we’re all human, I guess

dated: 22/05/08 (it’s funny how things written years ago still manage to be relevant in the here & now)

[Relationships] come and go, even the ones that you think are going to last forever. But it’s an amazing thing, watching your strongest of bonds disintegrate before your very eyes. It’s amazing, not in the beautiful and fantastic way, but the sort of morbidly unbelievable way, the sort of way wherein your jaw just wont shut, but more in the way that your dumbfoundedness is not quite so numb. And then you watch, and then you let it go, but not with bitterness. You let go with that feeling of quiet acceptance, because if you react otherwise, it would have meant more than it does (or did), and it’s not that you don’t want to give satisfaction to the person on the other side or anything, but because you don’t want to belie your own self. Although, you can’t really say that you care whether or not the other person does care or even what they think, because he or she is not you, and vice versa. Once a person is out of your life, he is out of your life. That’s the way I see it. You can be courteous, and even generous, and even love them, because that’s what you do with people, but you don’t have to love who they are, and you certainly don’t have to be in love with them, or even the idea of them. I’m certain I don’t make much sense, but it’s what’s going on.

This is a bit dramatic, but we are ever reminded that because people are dynamic, so are human relationships. We’re all fucked up one way or another, but we’re all fucking sane one way or another if you dig really deep. But what I have come to realize in the past few years is that there are layers that you cannot pull back; there are deep-rooted, deeply entrenched histories and painful memories, and misunderstandings that you cannot even imagine to pry apart. Each person is an enigma for a reason, and in the same way that you won’t ever be fully understood, so is the case for the person on the other side. It is ever important to try to see from someone else’s perspective, no matter how impossible it seems, because you care. But sometimes,

just sometimes

you come to a realization that your concerted efforts will come to be understood as a normative element in your human relationship, one flaw that will never be reconciled, unless that person understands what you are doing. And chances are, the person on the other side will never even come close to realizing how fucking hard you work to try and see it from their end. They’ll never get how much sleep you lose worrying for their happiness, how much hair you pull out because you don’t know how to make their problems go away.

At some point, you need to sever the ties, except you don’t know how to, so you keep hold, and sometimes all there’s left is a thin wire, and you cant cut off because of all the shit you went through, and it seems like it would be a waste, wouldn’t it? All of that effort and the tears.

Then one day, it just falls apart, and you are rendered speechless. how the fuck? These relationships have all created some sort of void in my life, and I don’t know how to fill it.

I’ve decided to replace human relationships with coconut pineapple ice cream. and a dog.

cayman islands

violet hues & breezy woos, just let them wash away your blues

a day together is a blink of an eye
while that same amount of time apart is an eternity
and I wonder when we part
as I watch you disappear into the horizon
why you must go
and I sit idly, waiting to be reunited
watching the hand reluctantly acquiesce
to the hour
but it’s funny how
these moments are fleeting in my memory
and mere glances are entrances into
alternate realities
where everything remains in a lucid state
of harmony
and I wonder what I’ve done
to ever deserve such a beauty.

where nothing compares.

Life on Mars

I used to have insomnia nearing the end of my high school career and three years following, on and off. That time was met with tumult and ugliness, but more importantly, really weird pieces.

excerpt posted: 12/30/2008

oh, Bowie, Bowie!
Genetalia & confusion. Bad backs and sore throats, in addition to sour moods and pained gums. Futures look bright evermore in glitzy glam and glimmery gold.
Who knew?
I never knew you, nor your pretensions.

It’s 2AM and a little more than a dozen eggs. Bad pop-rock and broken situations, just get me the fuck out of here!
Framed Chinese calligraphy; pools and pools of clutter. More alcohol.
Whatever it is, it’ll never end.
Love is stronger than dislike, disdain, disappointment, disgust.
Blood is none more than a chemical concoction, is it not?
Ties that bind, ties that destroy.

The more sense it makes, the less it means.
I always said otherwise, but it looks like I WILL be a 9-5, boring office job, I-want-to-get-the-fuck-out-of-here, piece of shit who’s stuck.

Situations run amuck, and I only fly via illusions of what can never be.
Clouds of smoke, rings of exhaust; Snow White, I don’t want you.

Narcoleptic kind of mood.
Where is my mind?

exaction (raw)

it’s just another whisper through the vines, a soft breeze that chills your spine
and you’ve completely stopped in time
as your hips sway in line
to the beat of the song playing in your little head
and you think oh, oh, as you’re rocking in your bed
and suddenly you’ve landed in a trench
no tricks, no flick flack
no ass
just cracked up
and blind

pure and delicious, no content is malicious as you’re sipping your tea in oblivion.
as you’re knocking back drinks without a cherry in
your glass, some sherry in your lap, chipper, unaware
giggling

bitch you’re still blind
but you’re loving it
and that’s that
no stopping you
looking back?
that’s the old you
bullet wounds ricochet
off your chest
and it shines through
your vest

it’s a risk that you’re willing to take, fuck it, eventually everything breaks
replace it, or just recreate
what you’ve lost in the mud
in the trench
underground, dried up blood
rotted flesh
forgotten, until the flood
horizon, horizon

we’re starting again, aren’t we?
you’re losing your marbles again
to whom is this letter addressed
as you’re screaming my name,
gyrating
pulsating
you find me invigorating
captivating

heartbreaking.

and I think it’s sad that you’re burrowed
in that furrow
that you promised you’d never make for yourself,
but now you’ve gone and neglected all else
except the imagery of misery
singing songs of beauty and class
that you had
swaying back and forth
like you’re overtaken by a force
that denies you of your worth
like you’ve never been birthed
and your pain becomes your pleasure
that’s the only measure
that you’ll ever remember
because you thought we’d be forever

but like buried treasure
just leave us six feet under

love is no big truth

six degrees to the left, eighteen feet out, four steps out of your way to make it to the sweet spot. These numbers don’t make sense, do they? They never do, they’re all made up, because they’re always made up. But we go with these numbers and we try to make something of these numbers because we came up with them. Somehow.

In the same way that numbers are made up, so are ideas and theories, thought processes, and even money. These things I think in my head, they are all parts of my imagination, and sometimes I fear that even you are a figment of such. Number me here, touch me there, feel the chill of the sun, the warmth of the breeze. I want to die on a sunspot, I think to myself.

Somewhere warm, I’d like to go. Somewhere without the cold, I’d like to stay. Somewhere with you would be the ideal, but I am trying to figure out whether or not you are real. Ahh, here goes again my daily spiel. On a happy little reel. Of filmographic glory, of photoconscious memory, we are writing our story.

Ahh, I think to myself. You must be real, unlike these numbers with which I count myself to sleep. The cold, cold night that I reluctantly open up to. In these moments I think of the sunspots, and I wonder if it will become my sin spot, wherein I will be embraced by lust and love, and all things relating to warmth.

Reality. Reality is real, it is warm, it is embrace. Numbers, what do they reveal? They are facts, factoids, truth, capital T truths. Realism is truth. But it is not reality. Numbers represent truth, but it is not real. It is cold, and it is unyielding. It is unreal.

When you act cold, what does that become? What are you, where are you, who are you when you advance towards me with those distant eyes, blank, blank expression and calculated steps? I wonder what words will come out of your mouth, but I realize that no words can be spoken when it is not in reality. I am in a daze as my gaze is fixated on one single state

of mind.

That is you, and I hope to never wake

from this dream.

Bohemian sunrises, Moroccan sunsets, sweet afternoons of tiger lilies and shallow breezes.

When I awake, I am on a ring, on the fourth dimension, a pale blue and dark, vivid orange. It is so cold here, and the skies are no longer sunny, but pitch black. I am scared, and I call out your name, I call out all the names, I count numerous names, and I remember that this is not reality. I am on a lifeless platform, but my reality lies in the warmth. Next to you.

cowardice

I inch forward towards you wondering what lies beneath that exterior, wondering why I keep moving in your direction even though my mind tells me that you’re not the one. I’ve been displaced into 15th century Central America, and I play the part of the Spanish conquistador, and you have become the lush land that lies before me. Had I a conscience, I would retreat, but something draws me closer and closer in.

And I am suddenly pushed back into my reality because I don’t have the audacity to trample upon you, to even lay a finger before I know that it is okay to do so. But even then, I will probably not approach you, even though I desperately want to, to get behind that illustrious expression, to know what goes on inside that head.

To be honest, I am scared of you. I am scared of the scars that you can leave, scared of the scars that I can leave, scared of the disasters that have yet to happen and the times of absolute tranquility and comfort. Most of all, I’m scared that everything that could have happened will eventually be sealed in a little airy bubble that will disintegrate in the wind, and fly away into the abyss. So perhaps I don’t step forward and decide that I will snoop because I am afraid of losing something that I have not even yet obtained, which sounds outlandish in so many ways, but yet is the biggest contributing factor in my hesitance.

I want you, but I’m scared of you.
I want you, but I’m scared of me.
I want you, I want you, so want me first.
I am not the bold conquistador. I want to be the Native, who loves the land like it is her own flesh and blood. I want to be the Native, who appreciates all that the land has given her. I want to be the Native, who wants to give back to the land. I want to be the Native that would never lay a hand, but gently run my fingers through the moss.

But I am scared of you and what power you could have over me. I am scared that the picture book my eyes see will only be photos of you, even when you cease to exist except in my memory. I am scared that everything I knew will become a lie, and that all you showered me with was never really there.

So, hold me, want me, etch me in your memory. Tell me that your mind says that I am the one. Do it because I cannot.

forgive me for my trespasses.

strength of.

In the darkest of night, do you seek not the light of day? the bright is before you, the inky skies soon to be just a fleeting memory of what once was.
But how is it that in this oncoming light, I am shrouded by unforeseen?
How is it that in the best of times, is hidden the worst of times?

Whenceforth had I asked of you to judge me on not my character, but what lies before thine eyes? No, I asked you of my beauty, and how this wretch could be more cultivated for you.

And I hope that the past you is different from the present you, who should be different from the you I encountered half a day ago, which I sure do hope I never meet in a future you, ever, never.

How you can make me feel so broken in my quest for strength, when I have spoken not a word to you? When I do not know your face? What right have you to take away from me the security that belongs to me and me alone? And while I chant the word of strength, my body tingles knowing how untrue it is. I am humiliated and I am shamed, and I will never forget you. But to you, that instance was the only one such that has crossed your mind. In powerlessness, I look for strength, and I cannot say I have it.

Why have you drained me so, when I have not committed deeds worthy of such condemnation? I have no words but spite for you, in ways that those who experience my plight will seek you, plea for you, need you endlessly, hopelessly. In the throes of my deep conscience, I have been turned into Jephthah’s daughter, taking blame, and ironically being ill-fated. I ask you why I have been forsaken, why you have turned me into Tamar when there is no Absalom in my wake. Have you forsaken me because I am not shamefaced? Is my adornment not modest enough for you?

But in the quiet of what follows, I ask why you have not forsaken the one who has taken my security and shattered it. And I ask of you to allow me the audacity to remain still in my scalded core. How a lesson could be so cruel.