The number of seeable teeth says it all.
The number of seeable teeth says it all.
After a little more than a year, I was finally able to remove the piercing stud from my helix. It was not exactly a source of inconvenience, but I figured that it was about time to replace it with a regular earring. What is more is that, my friends were totally freaked by the fact that I could not take it out no matter how hard I pull both ends. They can be a pain in the ass when they do not like what they see, so I knew that I should try harder. I did. I even almost used an engine oil for an effective lubrication. The thing though is, my helix did not seem to like a regular earring, so its hole closed—just like that.
It has been eight hours since I got rid of the piercing stud, and it has also been eight hours since I started getting fidgety. I would like to believe that it is just entirely about the oddness tied to knowing that my helix is naked, but I just could not disregard the fact that I was able to correlate this tiny episode to you—to us—to our little game of chase.
It is quite bizarre how a bigger hole has seemed to materialize after the whatever-is-tinier-than-tiny stopped up. I guess I am just afraid to know that you are the animate version of that particular piercing stud. I guess I am just afraid to recognize the fact that you will also have to close and open things that are not supposed to once it is about time for you to leave. Plus, the leaving part is not too far away; it is so close I can already smell it—and just so you know, the odor is not so great.
It is easy to get another hole for my helix. You know what is not? To accept the fact that considering how uncanny all the similarities are, that part just would not work for you—for us—for our little game of chase.
Nothing is the same, and this is one of those nights when I feel that that is something I should brood about. I blame menstruation—as that is less agonizing than holding anything—anyone that breathes responsible. Blood, tissue, and uterus lining do not know how to argue.
I belong to an insufferably deafening world. I am not exactly sure why, but there always should be something that creaks or something that clangs or something that pops or something that buzzes or something that bangs or something that clatters or something that crashes or something that hisses or something that patters or something that thuds or something that rumbles or something that rustles or something that howls or something that roars. The lone kind of quiet that I am on familiar terms with only breezes in at the wee hours of the night when half of the human race is hibernating. I try to make the most out of every one by not keeping a working clock and more, but the thing is, I have always had to share a room with someone. What is more is that, I have always had to share a room with someone who either snores or grinds his teeth in his sleep.
Of course I have had to master the art of shutting the defenseless ones up harmlessly—I mean, since putting socks in their mouths is not an option—taking into account the fact that I have never shared a room with someone I despise—during daytime, at least. Fortunately, extra pillows, and slight pushes always work for everyone—well, except for one—well, except for you—which is completely fine because you are the one person whose snores are the ones I need to hear every time.
Every time we share the same bed, it is a struggle for me to avoid summoning all my insecurities and apprehensions. I guess that is the main reason why I do not mind the extra decibels that you inadvertently add to some of my nights—scratch that. I am quite certain that that is the main reason why I love the extra decibels that you inadvertently add to some of my nights. I do not need to have a certain affinity with Mama’s and my brother’s and my bestfriends’ snores because even when all the lights are turned off, I know that they are there—and even if I were not sure, I could hold their hand so I could verify. Regrettably, I cannot put you on that list—not yet, at least—because every time, I fear that you could just slip away without me knowing, and I could not even double-check for there is not a label that entitles me to lay a hand on any piece of you. The snores are the best I could have as a guarantee.
I belong to an insufferably deafening world. It is either too loud or too quiet.
In view of the fact that I have been on a what the Human Resource Department of our workplace call as a “temporary take-off”—which I cannot quite identify with because as far as I know, I am not an aircraft of some sort—since the last week of March, I finally had the chance to enroll in Certificate of College Teaching Program. So far, we only have had five meetings, yet I do not have to wait for the next one for me to be able to tell that it already outweighs the nearly seven months that I have spent with the cobwebs—alongside a title that I am supposed to be grateful for.
There really is not anything new about the course—I mean, considering the fact that all—except for one—the topics that we have had discussed so far are merely reiterations of what I learned in my Psychology subjects back in college. What makes it extraordinary though is that the one thing that I had not known is perhaps also the one thing that could lead me back to the gutter.
I have always believed in Lamarck’s theory of Use and Disuse—particularly in the part where he claimed that individuals lose something they do not use. It is funny though that until our first meeting in Child and Adolescent Development, no one had told me that a man named August Weisman disproved this theory by cutting off the tails of mice for twenty generations in a row. What is funnier though is that, August Weisman did this several years after the death of Charles Darwin—also known as the time when even my great grandmother still was not an embryo. Apparently, this omission—on my part—of some sort is just one of the many things placebo effect can carry out—if not just one of the innumerable verifications that I really am into believing the non-existent.
I guess my heart did not really leave my chest after all.
More often than not, the absence of light is essential.
There are two kinds of people: the ones who could restrain themselves from scratching their chicken pox spots, and the ones who could not.
If there is one thing in common among the ones that came before you—all technicalities aside, it is that they all had a very limited, and quite a lopsided knowledge about pronouns—particularly when it comes to clusivity. I just find it saddening how they all seemed to agree to learn everything about exclusive “we”, and not anything about inclusive “we”. I guess this is the main reason why regardless of all the hard knocks we have had to outflank—from time to time even to cuddle while trying so hard not to cringe, I still could not be moved; you are such a word buff, and you make sure you get to use everything that is on your list.
I have always preferred the indistinct words over the direct ones; I have always heedlessly used commas, semi-colons, long dashes, and ellipses so as to avoid periods; I have always tried to create an illusion that everything I come up with is blurred together with no spaces between anything. I have always preferred most things long, and until recently, I had not known that its sole purpose is to try to drown the fact that a two-letter word holds so much power over me. I must be really scared for me to able to come up with—I do not know—some sort of a defense mechanism, I guess. Nonetheless, now that you are the one who is on the driver’s seat, feeling scared is nothing but a moot point.
There was a point when some of us were asked by Audrey Niffenegger which was better: being extremely happy for a short while, even if we lose it, or to be just okay for our whole lives. I was nineteen then, and I did not even have to weigh the options. What I thought was that, we are all going to lose everything at one point anyway, so we might just as well feel the damage by actually putting ourselves out there—you know, without having to worry whether or not we have already reached the edge of the field. Lately though, I have realized that going further than what is reasonable is more intricate than it seems. Apparently, having to be acquainted with the being transitory of the main component of what makes us extremely happy—and the thousands of other emotions tied with it—straightaway is still not sufficient.
I guess I just did not know that what makes one ecstatic at nineteen, and what makes one ecstatic at twenty-one could be entirely different things. I guess I just did not know that before actually losing the main attraction, one has to lose other things along the way, as well—in my case: my sense of direction, my truth, half of my conscience, and half of my heart. I am extremely happy, but there is something lacking, and I am not sure if that is okay.
I wish I could tell this early if this is worth all the white flags.
I do not know if it is widely known or it is just one of Mama’s strange claims, but I have always been told that when her boob is sore, something is surely wrong with either me or my brother—depending upon which specific boob sends the signal. It is usually the left boob when I have dysmenorrhea or colds or urinary tract infection or a severe hangover. Well, I have not really put much thought about her flair for the art of mentalism—or whatever you call it—until lately, when her left boob ached and there was nothing physically wrong with me—until lately, when I realized that her creepy ability has progressed into a much creepier altitude—until lately, when I realized that she figured out that there was something wrong with me even before I figured it out myself—hell, I am not even sure if I have it entirely figured out by now.
The past several weeks have been emotionally stressful, and I have only been making the condition worse by exerting whatever is left of my energy on things that have a high probability of biting my ass off later. What is more is that, I have not been able to stumble upon every emotion—apart from dread—that is supposed to be in close proximity—guilt, especially, and if that is not scary, I do not know what is. It scares me, and it suddenly makes me want to bid goodbye to every kind of mirror there is. I do not know. I guess I just do not want to reach a point where I would not be able to recognize my own reflection anymore—well, scratch that. I guess I just do not want to reach a point where I would be staring back at someone too familiar—I guess I just do not want to reach a point where I would be staring back at an amalgamation of everything I swore I would not be.
I am scared, and that being supposed to be alright because it has seemed to be the only silver lining these days makes me even more scared. How I wish I had even a quarter of this figured out. How I wish Mama’s left boob could tell me without having to make a courtesy call to her cerebral cortex, and limbic system—especially to her limbic system.