Cold Coffee in the Morning

Note: Okay. So it's an Ed Sheeran song. I suggest you listen to the song first. Or read the lyrics. Then, read.

We had cold coffee that morning. I remember the disappointment we felt when we found out they didn't have hot brewed coffee. Or maybe it was just me. You were never one to betray your feelings anyway.

I remember feeling tired earlier that day. I have cried my eyes out and my heart was broken. I was so unsure of what would -- could -- happen so I did something I haven't done in a while now: I had a really good cry. My other friends tried to comfort me. Some offered advice that didn't really make sense. One knew how I really felt, had experienced what I was going through first hand. She understood perfectly why I couldn't stop crying (or why I started in the first place). She understood why I had to put on make-up, why I had to paint a mask of poise and bravery. She was amazing.

But you were even more.

I'd like to think that you understood what was going on in my head, what I was feeling in the depths of my soul. I'd like to think that you saw through the mask I painstakingly painted when you said I looked like sh*t. I'd like to think that you knew my strength was almost gone, my courage almost depleted, when you asked me why I was so scared. I'd like to think that it was sympathy that made you say that you hated my father. I'd like to think that it was concern that made you stay the night.

And, boy, was I ever thankful that you were there. It made me feel safe for a couple of hours, made me feel a normal girl just hanging out with someone her age. We didn't get a wink of sleep but I felt relaxed. I looked like I had been ran over by a ten-wheeler truck but I didn't care: we were talking at last, like friends should. We talked about some random topics. We talked about people. We talked about you. We talked about me. It was wonderful because I knew at some particular level you trusted me. You were there because you did. I think I can be pretty sure of that.

Can I?

We had cold coffee that morning. It wasn't much but it was good enough. I would've loved a steaming hot mug but I didn't mind the cold can. It was sort of what we needed. It has served its purpose: you shared a bit of your feelings and I shared a bit of my thoughts. It's stunning how a little bit of this and that can add up to something so grand and, suddenly, it's five in the morning and you (or I? We?) have no choice than to leave it as it is.

That's how we end up with cold coffee in the first place. We try to savor its warmth while it's there and it disappears ever so quickly. We try to drink it all up as fast as we could and we end up not appreciating what it is and what it has or, worse, burn our tongues. A fleeting moment and the warmth is gone. We have no choice than to leave it as it is.

Our coffee was cold but were we able to warm it -- even just a tiny bit -- with our hands? Were we able to at least pretend that we had something genuinely warm, something pleasant, to hold on to during those wee hours? Did the cigarettes help? Did the conversation, when we agreed that it never happened?

We had cold coffee that morning, and then it was time to leave. I should've known better than to think that a singular can of coffee would change things. A fleeting moment and the warmth is gone, and my hands are not enough to warm a can of cold coffee unless I stay too close to the fire and burn my hands first.

I had no choice than to leave it as it is. 

Did that make any sense to you at all? 

Thank you, twenty-two; more to see at twenty-three :)

So. It's my birthday. Hurrah! :))

Birthdays have always been a big deal for/to me. When I was younger, I remember how my brothers and I would prepare a little something for our parents' birthdays: we'd fill the room with handmade birthday cards; we'd "make" birthday cakes; we'd buy birthday gifts. I think they were never surprised surprised but they pretended to be each and every time we call them into the room and shout "Surprise! Happy birthday!" with snot, watercolor and glue on our faces.

I always thought that a birthday -- your birthday -- should always, always be special. It doesn't matter if you have money or if you have gifts. I have always believed that it's the thought that count and birthdays will always matter if you get something -- anything -- other than a simple greeting.

Of course, life has always had its silly (and, sometimes, really annoying) ways to make you feel otherwise. Most of my birthdays have been rainy and that's quite ironic since I hate the rain. I have had birthdays wherein I was too sick to even care. I have had birthdays wherein the people whom I expected to make me happy forgot that it's my birthday. Yes, I have gone through birthdays wherein I had nothing but tears in my eyes (and not out of joy, mind you) and these were the times when I thought I had it wrong. That birthdays are not meant to be special, that they're just ordinary days made overrated.

But then I remember all the wonderful things that has happened during my birthday. I remember how my first rehearsal with my first (and only) theater company was on the same day as my birthday. I also remember how our first-ever team bonding (of the team in the company I work for right now, that is) was on the night of my birthday, too. I remember how my brothers bought me cake for my birthday although they didn't have that much money (I never figured out where the money came from, actually). I remember being really happy. I remember feeling loved.

Honestly, I don't know what to think of birthdays anymore. I now know that they can never be always special...maybe unless you want it to. Maybe it's just a matter of perspective. Maybe it's just a matter of choice.

The only sure thing I know about birthdays is that it's a mark, a sign that you are one year older. It shows that yet another year of blessings, frustrations, joy and laughter, sadness and tears, disappointments, triumphs, etc. has passed and you have survived. You have learned. You have grown.

With age comes maturity. Twenty-two years of living is not enough for me to acquire all the maturity I need to handle the problems I have and the ones I will have. There will always be hang-ups and fuck-ups that you'd need to deal with. But, just like my view on birthdays, I won't forget that each year is also filled with perfect moments wherein I felt happy and I felt loved.

I wonder what's in store for me at twenty-three. I feel excited. I feel scared.

I feel alive. :)