Confessions : The Lessons I Have Learned (plus how they contribute to my madness)
Lessons. Like everyone else, I have had my share. I could even claim that I have been an attentive student.
Like the lesson I was taught when I first lied to my mom. She made me eat chili, the small ones, and I have to admit that while it was burning my lying mouth, sending my saliva into overdrive, I still haven’t had the time to compare its burning sensation to, lets say, hot lustful sex and pure pride and ego from making a woman orgasm multiple times, in successive waves. I was a kid then you know.
Or the lesson I was taught when I was spanked for the first time. I cannot remember the details, only that I shoved my baby sister, I guess she was nagging me about something and for the first time in my life, I experienced two horrors: my mom was angry at me and thus led to my first spanking. I was terrified. No, it was not from the pain: come to think of it, the spanking I gave were no more like pats, but there I was bawling, my eyes spitting teardrops like it was the end of the world, as if I was going be swallowed by the imaginary monsters I believed in then that existed in the dark. I would never forget that moment.
And I guess my mom learned her lesson too: I guess my cries terrified her so much that until now, that first spanking remains the first and last time she spanked me.
Lessons. I told you, I am an attentive student. Gifted with a mind capable of holding memories and everything else that comes to a child (you could point the finger to my mom: she fed me gerber, sustagen, cheese, apples, grapes from our own vineyard and if my memory does not fail me, I was a bonna kid, as well as an S-22 kid, the last brand leaving a strange aftertaste it my mouth, its name reminds me of what a missile should be named.)
If the Lesson would be on the subject of women, I can say, in all honesty and humility, that not only have I been an attentive one, but a star student as well. A very good one, I should say.
No, do not let the word “good” mislead you. By “good” it only, and can only mean that I have had bad episodes, “bad” lessons that, like flames, have ignited and seared past my skin, my flesh, my hot blood and dirty flesh, into each and every fiber of my memory, into the heart of my, well, that is if I have any, my black soul.
Still, I could say I have been and still good when it comes to women. From my four mothers, who wished me to learn all the good lessons about women, I have learned to love in a way that I can say is not only my own, but definitely at par with the great loves of history. I know no other way than to love a woman with the burning passion of, well, the chili (saliva/orgasm included, satisfaction guaranteed!).
Intensity 6.9, Hot, White, Pure Light.
I always took relationships as a good and eager student of life does, as if it was school, eager to learn the basic lessons of primary school, upgrading everything during the secondary years and armed and ready for the new rules of college, the third and final proving ground before graduation and real life, as real as that even if one could, one should stop asking for allowances. I breezed through all the levels of higher learning.
Only to get dropped out during the finals of the last year. My name, and my memories, stricken out like wrong answers, in red blood ink.
There is a lesson to be learned. Once, twice, even perhaps, though its shameful, if it had to be thrice. But why does it have to happen like this? There is even no need for me to count, to spell out there names for it would be the same, the record would still be unbroken, perfect.
Perhaps, it’s my fault, too proud to rewire my brain the way most people do and label everything as simple “part of life”. There is no excuse for the betrayal of trust. I know. Or perhaps its simply because, as much as I am guilty for my own betrayals, I do regret it, not just in thought, not just for a moment, that I live it, keep it alive, as a reminder of what I could do, and what I should learn never to do again.
There are a number of lessons that could be derived from these, and one of the most significant is that if I have learned anything at all about human nature, about how women, in all colors, shapes and sizes, smell and taste, that no matter how different and sweet their voices would be, they are all too human. That betrayal can only be born in the seeds of trust.
I guess I’m just so stupid, wanting to believe in the “goodness” that is in all of us. But then I know, for now, that I could not give up on that: for how could I believe I can find redemption if I have damned every one of them?
But there is a more pressing possible lesson that is there, lurking, waiting to reveal itself. The one lesson that I am afraid to learn, or perhaps in the madness that has become me, who knows I already have learned it:
Have I learned the lesson of betrayal so well that I have, in more ways than one and yet invisible to my own eyes because of self denial, finally learned to betray? Gifted as I am with some meager talents, have I learned how to cloth betrayal and pain in wings of pure, white feather?
That is a scary thought, I have to admit…
As if that’s not scary enough, my inability to rewire my head, of how I always remind myself of my own sins does not allow me to forget either. I could forgive, but then, who would I forgive if none of them even claimed to have done wrong. I might be wrong, but each of them must have felt that they have done their own god proud.
If so, I spit on their god.
My friends tell me that I should let go, and yet whenever I ask them if they know of something like memory surgery, if they could really go on remembering the light, shade and stroke of their memories (for memories are meant to be remembered, don’t you think so?) breathe in and honestly say that it doesn’t hurt, none have so far been able to answer me, except if you count the mumble and the change of subject matter as, technically, answers.
I know I could choose to see things like most people do, to take the easy way: to fool oneself because its so difficult to be honest, to lie because the truth is not always sweet, to forget for remembering does not only bring memories. It is not that I could not. I choose not to.
I swore I always would always be willing to pay the price for my choices, no matter how limited those choices might be. Perhaps that in itself is a sign of insanity. I paid, I pay, and will continue to do so, even if the payment rakes and flakes the fragile naked flesh of my sanity.
May I let the pen fall after, after I have nothing left to write.
What was it about again, lessons?!
