Trial

Trying to accomplish the impossible may be one of the most human things to do. Not that attempting the impossible itself is natural to humanity, rather the courage and determination that prompt such attempt comprise our uniqueness. 

Fortune telling is, in a way, one of those impossibilities we often deceive ourselves to be achievable. Yet, what would become of our world if the future was as accessible to our consciousness as the past? Why try to accomplish anything then, if the future is detailed in pages of great books, because all marches onward to atrophy anyhow? Why bother continuing towards the crumpled, desolate void the laws of the universe dictate to be inevitable? 

We manage anyways. We tell ourselves that somehow, signs and inclinations grant us a chance at playing peekaboo with the future. We lure ourselves into believing the special senses that “came” to us can bring forth the outcome of a situation important to our causes; then allow that belief, eventually disappoint, or uplift us.

A week’s time isn’t short, neither is it long. For me, it’s a wait that I’ve anticipated this entire summer, and the summer before, and will the summers to come. It’s knowing that eventually I will go through that door, and the passiveness and ache, and onto the next stage. It’s comparable to the convicted before a trial, for the date is set and the only thing left for them, is the time before the inevitable.

Not that I’m attempting to predict what’s to come. For I know the outline, after some repetition, that I will be back at school, and the next chapter is unveiling, just like so many chapters before, as they revealed the opportunities I’ve had.

Or maybe I am foolishly trying to predict the unpredictable, scheduling things without having actual control over the precession anyways. They tangle and ravel in my mind, only substantiating my anxiety for the things to come.

As if I’m waiting for my trial. A trial that will inevitably arrive, a week later.

Am I ready?

Soon

The human spirit is incredibly resilient. 

Though they say hope is above all thing the most dangerous, as it gives the meek courage, the weak strength; yet its fragility is at the same time marvelously apparent, for the future is at its core, unpredictable. And when that delicate yet powerful gem breaks in desperate hours, with it explodes devastating shocks.

Yet we somehow live, because, as humans, we like to make sense of things. Because when we can reduce a situation down to the most understandable forms, the most explainable, we can endure the cruelty of its reality.

I’d like to pause sometimes, to think about what tomorrow holds. It’s exciting isn’t it? The possibility to move beyond the present, to welcome the next state of being. The next stage of our metamorphosis. 

More than anything, at this very moment, I’d like to pop out of this cocoon and fall into the dubious hug of tomorrow.

Connection

It’s hard to fathom the reality of things at a place where clarity isn’t the virtue. While definitive answers, being extreme as they are, stop the mind from wandering down the dangerous path of what-ifs, being left without one isn’t as big of a curse as I had once imagine it to be. 

Am I being truthful in saying that I don’t have the answer to some of the questions I’ve been plagued with since that night? (It’s excruciating to even attempt putting a name to what it was, which maybe why questions crawl through my mind with such savage rage.) Albeit the pain that I’d like to think I’ve suffered, I’d be lying if I say I don’t know why I’ve been in the same gloomy, blue state for the past couple of months. 

What wonder is the connection between everything in this world? Be it human interactions, chemical bonds, food chains, or economical relations, we can’t escape inter-connectivity. Not our persons, not the atoms in our physical forms, not the way we perceive the world and consume the world.

Memory is a tricky thing. Even though I’ve thought time and time again that, my memory has been compromised by my own choosing of intoxication, certain things that I’ve thought slipped out of my perception, will still resurface in my memory. Like a disease that you don’t remember contracting, but the consequence will still scorch your body, reminding you of the ravenous nature of its being. 

Maybe it is a blessing after all that, as a human being with a functional memory, I don’t get to forget the people who’ve influenced me and touched me and connected with me. I will forever remember that little gesture, that playful wink, that illuminating conversation, even in the darkest of night, or in the brightest of day. 

And of course, the emotions attached to such connection, the pain or the joy, eventually find its way back to me, after moments, days, or years after it had happened. 

I guess I’d rather… not remember as well as I do now.

Irritation

Children have the power of curiosity. So they take things apart, and make discoveries along the way.

It almost feels as if I had more clarity as a child, because of that power, those curiosity-driven journeys.

At least I understood myself.


I wasn't afraid.

I mean, at least I didn't think I would be afraid of breaking myself down to be enlightened. Not until when I did break down.

And as that process of stitching myself together goes on, I couldn't help but feel a little... irritated.

It wasn't that the whole thing took me by such surprise, that it killed me and left me in the dark. It wasn't that I hated myself for wallowing in the well of shame and embarrassment.

I am irritated because of how much I've made it about you.

If only shaking my head could somehow shake all my thoughts into the right order. I do know one thing though. It was always about you. How you felt; how you thought.

I've wanted you so badly. Yet, because of your own insecurities and your own demons, you pushed me away with your unnecessary shield; and you, vulnerable and paranoid, hiding behind the shadow.

Be mine?

I asked. You smiled, and turned away.

It slices. The words you threw at me. Scolding me for perfectly logical things that I should have never apologized for.

You were never brave enough to claim me anyways. So why pretend that it meant something, that my mingling with other free souls somewhat violated rules that we never made up?

I begged and I begged.

I did.

Even then I kept it about you.

No more.

Ruins

How do you stand within the entanglements of events and feelings, and still maintain a perfect sense of balance?

I'm quite lost in this sequence. This foggy, empty, and consuming mess.

I mean. Am I ever going to be able to take a step back and pinpoint the wrongs?



I already know.


Sex is addicting.

It lies to you and convinces you that, regardless of everything you are, in that tense arching of the back, in the quiet force of thrust, or in that moment of ecstasy, you are loved and wanted.

Lies are all titillating and alluring, it's the glossy candy to a child's heart, and it's the longing look from a passionless lover. You grasp in a knuckle-buldging manner, hurting from the sharpness of your nails, yet it escapes, reminding you of its nature.

Lies are empty. Useless. Detrimental.

The sweetness eventually vanishes, leaving a bad taste in your mouth; and the lover at long last looks away, mocking your acceptance.

I'm living a lie.

And that lie, though passive and sublime, is ever the same as any other.

It tramples. It ruins. It steps on the last bit of hope for happiness and then I can see who I am.

I am a liar.

Singles

I don't like singles. Especially the way the clang against each other in your pocket as if their compiled weighty-ness doesn't already remind you of their existence. 

I don't disregard their value though; in the same way that I do not disregard single souls, lost in a sea of turmoil. 

Convince yourself of practicality. Be my guest. 

But I do want to suggest that, maybe fate/karma has already made a visit to your mind creeping through the back door. 

I call it being "spiritual but not religious" and states my practicality that way. But I'm ready to say that I'm comfortable, at least, with being by myself always, if fate so decides. 

Chances can be numbers, irrational and illogical. 

But I stand at this point and say that chances are quite decided.

And I'm ready to accept mine. 

Quit

I'm trying to quit smoking.

It scares me, the feeling it creates, this viscous and short-lived aura of delusion; as if I can afford to live recklessly.

I never thought of my self as ambitious. It's a latent ambition that does not compel, but rather glares.
My ambition glares at me as I tilt my head back and draws another breath of nothingness.
It glares at me when the sequence of my favorite past eerily dissolves into incongruent pixels and frames.

I can't think of why I fell into that fountain when I was 5 anymore.

I'm slowly losing my presentness.

I can't recall the mess from last Friday.

I can't remember what I said to my mother from before I departed.

I can't smoke anymore.