A different kind of reporting

makanBecause I can, am torturing you with a picture from my last Christmas dinner at The Mag. It was a relatively painless last month because there was very little to hand over, and practically next to no reporting. Did a couple of reviews and news posts and that was basically it.

Now I’m finding myself doing a different kind of reporting – the weekly client media monitoring. I remember having to cut out insurance-related reports when I was doing corporate comms for an insurance firm. Thankfully in this Net-related age, I can find links instead of resorting to the scissors.

As an editor, I did find myself scouring the Net often to keep abreast of trends. Now my searches will be somewhat more focused and I’ll need to be even more immersed in the Internet information stream. But then there’ll be the challenge of not getting too caught up in research to do things like network, strategise and get down to the not-so-glamorous bits of my job like reporting.

In other news, I was saddened to find out one of my favourite bloggers and inspirations while I was still learning to be an editor got laid off. Magazine Man’s one blogger I recommended to anyone in the publishing line, who both entertained and educated me with his witty, laugh-out-loud hilarious posts on life and writing as a vocation. I hope that this experience is a blessing in disguise, and that he moves on to bigger, better things.

Also logged on to Technorati to update my blog’s profile and was pleasantly surprised to find this post which quoted from a soppy blogpost I made not too long ago.

To love means not to suffocate them in your affection, resisting the urge to hold them tightly in a blanket of care. It means giving them space to move, to breathe, to decide. Love is freedom, not compulsion. To love also means to wait in the wings, resisting the urge to run to your loved ones when they stumble. Instead, you wait with open arms, knowing full well that you will just as likely be turned away. But you wait anyway, because that is what it means to love.”

I remember telling the last guy I dated when we ‘broke up’ that “I don’t love you, but I could have.” Been a week since we parted ways and it’s still hard to get over the hurt. It’s funny that while I was cleaning up my photos, that I could smile at old pictures of my ex-fiance but when I looked at this one picture of MFM, I felt my chest start to constrict. The wounds are still too raw and I’m still counting every day. 11 days since he left, 4 days since I last texted him, 4 days that I managed not to call or bug him on IM. He did me a favour by breaking up with me before I started my new job – I threw myself into the job wholeheartedly and didn’t have to think about his distance, his secrets, his baggage.

And I want to hate him, to denigrate him, to paint an unflattering picture of him in my mind. But I miss his voice, his silly habits, the way we’d think or say the same things at the same time. How soft his hair was when I ran my fingers through it and the way he’d pout. I miss him saying “Yes, dear.” I miss his almost fascist food leanings that extended to taste and water. I miss how happy I was when we actually were spending time together.

But I don’t miss the times in between, when everything was a stupid complicated mess. And I knew even then he’d never love me, and that it would all fall to pieces eventually. When you’re with someone, and you know someone or something else is always on his mind even when he’s with you, you know there is nothing to hope for. But for one more minute, one more breath, one more night, one more morning, one more smile, one more second before you say goodbye.

I thought it would hurt less because I came in with no expectations. But I guess I was wrong. The day comes, I greet it with hope and fill the day with plans and thought. But at night as I grow tired, I find myself broken just before I go to sleep. There is no comfort for me in that brief stillness before sleep finds me – only a searing loneliness from memories not quite cast off.

Tomorrow is another day, I tell myself. And it is.

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