simple. selfish. struggle.

there is nothing
like waking up
to a message
5 hours old
from a friend
who wants to kill himself.
not when today
is the 5th anniversary
of the day she died.
there is nothing
like this phenomenon
of idealized escape.

the first time.

so we met for the first time.
i was really nervous.
she acted like she did this every day.
i think she does.
i felt the need to explain everything...
found myself rambling on, with my voice cracking and my heartbeat speeding up and all of the sudden the room was stuffy and my blood ran cold and...
she wanted to get right into it.
so we did.
i kept criticizing myself the whole time,
thinking i should be better at this,
feeling embarrassed about my entire being.
but she said i was good.
better than most, she said.
apparently most people just flounder about, here and there, when they don't know what they're doing...
but i stuck with it. she thought it was impressive.
all of the sudden my hopes and dreams poured out onto her lap.
i think i almost drowned her.
she just smiled and acted reassuring,
maybe even like she cared about my life story,
and that's when i knew this was what i had been looking for.
for so long.
no more hiding.
it's time for me to sing.

resurfacing.

it's the sickly sweat
when the nausea settles in your core.

"there were twenty seven fatal cuts, and by their number and brutality one could see that the attack had been made with the fury of a love that found no peace, and that [she] had received it with the same passion, without even screaming or crying, reciting Schiller in her beautiful soldier's voice, conscious of the fact that this was the inexorable price of her summer of happiness." -GGM

the unnaturally natural fear.

how do we prepare for the loss of a loved one? awaiting an early morning call, gathering tears, practicing composure. we do all we can to resolve fear, bereavement, pity, injustice. praying to a god you've never understood, begging, "let her go softly," just in case someone hears... but these are only corporeal distractions. the mind is still selfish, still panicked, "don't take her from me, please," ...because, in all honesty, is it even possible to truly accept death?

variations of nothing.

everything i write looks stupid.
and sounds stupider.
so i just sit here and stare stupidly,
and wonder what kind of stupidity has usurped me.
stupiden, stupidness, stupiditing, stupidened, stupidless stupiding...

i need music to come back into my life.

unsuspector.

you've forgotten, yet again, what day tomorrow is. and while i am not unaware, i have ceased to expect this small token of appreciation, this kind acknowledgement of my existence. today is not the first, nor will it be the last. but once, in the early stages of our amor, you remembered... we were still on our honeymoon then. we slept under the drafty window, held together with plastic and duct tape and pillows stuffed between the cracks. our warmth came from eachother. when we first crawled under those icy sheets. when we awoke in the night to screams and laugher and threats shouted back and forth below in the alleys. in the morning, in attempt of forgetting the world and the day's obligations, of forgetting ourselves and losing distinction between body and mind. i loved you honestly, wholly, until my aching body collapsed against the wall you'd made of two-by-fours and leftover bedding hung like drapes over a clothesline. and you loved me too, slowly, strongly, simply, like no other had ever done. my fears would melt away in our bed, for it was now our bed, one person were we then. you took me higher than i'd ever flown, we swam deeper beneath the surface of our love and dove to the floor of our being. breaching the waves, we would sigh, and with a soft kiss, roll out of bed to face the world we were now too superior to understand. but reality has a hard face, stern and solemn like Ares eroding in the sun. that winter was cold, and grey, and when the wind blew, it swept us back into those bodies we had rejected for an ethereal existence. as the temperature and the sun dropped like exhausted flies, so too did our vibrance. we traded our spirits in for clay forms, primitive and unbecoming. i became more of a woman, both devoted and deserving, while you assumed your masculine disposition of apathy and void. our forms did not suit us, and so you thought that i could not suit you. your faithful gaze stirred and twitched as girls ran by, searching for temporal aversion, and all the while i went unnoticed. and unnoticing. slowly, softly, simply, i began to evaporate in your presence... a continuous journey that has since led me here; i am now nothing but the condensation on your bottle of beer, watching, clinging to you as you give your body to another unsuspector.

fox-trotting.

life is a little different alone.
you start to wonder if you've been walking in a dream all this time.
always having someone by your side is, well, not too short of suffocating.
but then again, do i ask to be suffocated? or is it because this is all i've known?

the reason i'm good at dancing is because it consists of two parts:
learning by watching,
and faking it, as the expression goes, "until you make it."
i think i've developed my patterns in life like a choreography.
i know each step inside and out.
and to me, it's common sense.
but at the root of it all, who has designed this dance?
and more importantly, am i still propelling myself with new energy,
or do i dance because the momentum hasn't yet worn off?

this change has fallen heavily upon me now.
i often feel as if i'm playing roles in a film.
this is not me. that is not me. oh, look, there i go...
my life is narrated by a jaded philosopher, sitting on a bench,
in a corner of my mind.
where i draw the distinction isn't even clear to me.
she and i are one, or rather, i am she and we are none.
i suppose i've found my partner after all...

moleskine.

i wrote a poem today.
it is not a happy poem.
nor is it within my reach.
i will post it tomorrow.
if i can remember to do so.
but i don't usually write so spontaneously anymore.
so i can't make promises.
or maybe that will make it easier to remember.
i don't know.

tool brings the raw out of me.

i guess i need to watch things die from a distance.

love mug.

every love has a memory.
every tea has one, as well.
to me, they've become one in the same.
during my relationship escapades, i've had a tea that has not only metaphorically represented my connection with whomever, but has also physically connected us.

thomas was the first. we would stop at the shop on campus before class in the morning, and after, on the way home. i remember being fascinated by the selection they had... i most often chose assam breakfast.

andy was the next. we spoke in metaphors more often than words, and praised the idea that the smallest things were the spice of life. when teavana opened, andy and i stumbled upon a fiery white and orange blend... i'm sure you can guess its name.

after andy came louie. such a sweetheart, so caring and devoted. i taught him to make loose tea for the first time, using a sencha jasmine blend i'd gotten from my aunt. from then on it was "baby tea" every morning.

alec was after louie, and we would have high tea at one or two in the morning. he never drank anything except black blends, and insisted that something sweet followed. one night he stole a few bags of his brother's vanilla almond. i was skeptical, since i was never a fan of amaretto, but the tea was incredible. now, whenever i drink it, i get lost in the scent, and my memories of him.

kyle was the most recent. we truly began-bonded- over earl grey. as our love grew, our taste in teas expanded. we could share our thoughts, it seemed, by pouring a kettle. for christmas, he came back from philedelphia with a two pound bag of the most beautiful blend i'd ever seen. rich, glorious, purple in color, it had the softness of lavender petals, and the heartiness of bergamot. it became my comfort drink. my sense of security and belonging.

tonight, it's the lavender. though i feel forgotten and misused, i still love him. whether i'd like to or not. so tonight, i will curl up with my tea, and remember the winter nights we stayed huddled together for warmth, and love. at least i've had the experience of knowing a love so true and deep. while i feel cheated of only having a year, some never see such connection in a lifetime.

picnic at the beach.

i just have to say
that making innuendos
and referring to your penis
doesn't make up for the fact that
you can't last fifteen minutes in bed.

i also have to say
that just because i love you
doesn't mean i won't shoot you down
because right now, you're flying high
on two sheets of cardboard
pasted together with your whore's lipstick.

and not to mention,
your photography has gotten worse and worse
ever since you saw her naked
because she really isn't that beautiful
unless you like smoker's wrinkles and pretension.

you, my friend, need an intervention
because sooner or later, you're going to hit rock bottom
when she drops you like a bomb on your own hometown.

but by all means, if you enjoy being false,
of cheating yourself to feel more like a man
(because she makes you feel like less of one)
then ride that wave as long as you can.

pretty soon, you're going to end up with a mouthful of sand.

jayne, my dear jayne...

i haven't a fathom why it molests me yet;
it picks at my mind, like scavengers upon bone.
wasted, solemn, dreary as i am,
i've become your shell, shed in light of the new.
the idea of what was,
what was that idea, again?
something strong, independent, something realized,
...etc, ec& etc...
i no longer convene with words.
they cannot suit my soul like that substance of idea.
so i now live in these imagined fields,
fleeting to my byronic lover,
sheltered by the peach trees in the copse beneath my window.
it rains, the elm decays, the child wails,
and i too understand that something has died.
and those vultures cry, and creak, and crow,
vapid in their forms, so condescending,
and above it all i sit with myself,
pulling strings unheeded.
and who emerges from these shadows,
but a spectre of yourself?
have i known you, loved you, for merely a secret?
and now abhorred, why do i run from you,
to the arms of another, even less forgiving?
do i crave that spite, this irate indigence?
do i truly despise your mobility,
my insipid love that has driven you awry?
for now i turn back home,
bathing in the hours of the unwontedness that i am,
driven to those arms, this heart, that beats alone like my own...
and yet, in truth, i find my disillusionment becoming.

monsters.

she is hideous.
and i can finally see it.

i have no envy.
i have no anger.
i do have a victory.

small as it may be, i will not ignore it.
today i've cleared my head. and my heart is laughing.
i hope you're happy with her.
i'm sure she'll love you just as much as i did.
as i do.

meanwhile, i'll be waiting.
not patiently, not faithfully.
but i'll wait for you to fall apart.
you will, you know.
and when you finally see her in daylight, you'll remember what i said.
and i will have won again.

and when that day comes, we'll talk.
and i'll reveal my terrible, tragic secret.
and i'm sure you'll reveal one of your own.
and maybe we can forgive, and forget, and forge anew.

but for now, my silence is my power.
and little do you know, but i rule you like a marionette.
have fun dancing, my dear.

the last station.

surprisingly good movie.
although, while being a somewhat-educational and entertaining film, it hit a nerve in me.
which isn't saying much right now. but it's saying something.

maybe it's because i believe myself as a modern day masha.
she's sinned for poor reasons. she's attempted to redeem herself. and yet she can't be separated from her vice.
it's the most forgivable of them, i believe.
she loves.
and when she takes another into her bed, she doesn't see it as adultery.
it's simply a beautiful act of god.

yet while she repents for her past, she drags that same mud through to her future.
there is no way to be clean. not by their standards.
but is she, by hers?
and if so, am i, by mine?

if i have a fault, it's that of love.
i give it too freely.
i feel it too often.
i make it without hesitation.
i cannot find it in me to hold back the love i have for another, in whichever form it manifests itself.
i am a lover.

so why, then, does society scorn the very thing it praises so dearly?
why is it that i can't share my body- and my soul- with others without feeling some degree of shame? of regret? of fear?
truth be it, i don't seek that lifestyle. but nor do i seek this one.
all i want, all masha wants, is to find a love that is pure, a lover untainted, a life that is good. and simple.

simple.
simplicity was never my game...

...but should that stop me from playing?

perhaps.
i simply don't know.





maybe i'm just in love with james mcavoy. which isn't really a maybe.

itches.

it's cold. but that doesn't stop me from digging at my skin. this itch is unbearable, unsolvable. there is nothing i can do but wait. [and dig, and dig, and dig.] i wonder if i'll bleed before it's over. or if i'll buckle down in restraint. is it worth the agony to remain intact, or will my impulses win out and cause me to regret?

i have seen myself succumb to that illusion of immediate gratification. one, or two, or too many times. i don't know who i was then. ...nor do i know who i am now. does it matter? the only question is: where do we draw the line between a vision and a theory?

i start to scratch subconsciously.

stop it.

but if only i....

no. you'll just fuck it all up again.

maybe i need to fuck it up in order to fix it.

don't be naive. this isn't hollywood. in real life, the romantics always fail.

well, maybe....

the needle on my record jumps back and forth, back and forth, while i spend hours in the same corner of my mind. i need to leave. or at the very least, unplug that goddamned thing.

i feed my fire with fire. and i fight it with fuel. running backwards in a race against myself. it all makes sense, in that corner of my mind. it all makes sense, because how could it not? in a world where we live on a 45º angle, there is only one place to go. and here i am. there i am. here i go... falling off the edge one more time.

itch. itch.

my words are frozen in my mouth. any sudden movement, any breath of air, will compromise this stability.

itch. scratch...

binding my ankles and wrists, suffocating this temptation.

it begins to itch so horribly, i'd rather it were pain.
and so it is. needles, fire, sandpaper. i imagine my martyr's throne while these circumstances fade into the woodwork. burning, aching, stabbing, swelling. i have lost this reality, and i cannot tell it from the others. which blood is real?where is my hollywood?

afterthought.

sometimes, i hate you.

probably not you. i hate what you do. and how you make me feel worthless. even though you're not trying. you're just a boy. you wouldn't know you were hurting me if i was bleeding on your sweater. i hate you and your hormones and your need for something different, whether it serves you well or not. i hate you and your misunderstanding of love. i don't know if i hate you more with her, or without me. but i hate you.


you should be here with me, watching the snow through the living room window.

tea.

...is the only thing i find solace in anymore.

what a wonderful life.

good conversation.

alice brought up an interesting topic: what makes a writer?
it took me a while to wrap my head around my belief in that matter... but once i did, i realized that i do have that hole inside of me. sitting, waiting, hungry for... something.
i think i've gotten used to my blocks by now. i do notice them, but they don't knock me over anymore. it's more of a dull ache.
but to be honest, i have so many aches i often can't tell which is what.
there's the isolation and abandonment- that one's sharper than some.
there's the lost love- that one is long and painful, like a broken bone, constantly throbbing and reminding you of its presence.
there's the self dissatisfaction- it lies dormant, lets you think you've overcome it, and then suddenly floods throughout your entire system.
and finally, there's the blocked artist ache- the one that creeps over you slowly, causes fatigue and confusion, like a bad drug.

i'm sure there's more. there must be more. i have more aches and pains than i can count...
....funny, mum always called me a hypochondriac. but i think she finally understands the nature of my illnesses.

and even through this topic, my mind is wandering. happiness.... what is it, and do we ever fully appreciate it when we have it?

retrospectively, i'd do anything to have that happiness back.

where are you, kyle? why are you caught up in a lie? when will you realize where reality lies?
come back to the real world. come back to my world.
come back to me.