Last night was the final evening of the winter holidays. Nilly and I took down the ornaments from the Christmas tree and packed them away, not to be seen again for another 11 months.
It was kinda sad, you know? All that sits on our living room carpet is a beautiful Douglas Fir Tree, ready to be dried and be shredded for mulch.
I find a sentimentality that is attached to things like this. I akin it to life, its purpose and meeting its end.
I was looking through an old journal of mine and skimmed through the pages. This, I can tell you, is not a good thing to do when you are melancholic (or hungry). You tend to be more critical of the younger you, of all the decisions you've made and what you did to come up with that conclusion.
I snorted. I laughed. I cried.
The retrospect was funny, and I few I commented with "what were you thinking?" but then at my current age, would I have made the same mistakes if I didn't go through them then?
One of my good friends (who just happens to be mentioned in said journal being perused) emailed me today to let me know he got a girl pregnant and he's contemplating on asking her for her hand in marriage. I was astounded not because he's doing the 'dutiful' deed but because he thinks this is what is proper given the circumstances that the first time they had sex, he got her pregnant.
If I were the girl, is that what I would've wanted?
He asked me for guidance. I am tongue-tied. I cannot even prove to this point that I can procreate. What about giving advice to someone who is apparently very fertile?
Although it's a blow to hear how a nice guy is pinned to this situation, I responded with the "if you love her and she feels the same about you, then do it. Just don't get married for the sake of the child."
I hope I served my purpose by giving him sound direction.
Just maybe I wouldn't have to second-guess myself and pick on the scab just to check if the wound's healing well.