The Breakup Mix - Chapter 2

Track 2: World Spins Madly On – The Weepies

Dear Kate,

I have a confession to make. I haven’t actually decided on most of the songs I’m going to put on this mix. I’m making this up as I go along. But aren’t we all? That’s life for you, isn’t it? Just making things up every day, not really knowing beforehand what’s going to happen or how you’re going to react to it.

Speaking of not knowing how to react, I felt incredibly down in the dumps when I woke up this morning. It’s probably good to tell you that the first letter I wrote was two weeks ago. After that, I had been busy again with work. There was a big delivery of books that came in the shop early last week and it took me a while to sort them all out. The perks of owning your own bookstore, right? Anyway, I finished that earlier today so I finally had the time to write about the second track of the mix I’m going to give you.

I woke up lonely probably on account of how I didn’t know what I was going to do for the rest of the day except open the shop, help some customers with the books they’re looking for, read for a bit, and then close the shop and go home. At least the past two weeks gave me a lot to do, what with cataloguing hundreds of books and all, but after that was done, it felt as if my life was directionless again. Suddenly, opening the bookstore today didn’t seem to amount to anything remotely close to what is considered work.

And that’s when it hit me again. You’re gone. You left a big, gaping hole in my life that it was impossible to fill in most days with menial tasks such as work. For instance, during my commute on the train today, I was just staring out the window, not really thinking about anything in particular. And then out of the blue, the radio came on and this Weepies song started playing. I didn’t even know anybody else knew about The Weepies, let alone play them on the radio. Naturally, it drove me out from my daydreaming and I started thinking about how true the song was.

All of a sudden, I was very aware of the fact that I was standing inside the train trying to balance myself, with these twenty or so people who were also on their way to work. I looked down and realized that I was holding the book you gave me two years ago. I started reading it again four days ago, but I’d forgotten until now that you were the one who gave it to me. It felt like I was looking at my life for the first time again. Why didn’t I remember about the book? You were so excited when you first told me about it.

“Matty, I’m telling you, Kazuo Ishiguro is genius!” You shouted excitedly from the dining table while eating breakfast, while I made French toast in the kitchen.

“I don’t trust Japanese writers. Take Murakami. Everybody loves him but I don’t get it. He’s so overrated,” I said casually, but mentally making a note to read your book immediately that night. I sat down on the table with a fresh plate of toast.

“Ishiguro isn’t Japanese,” you rolled your eyes at me. “He’s British. Stop being racist.” You pretended to be annoyed but smiled nonetheless. I laughed at that.

“I’m not being racist! Fine, I’ll read it. Jeez, you didn’t tell me you were in love with the guy,” I said, acting surprised.

“I very well might be,” you replied, squinting at me. “I think I might even consider leaving you for him.” You raised both your eyebrows as if to say, I could, too. Dare me.

“That rat bastard!” I pounded my fist on the table in mock fury. You laughed until your hideous signature snort came out, which, in turn, made me laugh.

That was one hell of a breakfast, wasn’t it? I was remembering it today as if it existed only in my dreams, that it was too good to have happened in reality. Where did those two people go, laughing and sharing books they love over breakfast? How could that person who was happily cooking breakfast for two end up lonely during commute, with a convenience store sandwich in his bag because he was now too lazy to cook for one?

Life really is sneaky. It will give you a glimpse of the best moments you could have with someone special, maybe even let you live it a little, and then it will go, “Okay, that’s enough. Now go be sad again.” And so I am.

The song was still playing as I looked at the other passengers around me. I tried to read from their faces if they were truly happy or were they, like me, just braving another day of feeling empty and left alone. There were a handful of men in long-sleeved shirts who, from the looks of their faces, were silently praying that they come out of the train with their shirts minimally creased. There were a couple of ladies who were doing a good job of balancing themselves standing up while wearing tight skirts and high heels. How many of them were really looking forward to going to their jobs? Do all of them at least enjoy what they do? What do they think about when they gaze out the window of a moving train?

As for me, I think about you, and what our life had been. But mostly, I think about what my life is now and if it’s going to stay this way for a long time. The 30-minute commute to work felt like a hundred years to me. I seemed to float through in slow motion while watching people continue their normal-paced lives, some of them in a hurry to go wherever they were heading. I felt a tinge of envy with all their hurrying because it implied that they had a destination and couldn’t wait to get there. Opening a small bookstore barely counted as a destination, much less one that was worth hurrying up to. I could’ve ridden the train all the way north and it wouldn’t have made a difference. The bookstore would still be there waiting for me, but essentially, I would still be behind in Life, everybody would still be ahead of me, and you would still be gone.

I walked along Garrido St. with my head down, still lost in my thoughts of you. When I arrived at the bookstore, I stood in front of the door for a while before taking out the keys from my pocket, unlocking the door, switching on the lights and air conditioner, and drinking in the complete silence and the smell of books.

This was my life now. Only this. Coming to this every morning, and going straight home to my small apartment at night. It occurred to me that both my destinations every day involve arriving at an empty room. It was a cruel reminder of that gaping hole I was talking about earlier, but I know that I have to endure it. To what end? I have yet to find out.

In the meantime, I will continue running my small bookstore, re-reading the book you gave me, and wondering every day whether people who ride the train are happy or not. While the world spins madly on.


Always,
Matty