Not Letting Go of This Holding On; Holding On to This Letting Go

Here Comes Goodbye

Do you hear me, talking to you?

Across the sea of all the faces that try to part us,

Saying things unexplained, unconfirmed, unproven.

Do you see me, looking at you?

You don’t even stare now, although I know that you feel me present.

What’s wrong with the idea of loving you?

We being together?

Do you believe them, and their hearsays?

Don’t you believe on the things you yourself feel?

Because right now, I don’t understand this beating heart.

I tried to be far from you.

I succeeded.

That’s when you’re not near, when I can’t see you personally.

But, when at times that I see you, it all goes back, like hero to zero, from a single point to full circle.

But I haven’t had the heart to say things to you.

I just can’t pluck the courage.

Can you pluck the courage for me?

Of course, that will be inappropriate.

But one thing, I’ll never forget you, and the way you make me love like this.

It felt good.

It felt bad.

I’m hurt.

Can you picture me now, my heart is bleeding.

The loving dagger is pressing deeper through my heart than I have ever imagined.

I just don’t want to see you, so I can go on not missing you.

But you know I can’t do that.

But you’re letting me do that.

You’re trying to make me let go of loving you.

You are nearing to success.

I’m barely hanging on.

But I am HANGING ON.

“If it’s a broken part, replace it.

If it’s a broken arm, then brace it.

If it’s a broken heart, then face it.”

-Jason Mraz

 Details in the Fabric

 We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things

For the sake of the day (no minute wasted)

Here is a poem I wrote some 366 days ago. 

9:47, she’s giggling as she sits by the table

At last, this day will not be wasted

9:48, she stares at those forcely enamored eyes

He is counting his number ten in his list

9:49, they were stepping on each other’s feet

Trying to give their make-out song a groove

Like drunk bees,

Zooming in and out the circle of lights

In search for honeys

As 9:54 ticks, I envy the pretense

The next three minutes they are drinking cognac

A French toast to a no-French affair

My girl intoxicated of the poison

Turned to roses within the minute

9:59 her vision blurs, his vision sterns

At the twenty-second hour, they were gone

His mind scribbled the invisible ten again

At a handsome square, where the red stars twinkle

The dead night whispers to life

Hearts beat, hearts flat-line

Like they were climbing up and down

Some extreme beautiful feelings

In the passing of the quick moments

My eyes darken with newfound hate

Sweat beads, and at the peak of 10:07

Freedom roars like a sated lion

Eyes thinning yet for meat again

The night rolled, I roll with the waves of my dreams

They roll as they were in a dream-like state

The night rolled over again

Them, praying it not to end

I, praying for the day to knock now

For when the hands of the night reached the middle

This madness ends

Mine and their madness

This day is a year away

Breathe In, Breathe Out with Death and Paranoia and All Their Friends

The title sixty-five-percently came from a Coldplay album.  Yes, man, that’s calculated, even interpolated.

There’s a time interval in breathing: between exhaling and inhaling. In between those acts, which everyone would not expect or believe, we die.  In that millionth of a second, after you exhale, you lose your life and get it back up again at the time you taste the sweet scent of air.  Like a phoenix that rises from the ashes, we have a second to live life better after death and after a quick second we die and then back again.  That is to say you have to make every second of your life sounder. 

A revelation came to me last night, before I called my earthly-strewn eyes to sleeping.  All of us die.  We never know when it will come to sneer, or smile, at us.  All I know was that it’s a painful thing to see and to experience. 

As a precocious child, I have always wished to die first before someone else’s in the family will.  That was my way to escape the feeling of death.  I’ve seen a lot of people leave around me.  Close people that both deserved, in a positive way, to die and not, people in the boob tube and people in the random world.  Death is inevitable like paying taxes, although, slyly, we can reduce the possibility of the happening of the latter.  So it will happen, a little the way a holdup man will come.  It may happen in our sleep, in our way home or in our own friggin’ little way.

But, as a revelation, the dead might not escape the feeling of death in his dying.  I believe that the dead’s soul doesn’t live that quickly from the world.  I don’t believe that the feeling of feeling alive in the dead man’s soul flushes out of him like stool in the toilet the instant he dies.  In contrast, the dead soul’s discovering that he’s dead is the most uneasy feeling he will ever feel in the world.  There is no way back.  The world crumbles as if the world hasn’t yet crumbled.  Death in death.

I have a chat with one of the person that I found available one time when I was late from work; I need to let go of the exhaustion by trying to talk to someone.  I am not the kind of a person who talks about the way my day happened.  I am not the type to start a conversation with people I don’t care a damn about with.  I am not saying I don’t care a bit about this person. It is just that there are some things that happened along the way, and some things that cannot be brought back, or at least, yet. 

He talked about his death when he was about twelve, and sex in his life was thriving.  He died at twelve and rose back to the cruelty of life some thirty minutes later.  He said he felt like dreaming.  He was in a place where all things around him were white and swirling.  He was gliding.  I said holy cow wow to this: gliding!  Like Peter Pan or something.  Or like some ghostly creatures that scared us to sleep when we were younger. 

But he was in this white place he swore he has never been.  He remembered he was moving to a direction, towards a destination, without a care in the other side of the world where her mother was flourishing in tears and nearly dying too.  There was a pinprick point far away that broke the vastness of white around him.  But for some reason, he couldn’t reach it.  Gliding, flying like comet now, he was getting no way nearer until he broke back to life.  His knuckles, from grey and dead, turned to rosy pink.  There was a tumultuous guffawing and praising after that.

He came back to life.

Coming back to life.

Sigh.

Coming back.

Going on.

I feel like dying.  I hate the thought of finally being erased from the memories of every people that once loved me, even from my own memoirs.  I hate the thought letting go of something without doing anything. 

But I feel the whole world is crashing in on me.  I feel death and all his friends creeping nearer towards the mat on my doorstep, swimming through the sewerage towards the faucet from where I drink, pigeons that sit on my windowsills, pecking on my glass, shattering it, pieces flying and slitting my throat.  I guess the paranoia is attributed to that single piece of word I messaged from long time ago.  I guess that is what a longing and desperate heart would do when it comes to the verge of something that it couldn’t help to hold anymore.  Saying a single word would ease everything up, and now I am entangled with this feeling of death and paranoia as I breathe in and breathe out.

Heard something, it has nothing to do with this entry.

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.