The vegetarian meatpacker.
Mental dump begins.
Long dinner with Berlusconi. It did not matter who, where, or why. I just needed to talk. My mind has been ruminating with the question: what is jealousy, really? I told anak setan, I just want to get drunk and watch the stars tonight.
One.
To talk. And talk. And talk. I don't get goosebumps waking next to her anymore. To be fair, I haven't sleep next to her for a while now. Am remembers how I still fondly recollect those little "limb-games". Electric toes. Buzzing butterflies in tummy. He will laugh if he remembers when I used to walk aimlessly in malls, waiting; while browsing Brazilian samba CDs I will never buy (not because I don't listen to Brazilian samba, but I am a music pirate, you see). Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting is only fun when you know you'll get what you want at the end of it. Predictable sort of contentment. I close my eyes now, pull a memory, and my heart still skips a beat by just remembering. The tanned skin. The red gym bag. The late night desserts. The comfy bed. The yearning, almost hastily replaced by a sense of betrayal of friendship. The prized Grail. Ah, but I have lost her a long time ago. Fortunately, sans bitterness.
He told me, you'll get over it. We will all grow up, beyond and over our (infantile) crushes.
Two.
Is there even an answer, or just a bunch of sedated, contrived opinions? I mean to think through this for a while. I detest neglecting fray thoughts, however random. Thoughts come, they visit, my neurons fire, emotions spark. An exchange takes place. It's rude to ignore. Careless, at best; but definitely rude, at worst.
I miss you too sze.
The cheek in her. A faint voice of protest in angst. Lets try to soak it in Zen and learn to live the moment. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. I can only cringe. Or laugh. At myself, of course. There is really no point in laughing at others when you can't do the same to yourself, oui? Four hours later, I dread at a flashing thought: of the day I pick up a big fat vase and kill the kejeezuz outta someone random. After which, I laugh, first at the unfortunate deceased, and then at myself. For my own sanity sake, I am blaming sleep deprivity for my current flair for deadpan sadism; squinty eyes, lethargic brain, whatnot.
Three.
Someone. Anyone (well, someone nice to cuddle!). No fucking pretense. No what-do-you-like-oh-I-love-this-too's. No impressions. Just random and earnest. Zoning out is one of my more preferred pasttimes. I refuse to empathise with others who don't share my zeal. It is in the blank mind, you drift from one thought buoy to another. In the nothingness, you care for every orphaned detail. All of a sudden, cigarette smoke wafts like a ballet dancer dancing en pointe. Black coffee tastes like caramelised malt. And then you see one star. Your subconcious will automatically trace the invisible lines of ancient constellations. Another star. Another star. Another star. Your pupils dilate. The rods spy fainter stars. Fuzzy spots. Nebulas. Messier 42. The cones paint them. Bright red. Betelgeuse. Antares. Aldebaran. Mars. Bright blue. Vega. Pleaides. Yes, the velvet sky belongs to you and me tonight. We make careless wishes because it is not the lone shooting star lighting our hearts; but meteors showering from Capella and illuminating the navy blue dome. I remember when they descended from Leo. I was 17.
They prophesized a storm. I waited. But waiting is only fun when you know you'll get what you want at the end of it. Rain storm descended instead. Dreams dampened. The ashes of Tempel-Tuttle forever lost (at least in my lifetime, this lifetime). The stars were too tired to stage a magnificent visual display. Freaks cheered, they tuned in to a different frequency. They caught the show in waves. Frequency instead of light streaks. Antennas, in place of eyes. In the white noise of a star storm, I wondered if wishes would still come true when every echo of radio transmission intensified. Seven years later, another disappointment from another Leo. But to compare the two, one deserves a hara-kiri: sacrilegious to the former; overtly extolling to the latter.
The number of words gives the illusion of overindulgence. Over-compensation. Trust me. Hopeless suckers (or fuckers?) like me are recidivistic. We falter everytime. Fucking pathetic.
But gimme that any day, because I seriously loathe growing up and doing adult things.
Long dinner with Berlusconi. It did not matter who, where, or why. I just needed to talk. My mind has been ruminating with the question: what is jealousy, really? I told anak setan, I just want to get drunk and watch the stars tonight.
One.
To talk. And talk. And talk. I don't get goosebumps waking next to her anymore. To be fair, I haven't sleep next to her for a while now. Am remembers how I still fondly recollect those little "limb-games". Electric toes. Buzzing butterflies in tummy. He will laugh if he remembers when I used to walk aimlessly in malls, waiting; while browsing Brazilian samba CDs I will never buy (not because I don't listen to Brazilian samba, but I am a music pirate, you see). Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting is only fun when you know you'll get what you want at the end of it. Predictable sort of contentment. I close my eyes now, pull a memory, and my heart still skips a beat by just remembering. The tanned skin. The red gym bag. The late night desserts. The comfy bed. The yearning, almost hastily replaced by a sense of betrayal of friendship. The prized Grail. Ah, but I have lost her a long time ago. Fortunately, sans bitterness.
He told me, you'll get over it. We will all grow up, beyond and over our (infantile) crushes.
Two.
Is there even an answer, or just a bunch of sedated, contrived opinions? I mean to think through this for a while. I detest neglecting fray thoughts, however random. Thoughts come, they visit, my neurons fire, emotions spark. An exchange takes place. It's rude to ignore. Careless, at best; but definitely rude, at worst.
I miss you too sze.
The cheek in her. A faint voice of protest in angst. Lets try to soak it in Zen and learn to live the moment. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. I can only cringe. Or laugh. At myself, of course. There is really no point in laughing at others when you can't do the same to yourself, oui? Four hours later, I dread at a flashing thought: of the day I pick up a big fat vase and kill the kejeezuz outta someone random. After which, I laugh, first at the unfortunate deceased, and then at myself. For my own sanity sake, I am blaming sleep deprivity for my current flair for deadpan sadism; squinty eyes, lethargic brain, whatnot.
Three.
Someone. Anyone (well, someone nice to cuddle!). No fucking pretense. No what-do-you-like-oh-I-love-this-too's. No impressions. Just random and earnest. Zoning out is one of my more preferred pasttimes. I refuse to empathise with others who don't share my zeal. It is in the blank mind, you drift from one thought buoy to another. In the nothingness, you care for every orphaned detail. All of a sudden, cigarette smoke wafts like a ballet dancer dancing en pointe. Black coffee tastes like caramelised malt. And then you see one star. Your subconcious will automatically trace the invisible lines of ancient constellations. Another star. Another star. Another star. Your pupils dilate. The rods spy fainter stars. Fuzzy spots. Nebulas. Messier 42. The cones paint them. Bright red. Betelgeuse. Antares. Aldebaran. Mars. Bright blue. Vega. Pleaides. Yes, the velvet sky belongs to you and me tonight. We make careless wishes because it is not the lone shooting star lighting our hearts; but meteors showering from Capella and illuminating the navy blue dome. I remember when they descended from Leo. I was 17.
They prophesized a storm. I waited. But waiting is only fun when you know you'll get what you want at the end of it. Rain storm descended instead. Dreams dampened. The ashes of Tempel-Tuttle forever lost (at least in my lifetime, this lifetime). The stars were too tired to stage a magnificent visual display. Freaks cheered, they tuned in to a different frequency. They caught the show in waves. Frequency instead of light streaks. Antennas, in place of eyes. In the white noise of a star storm, I wondered if wishes would still come true when every echo of radio transmission intensified. Seven years later, another disappointment from another Leo. But to compare the two, one deserves a hara-kiri: sacrilegious to the former; overtly extolling to the latter.
The number of words gives the illusion of overindulgence. Over-compensation. Trust me. Hopeless suckers (or fuckers?) like me are recidivistic. We falter everytime. Fucking pathetic.
But gimme that any day, because I seriously loathe growing up and doing adult things.