The Cubicle Dream

The last fortnight that I had not seen her made me alarmingly paranoiac.  I think it was something that I said the last time (the first time I directly sent “Hi!” on her message box) I messaged her.  I can’t remember when I did that.  I just remember why.  I just thought I had to do it.  I ought to do it, if that’s the one thing that I can do to start knowing her.  But it seemed not working at all.  I might be damn hallucinating when I saw her looked at my direction the last time I saw her.  I’ll be damned if I saw her even smiled at me.  The punishment that I have to deal with the last fortnight was to adore her omnipresence in my mind. 

The days passed by. It ended with a dream about her: a dream that I wished would be endless.  Endless it wasn’t.  I should not be writing anything now on this short page of what I call a miss-you sponge if it was endless.  I hope it can carry all the things heavy that live in my heart, the sponge.  For this is only the start of siphoning off everything that I felt inside about her, everything that I hid inside that adored her.  There is more to draw off.

The cubicle dream.

Well, it really was a dream, a very vivid dream that was.  I was feeling every emotion what a real life me would have felt if it was really happening. 

I was sleeping to start, sleeping in my dream.  I was sleeping in my dream right in front of the cubicle that she used as seclusion from the stares of me when we’re in the office.  But I guess the real deal about that was just to make herself undisturbed (by the stares of me).  Maybe she got distracted and she can’t work.  Or she got distracted and elated and she wouldn’t want me to notice that she felt elated when she was distracted by my stares.  Oh boy, that’s hugely arrogant to say things like that.  You should be humble and keep everything at pace.  She won’t like that.

Shut up!

You told me. But I bet it won’t do any good.

Fine.

Okay. That dream.  I was sleeping, or pretending to be for I knew she was in that empty cubicle working.  It was weird (well, everything in dreams is weird).  Isn’t it weird to be sleeping in the office with your sleeping bag laid in front of the cubicle?  I must have been kicked out of the office no moments as soon as a manager or a partner caught me so.  But it was a dream, and weird things happen in there.  So I laid there without the feeling of uneasiness and all the negative things you feel when you’re in the arms of your working environment. 

I pretended to sleep.  Moments later she sneaks a stare at me.  My eyes began to tremble.  She was staring and walking or gliding at the same time towards me.  She stopped when we’re hairbreadth near.  My eyes shut open.  Someone cast a spell in the air and a weird thing happened again.  She was now the persona of her officemate smiling at me.  I knew her.  I talk to her when I had time to.  I think I smiled at her.  And then the scene became hazy and it had gone back to the scene where she was staring at me.

I woke up, or pretended to be waking up.  I greeted her “Good morning, beautiful,” and I woke up to the stale embrace of my mouth and reality.  The last time that I saw before I woke up was her secret smile.  Oi, how in the world have you seen a secret smile?  You’re pathetic.

What in the world do you care about for, huh?  I am you.  You should act like me.  Let us be one.  Yeah?

Okay.

And stop answering back!

You asked me.

I didn’t ask you to reply!

Okay, okay. I’ll shut it.

Thanks.

Anytime.  (Alter-ego grinning.)

Hail to Kirsten Dunst for She is a Real Redhead

This is one is lifted from my previous blog: 

Sometimes I remember the past that I should not have to remember now. It’s like a fabric that I used before, cool to the skin, light to carry – comfortable; although it was a little bit tattered and informal. I guess it was also stained by the colors of my childhood, discolored by the acidic mixture of bad happenings and wrong decisions and washed out by troubles and more. However, it stayed and, by now, part of the cupboard – a cupboard that’s sometimes open and, most of the time, secretive. The thing is it is there, forever there.

My mother said that you should live the present in connection to the future. She means I have to think ahead of things. It is like this: a thing  happens in order for the next thing to happen – a connection, like threads that weave together, crisscross, to form a loom; yet another story that is sure to past.  However, she also said that the future is like that candlelight that lured the moth. She said we should not mingle always with the affairs that are yet to come, albeit those affairs are an impending fall or a lifting sensation. The future’s promise was as vain as the hope of an expired lottery ticket to win. But my mother said that was not always the case. In fact, it is just that it is sometimes always the case. So she says that we live the present as if we are the hands of the clock. We should make an act as the thinnest clock hand ticks. Forward and always forward, leaving the past as if we cannot change it, so to speak, and advancing towards the things we expect, and do not.

In the past I could not remember loving the smell and enjoying the beauty of a hair dye. What I can remember vividly was how my mother would smother her white hairs with cheap red hair dye and cover her head with a plastic bag from the cabinet drawer. There was a putrid, striking to the nose odor of that hair dye once the covering is unpinned from her hairs after at least one and a half day (or two days if she ever likes to be a redhead forever). I remember that the white hair she hates become bright red like the one Bree Van De Camp had in a popular TV show. Weeks later, however, the white hair starts to poke out of their follicles again, replacing the red fake ones with white real ones. My mother only sighed.

Today I am experiencing a turnaround of things. My mother still used hair dye for her hair. However, she seemed to like the idea of having different hair colors every month. I do still not love the characteristics of her hair dyes when it’s on, because the smell is there, although the white hair is gone. She doesn’t love the picture of the white hairs appearing again. Well, at least there is no odor I say. The former weighing heavier, she conceals them again. A cycle.

However, I am liking now the satisfaction being brought by hair dyes, especially the red ones, the ones not used to temporarily forget the inevitable fact that everybody is aging. I am speaking of the red dyes that permanently make your beating heart kicking, as a chronic, by the hour, heart attack that seemed to kill you every time but can never really. These red hair dyes do not have smell like the ones my mother used. It has the smell of flowers, like the cheeks enough of kiss and turn to red roses. It has the smell of sunshine as a stretch of secret smile takes it moment.

The death of red hair dye is nowhere near.

But it died, after that SGV anniversary party.  It died and, seconds after, like a flaming phoenix, it rose from its salt-and-pepper ashes and greeted my new wound to healing.  I felt like some friendly neighborhood spider-whatsis kissed upside-down by the flaming Kirsten Dunst. 

The journey towards Kirsten Dunst begins.