You know what happens after finding out the truth about something you thought was already true? A disorienting disillusionment.

I have a small green box of unsent letters right here in my room, sitting on top of a Murakami, Palahniuk, Gaiman, and a couple of Kunderas, to be specific. You’d see it in the photo I used for this post, although my books are kinda rearranged now. It was the box of a Longchamp coin purse I still use – the one I got as a birthday gift back in 2013, when I was on exchange in France.

Oh, 2013.

mga-hindi-nakarating
Contained in a box / these weightless papers carry / all that was heavy

I used to write a lot of letters then. I wrote letters everywhere I went. I only ever sent three all in one go, along with a bulky map of the Louvre. But stupid 19-year old me thought of including a 20 peso bill, just to be completely random. There’s no use for it in Europe anyway, I thought.

It never arrived. Perhaps because of the 20 peso bill. I don’t know.

And so from then on, I kept the letters I wrote. I wrote from the most beautiful McDonald’s I ever seen (it was in Budapest,) from an apartment in Prague, from my dorm room in Lille, from a friend’s apartment in Paris. If I wasn’t writing letters, I was writing e-mails. Or sending long text messages through magtxt.com – para libre.

Man did I pour myself out back then.

I thought it was true, what we had.

It wasn’t.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. It doesn’t even matter anymore because it was all lies, but I got the feels from listening to John Mayer’s new song. It’s so b e a u t i f u l. (In a Rolling Stone feature, he said that what’s on the song is the original take. It’s probably unaltered that’s why it sounds so raw and God okay just give it a listen.)

Anyway I guess I’m writing this because disillusionment is very strange. I’m confused with how I feel whenever something reminds me of anything from 2013. I’d feel nostalgic but then I’ll remember how they’re all lies and… yeah I’d be confused. It’s like I’ve lost a reference point. Like a part of me is invalid. I trace it back and find nothing. It lost its meaning. It’s all nothing.

I feel like I just found out that Santa Claus isn’t real. And that’s disorienting as fuck if you really truly believed he existed. Heck, he was even sending you presents and eating your cookies, drinking your milk. And then you find out he isn’t real. Disorienting as fuck. And now I still kind of don’t know what to do about it. About the truth.

Nothing, probably. Just carry on.

But this I can assure you: I was true. True as I can ever be. Perhaps in a way I would never be again, especially after this.

To my past self: it’s all different now, I’m all different now, but you’re gonna live forever in me.

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Exposure

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