the life you love. He said, “Love is the active concern for the life and the growth of that which we love.” You cannot write without any of those. You write what you are concerned about. Ocean Vuong once said writing is the practice of care. So what’s the difference between to write and to love? For years, I couldn’t tell the difference. If I’m writing, does it mean I’m loving?
Why can’t I feel it?
“Accompanying the weight, don’t try to control it.” Says the wise woman once again. So I accompany the weight of those weightless words from everybody and myself by writing them down. Let them flow in and out. To feel, to react, to be influenced. We’re all empty vessels at the end. Perhaps I’m just tired of being an empty vessel of life.
Can I write a world where I’ll be loved the way I want to be loved?
Can I love a world where I’ll be written the way I want to be written?
How to Disappear Completely was playing on repeat. If you like me, you should see me rave. We are the people that rule the world. Take me now, we can try. Love is an action that moves through the space, imprinting on your skin. Love is a movement. Love leaves traces on your body. At the end of the day, there isn’t much difference between to write and to love. Perhaps the biggest difference is you have to let the other person feel your love.
“Don’t leave yourself alone.” Says the wise woman.
Words float through the walls carrying weightless weight.
