Of Unrequited Love and Masterpieces

On my way to the National Archives this morning, I took the LRT, instead of the usual jeep. I woke up late and I do not plan to waste precious time being stuck in the horrible traffic along Quezon Avenue.

While on board, I thought about unrequited love and how it has the capability of ruining a person's life. Also, I thought about how sorrows can be beautiful at times (Weiss Kreutz ending song "Beautiful Alone" playing inside my head) and how an injured heart can derive inspiration to create a masterpiece, pretty much like what Goethe did in the film of the same name.

While reflecting on Lotte's words "Our love is not meant to be in reality, but in poetry", I thought about putting all my emotions onto something concrete. At that moment, as buildings and billboards flash in front of my eyes, I recited fragmented Spanish verses in my mind. I composed verses in Spanish, in French, in Bahasa Indonesia, in Filipino.

Thinking about this project, X-Japan's ballad collection started to play inside my head. I thought of how too much passion is poured into every song in that album, how one can easily see Toshi singing and Yoshiki playing the piano from the heart, and how their performances never fail to touch me for the reason that they were able to give form to the emotions of one hopelessly deep in love with an unresponsive love interest.

It is in times like this that I go back to being a frustrated romantic. I always go back to Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, whose Rimas make him one of my favorite poets of all time.

Rima III

Sacudimiento extraño
que agita las ideas,
como huracán que empuja
las olas en tropel;

murmullo que en el alma
se eleva y va creciendo
como volcán que sordo
anuncia que va a arder;

deformes siluetas
de seres imposibles;
paisajes que aparecen
como un través de un tul;

colores que fundiéndose
remedan en el aire
los átomos del Iris
que nadan en la luz

ideas sin palabras
palabras sin sentido;
cadencias que no tienen
ni ritmo ni compás;

memorias y deseos
de cosas que no existen;
accesos de alegría
impulsos de llorar;

actividad nerviosa
que no halla en qué emplearse;
sin rienda que lo guíe
caballo volador;

locura que el espíritu
exalta y enardece
embriaguez divina
del genio creador...
¡Tal es la inspiración!

gigante voz que el caos
ordena en el cerebro,
y entre las sombras hace
la luz aparecer;

brillante rienda de oro
que poderosa enfrena
de la exaltada mente
el volador corcel;

hilo de luz que en haces
lo pensamientos ata;
sol que las nubes rompe
y toca en el cénit;

inteligente mano
que en un collar de perlas
consigue las indóciles
palabras reunir;

armonioso ritmo
que con cadencia y número
las fugitivas notas
encierra en el compás;

cincel que el bloque muerde
la estatua moldeando
y la belleza plástica
añade a la ideal;

atmósfera en que giran
con orden las ideas,
cual átomos que agrupa
recóndita atracción;

raudal en cuyas ondas
su sed la fiebre apaga;
oasis que al espíritu
devuelve con vigor...
¡Tal es nuestra razón!

Con ambas siempre en lucha
y de ambas vencedor,
tan sólo el genio puede
a un yugo atar las dos.

And indeed, memories of times spent together, those awkward moments including joys and sorrows alike, flood my mind. I remember a line in Wordsworth's (another poet I love) "Daffodils" (one of my favorite poems ever) wherein he writes,

"For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."

Because the present gives me a major heartbreak, I turn to happy memories to somehow ease the pain. Because I know that we can never be, at least in my mind, in my dreams, in my fantasies, we are.

(The Delusions of an Unhappy Girl)