The Tragedy of Recursion

there was a time, not long ago
i believed with resolute conviction
whenever i said, "enough."

there was a time
i believed each drop of rain had a name
and yours, the one hardest to forget,
carved itself through me.
(i wear the scar within the folds of my skin
like a silver cross on a chain, secretly.)

then there was the time i stopped blaming you
because it was not your fault --
never your fault --
that the wall of lies i'd built
started crumbling down on me,
deluding myself every inch of it was true.

perhaps now is the time to stop clinging
and time to stop fooling myself
time to stop living in a pipe dream
that i am strong enough, mad enough to stay
time to stop believing when i say,
"it's not enough,"
when,
as a matter of fact,
it is.

•••
It amazed me how easily you seemed to have said it. "I had the perfectest date." Simple, innocent, noncommittal. Much similar to when someone would say, "I had puttanesca for dinner," or "I see your point." And for a minute, I actually believed 'perfectest' was a real word. One never knows what you will say next.

I, for one, never knew how being hit by a sledgehammer felt like until you've finished saying what you just said. And you carried on too, chronicling how he went to your place first and then going to the mall together afterwards, and how you had a spectacular time, agreeing to meet again the following night.

To my credit, I found myself uttering complete nonsense such as, "Wow," or "That's great," or "Really," successfully keeping to my fingers what I really wanted to say, which, I think was to the effect of, "Could you please not tell me about it anymore? Ever?"

However, no sooner than I thunk it did I discover my fingers betraying my thoughts, sending the exact same message to your IM window. It was immediately followed by, "I'm sorry I didn't imagine it would be this painful." And finally, "I'll let you know when I'm OK." And then a smiley :-) for good measure. Then I disconnected.

I didn't die, as I'd hoped I would. What did happen, what it did feel, was like being launched into space, without warning. Alien abductors crashed through the windows of the 21st floor office, carrying me up past the exosphere without so much as a bubble helmet, and leaving me there to suffocate in cosmic dust.

I was beaten. Defeated by my own delusions. And once again I am here, orbiting in the dark expanse of space. Waiting for gravity to pull me, hoping this time around, my feet will stick firmly to the ground.

Could be Worse. Could be Raining.

Mercury Retrograde is in full force, and it won't be stopping for breath until the end of July it seems. Just some of the weird things that have been happening:

(1) The cosmos has been doing its darned best to keep me from buying a new mp3 player, specifically, an iRiver T10. After a series of failed attempts at making the purchase, I decided not to push it anymore lest I be struck down by lightning or something similar for being so thick-headed.

(2) I've been getting weary of playing Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. Loading times are a bitch, and the plot is drowning from too many side quests. Might uninstall it later or tomorrow.

(3) Things have never looked bleaker at work. I've been feeling the crunch for weeks now, but this time I think something might happen that could compromise my future in this company. While I do prefer doing something else -- something I like doing, for starters -- it's undeniable that this job still pays the bills and it's going to be difficult for me if I let go of this for now. Three words: KEEP YOUR COOL.

(4) To affirm all of these, I just had my cards read by a friend earlier this evening and he said that right now more so than ever, negative things have been coming at me from all directions, whether or not it's because of Mercury Retrograde.

And in the middle of this emotional wasteland is You. I suppose I should be grateful, if anything, You've been teaching me to be really patient -- regardless of the fact that You're not even aware of it, or my feelings for You for that matter.

Sigh. I suppose I could wait (like I had any choice). Let's just hope by the time things start looking up for me, You'd still be there. If not with me, then at least somewhere near me.

Yes, It's That Big

Putting The Damage On

"i hate that he succeeded (once again) in walking away the good guy, and i can't walk away without knowing what i'll be walking away from. if there was something to walk away from in the first place.

"i hate that i relished every moment.

"i hate that i can't even hate him with conviction. it's pathetic letting a half-baked 'fuck him' out to the void."


(this joy's life)

If, when you tell me you're at home, and you tell me you miss me, and that you would like to talk on the phone soon, and I reply I'm at home and we could talk now, and you say that you're not at home when three minutes ago you just told me you were -- is that what you meant when you said to me a couple of days ago that you wanted to be more spontaneous, random, and unapologetic?

Because really, that's just being mean and hurtful.

Within the Clouds

It’s disturbing to know how I’m always lingering, swimming in that wellspring of emotion, like an old brush dipped in an inkwell until the black is deep enough to write with. The compulsion to mold my thoughts into actual words is almost unstoppable -- a disease constantly seeping out from my bloody, pulsating organs, through my fingers, and onto the keyboard. The voices will not grant me a moment’s peace. “Write,” they breathe in my ear. “There is no other cure but to let the words flow out from inside.”

And, unapologetically so, I let them.

•••
“Do you know what a fog of war is?” I asked him. It was such a cold, cold morning when we were headed out to explore Baguio during the first day of our stay. Not that it was unusual for a place situated high above the mountains. The winds in this altitude were almost alive, like little kids careening through the atmosphere, playing before the whole world completely wakes up. “No, what is it?” A slight shiver as he buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his windbreaker.

I glanced at him as we were trudging along the constantly ascending and descending streets of Session Road, looking for something left unsaid, sensing for something left hanging in the air. A glimmer, and it was gone. I continued the conversation. “If you’ve played a role-playing game on a PC before, it’s the uncharted section on the map covered in black ‘fog.’ It clears up as you travel through the area, discovering different territories, letting the rest of the story unfold.”

“I see,” he whispered. I wanted to hold his hand. Walking the fringes of such a vast landscape of uncharted territory looming over me was, in all essence, both scary and exciting. To be here, now, with him... somehow gives me strength.

However as it turns out, my fear was not unfounded and my excitement might have been an illusion (delusion?) for something else. Within three short days, my original intent of spending an issue-less birthday was pushed further and further into my mind, and I was instead enshrouded in a sense of intemperance just by being with him. I became too childish, careless, and I was caught off guard until I realized it at the last day when we were about to go home.

“Are these clouds?” I asked him. The bus was cruising down the side of the mountain, and what was supposed to be overlooking the landscape was instead a field of pure whiteness, like a sea of swirling dreams. “It's actually fog,” he said. “But from down the mountain it might seem like clouds.” I pressed my head to the cool glass window, and I felt something break inside me. “I see.”

Now it's been a week since we were there. Gravity hasn't caught up with me yet, and little pieces of my heart were still floating aimlessly in the clouds. Baguio has left me bereft of warmth, but I would give anything to go back. “I miss Baguio,” he txted a few nights ago. It took a while before I was able to send out a reply. “I think about it a lot,” I txted back.

“I see.”

Through the Curtain of Rain

as you pass through the curtain of rain
and the tendrils of cold, cold wetness
travel down the lines of your face
i submit myself to your gravity

what force tethers me to your orbit?
by what strangeness do i cling to?
what nameless promise was made
keeping me from unloving you?

there should have been no rain that day
and neither ‘here’ nor ‘now’ should exist
as you wrap your arms around me
the sun burns silently, constantly

but its warmth is empty, empty, empty.


(for r.)