The amalgamation of my problems with my family, and my friends must have methamphetamine-like properties. I could not eat, I could not sleep, but my mind seems like it swallowed truck batteries. The only difference is I am not just high. I am both high and low—if that is even possible.
10:41 pm • 2 July 2014 • 1 note
Human nature could really blow things out of proportion sometimes.
10:40 pm • 2 July 2014
It has only been four months, yet the immovability of the parting already rose. I could not discern the silhouette of your face anymore, and that makes me wonder if we still breathe the same air. Maybe we still do, as sometimes, I feel that I do not have enough to inhale, and my lungs would hurt—just like the occasions when you were too close. One of the differences though is that the melodious moans that usually follow have suddenly turned into sighs of discontent. I am not certain, but what I know is that you are in the cracks where I could not squeeze myself in—you are somewhere where distance is a moot point.
It is just crazy how we have to consistently be in motion just for us to be able to stay where we are. We gallop, we climb, we run, we bop—we go with the cadence of the second hand of the clock given that if we do not, it would unquestionably strike us in its succeeding lap. But what is even crazier is that we do not get to learn all these until we find ourselves on an unfamiliar concrete—bruised, and unable to tell how far we went—and unable to tell if we are still the same person.
I am sorry that we stopped to look at the view.
4:12 pm • 27 June 2014
Is it not terrorizing how our selfish desires could lead us to earn a skill in making others feel like we actually care?
7:14 am • 10 June 2014 • 1 note
When I was 17, I believed that life is a long, labyrinthine treasure hunt. I deemed it a little different though, because I thought that each of us has something different to run after, to unearth, to work loose—depending upon our hearts’ desires; thus, there really is not much antagonism. Well, I pictured that my treasure chest contains a glimmering absolute clarity. I figured that that is what I need, and I understood that having it is having many other things of value.
Now, I am 22. Of course, I believe in entirely different things, including the notions that I was too idealistic, and pretty moronic when I was 17.
Whatever comprises the five-year interval has led me to believe that there is not so much absoluteness in life, let alone absolute clarity. What I understand now is seeing so clearly is seeing that something does not add up, and seeing that something does not add up is deficiency in clarity. It is a pattern. And a pattern is a coherent, indisputable, terrorizing system.
Also, whoever said that our only competition is our own selves probably died first—considering the fact that now, I see every relationship as non-mutual, and we are only either a parasite or a host, and more often than not, we do not really get to choose, although the decisions we make in between could lengthen our stay.
I am 22. Now, I believe that life is a short, survival game—which only feels long because of the struggle. There really is nothing to run after apart from a temporary spot. Life is a short, survival game that has to be played with a compromised vision, because apparently, in this continuum between dirt to dust, clarity equates to sightlessness.
10:14 pm • 7 June 2014 • 2 notes
He has always been fond of calling out loud names of people who are not there. Some already live continents away, some he has not heard of for quite a while, and some are already dead. She hears him call the name of his brother—who has been living in Missouri for eight years now—before he hit the sack. She hears him call the name of his best friend—who got deployed somewhere devoid of every single means of communication—when he is in the bathroom. She hears him call the name of his mother—who has long been dead—when he is drunk. He is so religious in calling out names of absent people like they are gods who do not talk, but answer. She has never really gotten a decent explanation from him, but she has always believed that it is not necessary.
His voice explains it all. The longing, the gloom, and even the anger he himself does not want to acknowledge, all come out as a loud whimper. She knows, because she is the one who has always been there. She knows, because she is the one who has never left.
It surprises her though how lately, he has been calling out her name, too. He calls out her name out loud when they watch the television as their elbows touch. He calls out her name out loud when they eat dinner, and share the same viand. He calls out her name out loud when they walk together, holding hands. He does this using the same voice that comes out as a loud whimper—with a hint of longing, gloom, and anger. It surprises her, because she thinks she is not like the rest.
What she does not understand is that he does not get to pick the names. What she does not understand is how one does not have to live continents away or have to be off the grid or have to be dead to be absent.
4:11 pm • 25 May 2014 • 1 note
The more you hide something, the more it becomes obvious. The more you want something to be obvious, the more it gets trampled on.
6:40 pm • 15 May 2014
"I could, but I would not," is his default answer every time he is asked to do something he could not. His pride is tall, because apparently, it steps on his credibility.
2:31 pm • 15 May 2014
I still do not understand why a lot of us lose ourselves when we are drunk. Or should I say, I still do not understand why a lot of us are ourselves only when we are drunk.
6:08 pm • 14 May 2014 • 3 notes
Is it not terrorizing how a particular event does not seem to have any significant bearing at that moment, but after a while, you begin to realize how adverse and how permanent its reverberations are?
8:36 pm • 8 May 2014