People go through unspeakable horrors every day. It’s not like broken hearts make a difference. The universe is uncaring that way.
And it wouldn’t do to expect a reward. Not for getting out of bed, and certainly not for fulfilling social obligations. It would be wonderful if we get compensated for every tear, but life’s a bit unfair anyway. The world goes on, even as hearts ache.
So this is us, trying to make sense of the injustice of it all. And this is us not getting any answers, as hearts hurt a bit more. The millions tasks we do to fill the hours, may just be us, fearing the questions that actually have answers.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
It’s the faint smell of desperation that clings to my body like a second skin. It’s the clever turn of phrase that eludes me more and more these days. It’s the steady undercurrent of doubt that makes most of my decisions unsound. It’s the frustration of craving sudden found joy in everything else.
Surely, this goes beyond the ennobling of ennui. Or maybe, this is ennui in its purest form, and I’m ill-equipped to handle it. One thing I’m sure of, every bit of my being is riddled with anguish.
Friday, April 17, 2009
I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve decided to stay away before it becomes impossible to quit you. Please know that doing this is like cutting off my arm, like sacrificing my firstborn, like selling my soul to the devil. To use the clichést cliché there is, “It’s not you, it’s me.” You, of the innumerable charms and applications, how can it be your fault? No, my dearest, the blame lies squarely on my very un-squarish shoulders.
I hope you understand that this has been the toughest decision of my socially irrelevant existence. And there are a thousand things I’ll miss (two thousand, if that’s the number of quizzes you have) about you. I’ll miss the writings on my walls, my posts on my friends’ walls; the constant stalking without being registered as a sex offender (I’m looking at you Grace Anne Alviar a.k.a Khemmie and Shirley Angela Regular); the shameless self-promotion. God, I don’t think I can go on. Please continue the awesomeness, even if I’m not there. I just want you to know how much you have changed my life, and that I’ll never forget you, even as Twitter beckons.
Your number one fan,
P.S. I’ll see you in a week.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
third wheel by ~LoveThisHate on deviantART
It doesn’t matter if you like him more. It doesn’t matter if you’re prettier, nicer, smarter, better than her. Bottom line: if you cannot make him happy like she does, you don’t deserve to be by his side. Yes, you can try to euphemize the situation with banalities like, “It’s complicated,” or “He just doesn’t know it yet, but we are meant to be.” And yes, you can help yourself to the wide-range of literature (instruction manuals, if you will) available out there, How to Seduce a Guy with a Girlfriend, without Incurring the Wrath of Women Everywhere; How to Make Him Fall In Love with You, Even though He Has a Girlfriend; and How to Make His Girlfriend Leave Him So You Can Have Him for Yourself. But really, that’s just prolonging the agony. If he doesn’t feel the same way about you, don’t force it. Celebrate the pain, and move on. Trust me, you’ll thank yourself later.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The waiting game isn’t a game. There’s no fun in it—perceived, delayed, hidden, or otherwise. It would be more apropos to call it the waiting hell. That way, the end result isn’t sugarcoated and we can be on our way to Fruitlesshire or Hopelessburg.
When I got my Captain Obvious handbook, it says right on the second page, “much of human life is lost in waiting.” Of course, some know-it-all twat will tell you that I have just paraphrased Ralph Waldo Emerson. To which I say, “Suck it. I have been fending off plagiarism lawsuits left and right, and I don’t really have time for twattery.”
So now, you’re on to the third paragraph, and you’re waiting for this thing to get to the point, which ironically is the point. There’s no point in waiting, and I have just used the word point three times in one paragraph, which basically renders the term “point,” meaningless. See what I mean? Waiting is to useless as jackknifing is to space monkeys. It makes no sense, ergo, don’t wait anymore for this post to have a conclusion.