Obscenities in the Dark

The lies never stop.

Creation and Destruction

I am incapable of creating anything new now. There's really no sense fighting for it any more than I have, so I'm giving up writing. It's plenty amazing how I managed to delude myself for such a long time when clearly I have no talent. I sure did fool a lot of people though -- something that can be plainly attributed to luck, obviously.

So what am I now after foolishly, pretentiously identifying myself as a writer -- as an artist?

What I have always been, I suppose -- an ageing nerd jerking off to beautiful boys in the Internet. An unemployed 28-year old living with his parents, playing online games to kill time, gaining pound after pound in front of the computer. A broken, embittered gay man with nothing but his fantasy books for company, and pillows and blankets that haven't been washed in a long time for comfort. A person without identity, without the will to fight the disease eating at his mind, heart, and spirit, someone void of passion, and someone who has no business walking amongst the living.

How many out there are like me, I have to wonder. The state the world is in, suicide SHOULD be a legal, sensible option.

Obscenities in the Light

It's easier to do in the dark what's not right in the light. (Closer, Mike Mangione)

His soul split in two, and he found himself watching his own body from the back of the room.

He -- the Other -- was masturbating. The kind with no restraint or... or intellect. It was obscene and visceral, nothing but blood and guts and instinct. He Who Watched moved closer, making no sound, disturbing nothing. Here, the Other seemed even more animal. There was no god here. No god stronger than what is, no force more powerful than flesh writhing in the dark.

The back of the chair was bent as far as it would go, but the Other never stopped pushing. 'Break, oh gods, BREAK!' his body screamed, but never will it relent. Warhorses powered the Other's legs, muscles stretched taut and sweating, and his feet tried to dig into soft earth but instead were met with floors of mold and old wood. These forces, and the many tangible shadows prodding, pulling at the Other's flesh, opposing him from all sides exhilarated his senses to even greater heights, to even deeper dimensions, and he pounded on his blood-gorged cock even harder.

His arm -- the Other's left arm -- the one part that remained human reached towards the monitor. He Who Watched felt it at once, and saw it for what it was. There on the monitor was not a beautiful, smooth boy, standing by the pool with nothing on but a pair of skimpy black trunks and a smile. Not just. It was beauty itself -- beauty and all its lines and curves and order. The hungering, ravenous thing that was the Other wanted nothing else but to possess that beauty, that order, to take it into itself, to dominate it and at the same time be enslaved by it. 'Mine,' wordless it whispered into the gloom, into the cold, pitiless light. Envy was seething, vibrating the still air. 'You are mine. I want you. Please. Please. I love you.'

It was agonizing for He Who Watched. This Other, he realized, who is thrall to his senses, completely free of shame, free of gods -- completely, utterly free -- could be the purest, most genuine thing in all creation. There were no lies here. No words. Just blood and flesh and inertia and movement. He Who Watched stood vigil for a few seconds more. And at one precise moment, three things happened at the same time: the twin souls merged back; he came; he wept.

The universe, pure and free mere seconds ago, once again coalesced in its centuries-old cage of words. He, breathing and blinking back into a world of logic and language, was once again bound -- his name and its string of histories settling onto his forehead, into his chest. The glasses he was wearing felt heavy nested on the bridge of his nose. The fatty flesh on his back stung where the grooves of the plastic chair dug deep. His legs and feet ached. Shame blanketed his heart -- thick and wet and throbbing. He was a nerd jerking off to a beautiful boy over the Internet. 'I love you,' he said, more than a few times. The world be damned if he won't do it all over again.

The Dance Ends

No more dancing. No more words. I want to die.

I see nothing left to live for in this world. Which isn't to say there's none -- it's just that I seem to be unable to find one for myself strong enough to keep me together, and I am exhausted. This world has me trapped; I have nowhere to go. My prison is a vast expanse of words and concrete, of people and stones -- without sound, without shape, without walls, but a prison none the less. It is terrifying to say the least, but I am done fighting. I am done moving.

And it's not mere death that I'm craving, too. I want to be forgotten. I want every trace of my existence erased from the histories of this world. No one will remember my face, nor say my name ever again. That is the kind of death I am wishing for -- not the shallow death of earth and ash, of pain and remembering. Because being forgotten is the only true, pure way to die.

Deeper

I want to feel this hatred --
it's what I need to drag me through this.

As Long As That's True, Skin

"I hate this life." I don't think truer, more satisfying words ever passed through these fingers, these lips in the 28 years of raucous, roiling hell I have behind me. It's almost absurd when I think about it; now I have no idea why I have been denying it, but I truly hate this life. I hate it.

This afternoon, walking home, I was saying it over and over. There was a kind of exhilaration that was hard to deny as my words gathered speed, gained volume. "I hate this life, I hate this life," I was saying under my breath. Eventually, it drowned out the music I was listening to. I was walking to its beat. I hate this life, and that's the truth. In a mad, twisted way, saying it gives me strength.

I may not have hated this life as much as I do now, but I think I have only been building up to something more absolute, something more true. Something clearer:

My life has been mired in blame. Where I am now is the sum of thoughtless, reckless decisions. I'd always felt death lingered near for me, so every moment, every crossroad mattered less and less. I make a decision without much regard for anything, a decision I think might lead to a less painful dying -- and then I find I'm still alive, trying to deal with the consequences. Another thoughtless decision, I think to myself. Another reckless choice. Words justify my suffering, give shape to the hell I've conjured for myself.

Blame throbs sickly in my chest promptly enough -- a malevolent virus, at the same time a relieving tonic. Guilt follows. Then regret. Then, finally, shame. Always, an endless string of self-hatred -- blame, guilt, regret, shame. Blame, guilt, regret, shame. Another thoughtless decision, another reckless choice. Blame, guilt, regret, shame.

It took years. An entire decade. More than a decade. Blame, guilt, regret, shame. Thoughtless decisions, reckless choices. Blame, guilt, regret, shame. Tori Amos said, "The only way out is to go so far in." This life has been a succession of drowning, a circus of disappointments. Pretense, posturing, lie after lie after lie. And the clouds part. And the bells toll. Truer, more satisfying words have never been uttered: I HATE THIS LIFE.

SO GO AHEAD, UNIVERSE. Shame me. Show me your idiocy, your stark, radiant beauty. Show me how good you could be. How happenstance and meaningless encounters are given meaning, given flesh, given words like love and friendship and family and identity and bittersweet happiness because the Gods know we're desperate for purpose, for hope that there's something else, something MORE to strive for. That there's something behind the curtains of years, the vast expanse of space. Go ahead. Shame me. Show me what I can't have, all because I have found what in my heart is the absolute truth: that I hate this life and everything in it. Nothing can be clearer now.

I did not ask to be born. Neither did anyone, I suppose, so I will be forgiven if I say I hate this life. I resent everything about it. I hate the smell, I hate the noise, I hate the people and the complications of relationships -- from the most trivial to the most binding. I hate the things we don't have words for. And the words that we have -- every nuance of language, every sharp descent, every steep incline, every particle of power words command -- all of it inadequate, all of it I hate to the very core of my being. I hate that ultimately, there is nothing for us but darkness.

Every day I hate this life even more. Things rot inside and outside of my body. Through these eyes there is nothing beautiful, nothing good. My soul quakes at the agony, at the blinding radiance of this hatred. I hate how difficult, how utterly complicated, how physically painful it is to leave when leaving all I want to do. When dead is all I want to be.

Here's To Me

Because it's true even if a few nasty demons do get to slip between the cracks sometimes. I get shafted by my lousy clients on Thursday? Sure, why the frak not. It's not like it's anything new. So my birthday gift to myself? You may think you're not good enough, but you're sure as hell better than a sorry lot of people. HAPPY FRAKKING BIRTHDAY TO ME.

A Whole Lot of Shouldn't Haves

I shouldn't have to feel guilty for being myself, I know I shouldn't. I shouldn't have to apologize. I shouldn't have to be angry or envious or resentful. I shouldn't have to feel this weak, this taken advantage of, this pushed aside. I shouldn't have to go to the washroom every hour on the hour, to the one at the far end of the floor where people rarely go to, just to sob very, very quietly; just to squeeze out the knots in my chest; just to rub at my eyes to force the tears out. I shouldn't have to do that. And if I should, I should like to do it with as much noise my lungs will allow.

I'm still not sure if I should be writing, but I do because it's the only thing by far with strength enough to give me an identity -- ghost-like and immaterial and fragile it may be. I feel I should be somewhere else, though. I shouldn't have to feel this constricted, this edited. I shouldn't have to censor myself, or say 'I am' when as a matter of fact 'I am not'.

I shouldn't have to be huddled in the dark, when I could throw open the windows and feel the rain on my face, on my hair, taste the rain on my tongue, and laugh at the sky, and laugh at the sky.

One More Thing

Oh yes, there was one more affirmation that I've armed myself with all these years: 'Don't mind people leaving, because you do the same.' No one is exempted from this. I have stepped away from the lives of many people -- even people I have claimed to love. And many have stepped away from mine -- even people who have claimed to love me. Although there is hurting, there are no judgments. People walk away, because that is what people do.

The quiet, searing hurt is eventually tucked into some deep pocket of memory, like an old, soft handkerchief never to be thrown away. Yes, even after every particle of pain has all but faded from it. Time will come when the reason for leaving will not matter, just that they left. 'That is what people do,' you learn to tell yourself -- just as you learn how to do it too.

Today Is A Day For Silence

I called in sick today, because there's no other word for what I was feeling. Lazy? Perhaps. But lazy doesn't involve feeling nauseous. Lazy doesn't describe the rolling, jerking vertigo of a spinning, windowless office room, cold and lifeless and dreary, oppressive with all the strangers milling about, young and merry and laughing and obliviously happy, so I called in sick. Calling in lazy would be lying, and I'm not a very good liar.

And so, I decided today will be a day for silence. Away from noise and dissonance and other people. Today will be a day I tell myself, 'let it go, it's not a big deal' -- and believe it. Today will be a day for escape. Today will be a day for me.

I Have Decided

Yes, that the entry before this one is a little bit unfair, and partly a lie. It was unfair to dismiss love -- a force I have fiercely believed in growing up -- and say that it is something I am incapable of feeling, let alone relaying. I meant everything else, however. I acknowledge that my anger has defined who I am, and this, I think is the very reason why love is unable to resonate within my periphery. I see it around me -- from friends, from family -- but there is very little chance for me to benefit from its grace. That said, allow me to say that anger is just as real, just as terrifying, and just as delicious as love can ever be.

Insanity

This is insanity. INSANITY. How can someone this unhappy still manage to stay alive? Shouldn't there be a threshold for unhappiness? Wouldn't it be better if our internal organs cease to function once we cross that threshold? Because clearly, there wouldn't be anything else to do once someone's spirit is sapped of hope and the desire to live. There wouldn't be any point.

Look at me. LOOK AT ME. There is nothing here. There is no tunnel, there is no path. There must have been a path once, and I think I have memories walking down that path with pride, with purpose -- but what do I do with ghosts of the past? There is nothing NOW. There is no path NOW.

The ironic thing is, rather than being granted freedom, I am weighed down by feelings of arriving at a dead end. There is no path, but there is no escape either. Bound by the rules of humanity, I am doomed to stay alive and suffer the existence of someone devoid of purpose, of will, of... love. I have no love for life -- life that has done nothing but disappoint, life that has done nothing but measure and judge and leave one wanting. I have no love for life because I have lost the ability to love.

Insane. INSANE that I am kept alive, when there are so many others deserving to live. When there are so many others brimming with dreams and ambition -- and the will and talent to achieve them, but are prevented because of circumstance, because of balance.

Claim beauty, claim vast and unimaginable beauty, all you people who walk with purpose, with reason, with something to hold on to. Claim heaven, claim hell. Everything in your life, you deserve.

It's insane that I am alive, but every minute is an affirmation that it is a life I don't deserve.

Not Good Enough

Somewhere in my body, in my chest maybe, there is nothing. Light never pierces the gloom, air never passes through. Most of the times, it is negligible -- almost natural. There are times, however, when the absence howls -- when the absence becomes defining, rather than incidental. When nothing else shapes me but the absence. "You will never be good enough," it says. And I echo willingly, a lonely psalm to a gospel truth, "I will never be good enough."

How cruel can this world be, teaching us to hope, when all it does is widen the gap between 'can' and 'cannot.' How cruel -- how spiteful! when clouds uncover stars and all we can do is wonder at their light, forever out of reach. How cruel. How disappointing when, as a matter of fact reaching the stars is indeed possible -- as other people have proven -- but not for you.

Hope, they say. I say hope is nothing. Hope is dust. Hope has done naught else but fuel the absence in my chest. Hope -- that burning light, that malignant whisper. It leans into my ear and says, "Not good enough."

You Lovely Bastards

She had seen her brother die with one eye open, one still in a dream. She had said goodbye to her mother and imagined her lonely wait for a train back home to oblivion. A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum. A young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow. She had watched a bomber pilot die in a metal case. She had seen a Jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp. And at the center of all of it, she saw the Führer shouting his words and passing them around.

Those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured titles. It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.

You bastards, she thought.

You lovely bastards.

Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner.

Because the world does not deserve them.

Liesel Meminger
The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak

An Irony of Truth

Every morning when I get to the office, I go to the washroom first. I expect many others do the same, so I take comfort in the fact that this -- among other things I do and contrary to what I make myself out to be -- is normal. I stare at myself in the mirror, making sure I am ready to put on another face for the day, checking for cracks. I lean closer, and yes, I do find a broken off skin here, a dot of regret there, a patch of fear flaking somewhere on my left cheek, but nothing serious -- nothing a well-placed smile can't cover.

But I do not smile. I let the cracks show. I let the spots mar my skin like a wall of histories, like a statement. "THIS," my face says, "is what I have to deal with."

Isn't it ironic how people insist on being true to oneself, but run away when truth stares at them square on the face? The truth is, I am different shades of angry -- from the lower frequency staccato beats of sadness to the thinner, more delicate vibrations of madness. This is how I was and am shaped, no matter the eyes that look at me or what angle I am looked at.

So I gather my things, go to my workstation, and face another day fueled by a specific frequency of anger. The scowl keeps people away, which allows me to work in peace. Frankly, it's exhausting smiling all the time just to please people you don't even like.

And I wonder why I'm single.

Slipping Away

Everything slips away so easily now; very few -- if any at all -- are left to hold on to, to keep myself steady. Each minute that passes I feel less and less myself, crumbling away into space like an abandoned satellite, without orbit, without purpose. What keeps me here? What keeps me from leaving? Crowded with things fleeting, things temporary, what is there left that could be so significant in my life to matter?

More than anything, the desire to leave simply overtakes everything else. Courage I am without, but when one day it alights on my heart, it shall be used to finally step out the door -- and leave.

Every Morning

Everyday, it's "I can't go through with this again." But still I go through with it, and approximately 18 hours later, the day ends. The following day, it happens all over again. For half my life, waking up's been more or less like this, it really is a wonder how I am still able to walk, let alone breathe.

The times in between get me through, to be fair. A night of drinking with friends, a good book, and I say, "OK, I can get past this." And not even half a day passes, I'm on board the downward spiral yet again.

Maybe I'm not exerting enough effort to make my life better, and having been found lacking, the Universe throws me what I deserve? What am I missing? What am I doing wrong? What else do I need to do?

I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. Considering every lie that I've told others, told myself as I was growing up, every sin I'd committed -- maybe this is the life I deserve. Balance, the Universe says. I've been able to get away with a lot of things when I was younger, and now it's time I pay my dues.

Tomorrow at 3:00am, I wake up. "I can't go through with this again," I'd say. And still I'd go through with it. I don't want to believe in Hell, but 18 years of Catholicism has fear beaten good and deep into me. Now I'm afraid of myself, of how I'd turn out, of where I'd go when I die. I don't want to believe in Hell, but if what they say is true -- if Hell is much worse than the life I'm going through now -- then every inch of me is a quivering concentration of nothing else but fear.

Here Is Everywhere

The Warrior-Prophet turned to him, clutched his shoulder with a shining hand. "The Truth of Here is that it is Everywhere. And this, Akka, is what it means to be in love: to recognize the Here within the other, to see the world through another's eyes. To be here together."

His eyes, luminous with wisdom, seemed unbearable.

The world had sloughed off the last of the sun, and the shadows pooled like ink. Night stalked the ruined ways of Charaöth.

"And this is why you suffer so ... When what was here turns away from you, as she has turned away from you, it seems there's nowhere you might stand."

A mosquito dared whine through the air about their ears.

"Why are you telling me this?" Achamian cried.

"Because you are not alone."

Anasûrimbor Kellhus
Prince of Nothing Trilogy: The Thousandfold Thought, by R. Scott Bakker

Four Years Ago

... I fell in love. I have never faltered since. If anything, this relentless pounding of fists at my chest has grown even more intense, threatening to break flesh, to draw blood. But like a wildcat caged for far too long, this love eventually realized the futility of its wildness, submitting to a madness that transcended both movement and sound -- a paralyzing burden of knowing.

Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.

Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.

Said Too Many Times

It has been said, and it has been said too many times -- suffering exists to deepen joy; pain exists to give life meaning. In the compendium of human languages, in the entire catalogue of words, they point to one basic concept -- balance. And looking at the big picture, it seems to be true. What does a field of black mean without speckles of contrasting white? Light is bereft of beauty without a spectrum of colors to reflect. Balance is what the Universe strives for, in a scale too grand and much too magnificent our minds can only dream of imagining.

Our vision is limited from where we stand. The enormity of entire worlds moved by a singular energy -- a force so great that an individual's life seems all but a flicker -- what philosophized, romanticized idea of balance do we, in our level of existence, cling to?

Suffering exists to deepen joy. "That simple-minded schmuck without ambition, who doesn't know what he wants to do for the rest of his sad, sorry life; that poor, poor man who will end up alone, embittered, and withered to the bone -- I'm glad I'm not him!" Perhaps it is in this way life achieves balance, but who am I to say? I am just one life whose light is few and far in between. Whose landscape is more valley than mountain. "We try our best," some people would say. "Kindness is what matters," or "Life is measured in love." All wise, noble words, to be sure, but a point is crossed when one simply becomes... exhausted. Even a smile becomes wearisome.

Would it be strange, would it be too arrogant to say that I am too different from everyone else? Perhaps I am not too different. Perhaps there are a multitude of people battling the same demons as I am. I feel weaker, though. Every minute, I feel like I am about to lose. Balance? I exist so other people can feel good about themselves -- that's the balance this life has taught me. Hope? All smoke, all illusion. Nothing but skin, empty of flesh; nothing but stars, empty of light.

I Totally Fucking Love You

Freddie

I totally fucking love you.

Effy

I didn't know what to do with that feeling... happiness. I know now. And they're hungry. Really fucking hungry. Because for as long as I know, they've been chasing me. And now they're ready, now they're strong enough to break through. And I can't fight them. I used to be able to when I was strong but... you've made me weak.

[Skins // Series 4 // Episode 5]

This Is A Call

Where are my people? Where are those riotous in colour and rambling in words? Where are the fragmented, the mended, and the fragmented yet again? The equivocation of old voices, lost in the trappings of memory -- I do not hear them. The young, the new, the footfalls of those wandering in strange hallways, opening doors to rooms even stranger -- where are they? Where are my people?

All I see are fluff, cotton, wisps of gossamer and down. Beautiful as summer blossoms; beautiful as only wraiths can be beautiful. Eggshell fragile and floating in the wind. These are not my people. They speak not my tongue.

Their skin, ephemeral as air, as time -- not like my skin. The skin of our people are thick carapaces of resilience and remembrance. Our skin are the crusts of earth, eroded and made perfect by a force only the seas and the oceans can muster. Our skin are the barks of trees, of rocks, of stalagmites and stalactites -- diamond and mineral of rough and irregular geometries. Our skin is the skin of histories -- blood-drawing, juices-flowing. Where are my people?

This is my call. Hear my voice, and hear it thundering in your chest. You will know if you are mine. Answer, and I will know if I am yours.

Say, Yes

I'm cutting them all loose. All of it -- words in my head, crawling all over my scalp like tiny little ants gnawing at my skin. Words writhing, wriggling up and down my throat, clawing at my chest, running, leaping, dancing, a pirouette, a dip, a screech, rising, falling, crashing to and through my body. Every particle, every fragment of memory -- real or imagined, embellished truth, or visceral lies. I'm letting them go, and fuck what anyone thinks.

They will be shikigami as I walk around the city. They will be helmet and hauberk, gorget, breastplate, tasset, greaves, and sabaton. I will write when words barrel through me like ten thousand rivers. I will write when words supernova in my mind. I will write even if there is nothing to write about.

The past two months at work has taught me the world will never run out of words. A single object will have as many different words as the number of of eyes that will look upon it. Every day I work, I try on a multitude of eyes. Work has taught me there will always be something to write.

I used to be afraid of the word, "writer." I shy away from it, a burning brand to my skin. I used to feel I wasn't worthy of the pain, the burden, and the responsibility it entails to be a writer. After the fear came the shame. Then self-pity. Yet, I find myself going back -- a pitiful supplicant to an intangible divinity.

Ultimately, it's a conscious decision. The Universe is a strange and patient benefactor, and we are timid little animals who do not know how to say "Yes." That is, until we learn to say "Yes," -- and actually say it.

So, "Yes."

The Aftermath of War

none stirs 
none speaks
in the aftermath of war

two princes
in armor tarnished
sword all but forgotten at their feet

shadows long
flesh quivers
the fading half-light sees me on my knees

you hesitate; i urge:

there is no army
the sun has gone
finish your work
claim your victory

but if it please your highness,
before you leave, do me a kindness --

make sure
                all life
                    is gone
                            from this body

Rage

It doesn't happen often. I can't remember the last time it did -- before Sunday, that is. What happens is, for about two hours, I'd be quiet. Lying down, maybe. Thoughts will be overlapping, one on top of the other, but never really silencing the ones below. If anything, the cacophony becomes even louder. I listen to their distinct voices -- every one of them. I'd agree most of the times. "Morons," they'd say, for instance, but not to me. "Filth," they'd say again, "Everyone around you -- mindless sheep. Morons. Filth." I'd agree.

It goes on for some time, the voices. Layer after layer, story after story, guilt on guilt, fuel to the fire. Still I'd be on the bed, motionless for the most part. My eyes will be moving, following a phantasm in the room. A specter. The voices magnify their chorus.

What happened last Sunday was, I got up after two hours of being motionless on the bed. I went down to the bathroom, and I slammed the door -- a little forceful than I'd intended, to be honest. It was enough, however, the sound -- enough to break something in my mind. A thin film of glass, maybe? A nylon string? An old piece of rope? It doesn't matter. Whatever was bound became unbound, and the specter took hold.

The cooling plastic hook attached to the door was not let go. I pushed the door open again all the way through... and then I pulled it shut even harder. BAM! the wood cried. I did it again. BAM! it said again, splinters exploding onto my eyes, onto my arms. BAM! BAM! BAM!

And just as suddenly, the rhythm stopped. Someone was holding the door, and someone was saying something couldn't hear. I screamed to her (his?) face because I couldn't hear. "I can't hear you!" I shouted. Or I tried to shout, at least. I felt something implode in my chest -- a black hole -- and it sucked all manner of sound into it. I shouted again. I couldn't hear. I stomped my foot, I punched the door. I couldn't hear.

I'm not really sure how long it lasted. I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, my breathing pounding in my ear like sea foam, like the breaking of the universe. My cheeks were burning -- cold and hot at the same time. White noise crept into my mind like vines.

I came to. I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, but I was more quiet now. My breathing was more regular. I felt the needle-sting of a mosquito on my foot, and an involuntary hand reached to kill it. The world slowed to a crawl, and I felt every molecule in the air parting to make way for my hand. Eventually it reached its destination. The mosquito was still gorging on my blood when it died, thick and red and stringy on my thumb. That's when I knew it was over. What was unbound was bound once again.

Just As I'd Imagined

It was just as I'd imagined it would be. We all know how it goes even if we all have our own versions of the story. A chance encounter at a park, a bookstore, a coffee shop -- mine is at a 24-hour convenience store early in the morning before I head over to work. Like last Monday.

The stage was set. The curtains were drawn. All that needs done was to speak, but neither of us did. Not through voices at least. Our eyes did most of the talking, as did the way you stepped back slightly when I was standing behind you at the counter queue. Just as I'd imagined, your scent unlocked the same colors in my mind as it did in my fantasy. I shivered as the sensation of flowing water traveled through my body.

"You'll be late for work," my mind chided. I recoiled and heeded without question. Like a repentant child, and I am all too suddenly back on rock hard ground. I left the store with one last look, to which a smile was returned. But the chiming of the door sealed every possibility shut. And just as I'd imagined it would be, the fantasy was over.

My feet were heavy as I walked to the bus station. Many, many times I wanted to turn around, break into a run, and ask for a number -- a name, at least. It didn't happen. I got into the bus and sat on my usual seat. I had too many things disconnected, I thought. Too much of my circuitry was burnt out. It wouldn't have worked anyway, my mind insisted.

But I'm having enough of it. I should do this right the next time -- and there will be a next time. If not with the same person, then there will be another. I'm still young, no matter how much I convince myself otherwise. I deserve this, no matter how much I tell myself I don't.

It will be nice if it's going to be the same person, though, and in the same setting. He smelled lovely, and it was a convenient fantasy.

Outside the Karmic Circle

Anything can be said without fear of karmic retribution, that's what I love about getting together with friends. Especially when we're under the influence of the holy distilled spirit, the things that parade out from our little heads can span countries and countries of utter silliness and insane inanities.

UP Diliman, that's where we usually hang out. It was never our alma mater, but the three of us have made our own tiny planet out of it. Sarah's especially -- or what we affectionately call Susan's, just because. Afternoons would be our domain, just a little bit after lunch. We will have the place to ourselves, and, barely starting with the first round of beers, we let loose the absurdity. This will stretch on until around 7:00pm, where we will either have dinner at an out-of-the-way place in Krus Na Ligas -- usually Sefali -- or we will head home.

By this time, the buzz in our heads will be a lovely tinge of pink, and we will be invincible. We will, however, be too tired to function any further, so the power is wasted on us. Not that we would care.

Company is always welcome, and new minds are encouraged to dive into the mad, mad cacophony. If you find yourself feeling restless one afternoon, craving for time outside the karmic highway, click your heels three times and say the magic words.

The Long Walk Home

A significant chunk of my day is spent walking, walking home, and it is something I could never be more thankful for. The rhythm and beat of my sneakered feet on gravel, the weight of my backpack, the snug hugging of my black sweater, and the flow of music from my ear to the rest of my body elevate me to such a state of meditative bliss, that getting home is almost a disappointment.

Fridays are the best, as I can really take my time. The high I get from walking coupled with the scent of weekend just around the bend is a drug I would never exchange for anything. Well, almost anything.

In a few minutes, work will be over for the day, and I will be leaving for home. The commute from Commonwealth to Ayala is a welcome prelude to the walk from Ayala to our house. There aren't a lot of people out and about just yet at 2 in the afternoon, and the sun's not blazing hot to be unbearable. When the year started, I promised myself to start letting go. It all begins with this single step.

What She Wants

Everyday, my mother has always made it known how dissatisfied she is with her life -- whether she's aware of it or not. She does her best, though, and we can see and appreciate that. Sometimes, however, her resilience takes its toll, and the darkness that grips her starts leaking out.

Today is my mother's birthday. Normally, the sound of my mother shouting at my father in the morning would be commonplace, inconsequential -- a bland fixture during weekend mornings. On a day like this, it's just sad. "O, birthday mo ngayon ah," I said to her. "San ka punta?" "Kahit saan," she answered, plates banging, the chorus of forks and spoons shaking the air, eyes unseeing. It made me afraid to talk to her.

I hope she's seeing my sister today, though. Ever since my sister moved out after she finished college, they've been getting along real well -- a stark contrast to their relationship when my sister was still living here. Used to be they were the ones who were at each other's throats. Now, my mother would spend most of her free time at my sister's house, helping her and her husband with whatever it was that needed helping. It gives me relief that it affirms her, and I am glad my sister's life resonates with my mother, somewhat.

Still, she lives here with me and my brother and my father. However way she chooses to spend her day, I hope she finds a little pocket of peace. And it's rare, but I hope when she comes back, I get to see that little glimmer in her spirit after she's done something she'd always wanted to do. I hope my mother gets to do what she wants to do today.

The Revolution of Unlearning

It is foolish to try to understand Life. Love, even moreso. The past year was calming, for the most part. Static, to some extent even. And despite the multitude of epiphanies 2009 has relentlessly pommeled me with, I suppose I could say I came out all the better for it.

True, the little demons in my mind are let loose once in a while, but I found it is better -- safer even -- for me to do so, rather than let them fester in my brain. Better to let them take shape in letters rather than let them remain formless and elusive. As limiting as words can be (or as limited as my abilities are in forming the right words), language -- written or spoken -- can contain just about enough power to deal with such things as these from time to time.

And so, another year. And rather than resolving to learn more, I think it is about time for a revolution of unlearning. About time to let go, rather than hoard knowledge. About time to shed off the excess skin and lay naked, pure, and vulnerable under the sun. About time to stop inhaling and start breathing everything out. About time to just give in.

Let your waters flow through me, Life; I accept it.