Originally written and posted on Facebook 23 November 2014, with subtitle “bad romantic crap with no structure no edit no proper ending and lots of feelins, bcuz i’m a faggit”
Somewhere along the tangent of my lifeline, past the point where I looked at you and you looked at me (a point in time that will never happen again; say “tangent”), I lost my taste for whimsical things. The moon became a flat yellow button on a sparkly cloth of darkness, neither comforting nor enraging. It used to be so full and low, like pregnant fruit, like ripe words whispered into the dark woods where we sat at the outskirts and peered into nothingness while we talked about the future and skirted around the unmentioned “us”. After that point I disavowed the flowers in your hair that only I could see, the halo of the things I saw in you that made me want to grip your hand and fly you to Vega by any means necessary. Stars and clouds and the smell of you floating all around me, the interstellar dust of your thoughts and breaths flooding mysteries into my lungs—all that has been reduced to ordinary, standard-issue city dirt. I refuse to romanticize things that has anything to do with you, now. The point in which our lives touched has long since gone by; I am running in circles around my small world, and you are the freight train of silence travelling in a ramrod-straight line that sped past my face and caressed my cheek so lightly, ever so lightly, and will never do it again. One could argue that as a continually-moving tangent (say, a train) then the line will forever have a point of contact with the circle, for as long as it runs and never ends. But the problem is, you are not endless. You will keep running, and someday, our point of contact—the amount of skin that I can feel, the very presence of you—will run out. That is an immutable truth. So, the moment I abandoned my fervent relationship with moonlight and oceans and stardust and forests, I grew up and braced myself for the day you would leave. I pulled out all my good teeth and replaced them with iron nails, I traded in my spine for a backboard of tin sheeting. I refuse to be moved by you anymore. My world will continue to turn without you and your romance. Whimsy is no longer a thing I need, and is indeed something I could do without, if I want to survive losing you. If I keep turning random flowers into poems then I might turn my wounds into stories, and if I do that I’ll forget that wounds get infected and stories aren’t always read by anyone.
I slept in my underwear the whole day. I suppose there is no good reason for me to have to mention that, but I guess I just thought it would make me look good in retrospect, or make the situation more romantic (because y’know, people in the movies do that all the time). However, I do believe that when people like me—i.e. people who are usually self-conscious to the point of paranoia even in isolation—sleep in their underwear instead of the usual comfortable and sensible clothes, something probably went wrong somewhere.
I feel like I fell down some stairs and broke my back at some point in the day, but forgot. I’ve been sleeping on and off for almost 9 hours now, in 3-hour intervals, after having stayed up speaking to my friend and to myself the whole night. I haven’t drank or eaten anything since the night before, but when I got here—home—this morning all I wanted to do each time I slept and then woke up was sleep some more. I’m not even sure if I wanted to do that or if if it was only a biological need to do my body justice. I didn’t feel any kind of actual stomach-wrenching hunger, only the slight nagging thought of my food going to waste if I don’t eat it some time soon. I wasn’t thirsty; I only found that out when I brought my water bottle to my lips in the hopes of finding something I really wanted at that moment.
Longing and craving for something has long since been my jam. It’s my thing. I can’t go a day without it, as neither can any other self-loathing bastard full of insecurity raised in a community where ugliness isn’t optional but is still frowned upon anyway, like it was your fault. I always have to want something; it’s my way of feeling alive, because “to want is to be human,” to completely alter an old cliché. And so, this disorienting feeling of not wanting to do anything—and not wanting anything—with furious fervor is somehow another novel way in which I can die each day.
And I am tired of dying anew everyday, without even feeling alive in the first place.
On the bus to Cubao earlier this afternoon, I was worried about two men who were talking about how easy it was to pick pockets in buses–they were even making loose demonstrations among themselves. I was terrified; my insides turned cold, like a shroud of ice settled over my guts. I was sure that at a certain point in the trip they’d stand up with guns held out and by the end of the ride I’d be stranded in Cubao without even a bag that would at least make me look like I hadn’t just been robbed.
Now that I look back on it, though, after scrutinizing their clothing, I’m starting to think they were the exact opposite of what I thought they were: instead of robbers, they were probably cops.
Although, in hindsight, nowadays you’d be hard-pushed to tell the difference between the two.
and drown me
in your embrace of temporary
death; your sea is what I long
to feel against my chest,
& not these roiling waves
of suffocating sheets
that offer heat
but not warmth—
I’d rather freeze—,
& not these pillows
around my head
like buzzing flies,
imitating my heartbeat,
another liar I do not need.
& never let me back up.
the seam of your undershirt,
stretched straight across the valley’s crest
of your back, creasing through
the fabric of your shabby purple
sweater, highlighted by shadows cast
upon your form by the languid yellow
of the streetlights lining the street at
six in the evening, when everything
is blue & black, & dumb gray
is the atmosphere, ringing with the
revving of the cars passing us by
in streaks of red & blindness,
blurring past us, to the rhythm of
the rise & fall of your shoulders &
the sway of your hips, perfectly in
view as you walk ahead, unaware
of my stare, boring deep into the
dip of your spine’s abyss, thinly sheathed
by the taut stretch of your undershirt
draped over by your flimsy sweater,
mauve in the dim light, & through the haze
of gray escaping my lips, forming a wall
gossamer-thin before my face, streaming
in between my vision & your form, your
image of purple, mauve, silent, in the
blue & yellow, of black-brown bob hair
glinting in the sharp pierce of the dull
fireflies overhead, dead, undancing,
fixed atop their posts as beacons,
but jaded, faded, & damp,
like the purple of your sweater.
Holy shit. It’s been more than a week already since I last posted anything on here! Wow. I feel like such a rebel against myself. I’m not slacking off on purpose, though, believe me. It’s just that the internet this past month has been closer to nonexistence than just being plain erratic. I won’t elaborate on the strange feelings of emptiness this version of asceticism has brought on, but let’s just say it eventually made me give up trying to reconnect to the wifi.
Anyway, hey hey. Nothing much going on in my boring old life (that’s what I always say when I post life updates, but end up writing walls of text anyway). Lots of academic stuff being put off until the last minute, some socializing, mixtapes-making, and crush-stalking. Life’s been OK, generally. More or less the same shit that’s been happening in my dull life since time immemorial.
But of course, it’s the nuances of this daily cycle of bullshit that gets my blood coursing and my fingers itching, so here we go with the long-overdue life update. Fuck that paper for my Lit Crit class that’s due in a few hours and which I haven’t even started on. Fuck it, really.