I would have hold onto the thinnest fabric
that is my sympathy,
but regretfully anger took over
and what I thought I needed
turned out to be the very thing
that set me free.
But at night it’s not the same story.
I could have held on if you told me to,
but time convinced me
that’s not what you’d rather do.
Distance kept me sane,
so maybe I’m thankful to you,
wherever you may be.
My skin is a universe of deformity and flaws, but my mind is something else.. It is much worse. It’s fun though, seeing madness propagating from a spectacle other than myself. A soul feeds on pain that’s why even if we don’t look for it, it would always come disguising itself as a mesmerizing form of high, an altitude slowly rising. But be careful on the way down, because gravity is unfair.
It’s easier to admit you’re a fucked up person than pretend like everything makes sense, every downfall has a meaning and madness is a non-apparent thing which actually consumes your soul every goddamn day. It’s true though, people are going to hurt you. But don’t leave it out like a one-sided story. When you flip a page, you can become the asshole in the story. It just is inevitable. Time heals, but not everything. Pain does not entirely end, it only becomes a bit more bearable. We remain hurt and cautious and distrustful. We can see it in the way someone smiles, their eyes somewhat exuding a guarded vibe which begs the question “why can’t everyone be fucking sensitive?.” Sometimes I crave a world full of emotional train wreck individuals just so my arguments would be valid, however stupid or irrational they might sound. But ah, love.. No matter how little and sketchy we still try and catch it, just to feel some, and we give more than they take. It could last a while, but will hurt like a motherfucker.
Sleep doesn’t come for me no matter how badly I want it to. But my demons do, and the fact that I’m still up at 2:30 am and the only chance of ever getting a good night sleep is halfway being wasted away. It is an arguable notion, for cheap wines make you whiny and silence makes it even worse. I can’t bring myself to read more Hemingway, for although his words are majestic, generally I’m too lazy to flip through the pages and memorize random sophisticated streets in Paris along with unfamiliar pubs and bistros. There are days that I want to do everything all at once but most days I just sit around idly, never second-guessing a nightmare that is about to haunt me every damn time. I contemplate on how alone I am, consistently so, and how marvelously okay it is. I don’t go around looking for people for pride takes over my whole being, like the way a police dog towers over a criminal.
Apathy. Or the act of playing pretend. I knew that wine was a bad idea. I knew he was a bad idea. But still.
Let’s go back to when I used
to mean something.
No, scratch that.
Because that’s not a statement,
and as a matter of fact it should have
ended with a question mark.
Like our love story
-No, wrong again it was just a story.
It ended like a tragedy when it never even started.
I ripped the ribbon when
I thought it was the finish line.
But please don’t feel sorry,
don’t think about me,
don’t call
and don’t show your face.
That would totally tarnish my version of pain.
Better stay where you’re comfortable,
because attempting to go inside my mind
would be like signing yourself up
for war.
I get invited to these events every damn time, though I don’t always appear enthusiastic nor appreciative. I also make sure to show my face on every occasion. I try to smile, but holding it any longer strains my neck. Of course, beer is always present upon these momentary celebrations, and my right hand never goes empty as they try to refill my cup just to make sure I’m getting enough. Sometimes people would ask me how I got associated with this type of crowd, and my response would be in some sort of shrug or from time to time I might mumble “birds of the same feather,” which does not quite sound right. But I can blend in though, and whoever doubts my social adaptability clearly hasn’t gone to parties such as this one. So I roll my eyes and chug my beer, and pretend to enjoy the loud music as I slowly drift off into oblivion.
I don’t know how to act on funerals.
I somehow find myself detached during these awkward situations. I don’t know how to say my condolences, I don’t know if asking for a second cup of coffee during the wake is acceptable, I don’t know if smiling is considered a grave offense… You see what I did there? A freaking pun. Yes, I’m that guy. But I think this all started back when I was about 4 years old and I had a twin sister. HAD. We lost her when we were in that age but at the time I wasn’t even aware about the concept of death and grieving and all that. Everything was some sort of a blur. One thing I remember though, was that I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral because of some old Filipino superstition that if I go with them, then death would come for me next, or at least something dark and scary story to that effect. It was tragic and sad, and subconsciously that might have affected me a whole lot, but up to this day I still can’t find an explanation as to why.
Occasional smoker turned into a man of habit.
Forced to pass on every bit of heartache through it.
His friends exactly know where to find him:
Drowning in a bottle of wine,
In a pool of bittersweet regret and warning.
“Share your demons with me” a stranger once said.
Now she had become a gripping part of his nightmares.
Out on the street sobering up, heaving a huge sigh
as cold stares were issued alongside his peripheral vision.
Dusting off his shoulders in response
and pulling up the hood of his jacket,
looking straight ahead whilst taking his first step
he goes,
“Think of a happy place and go there.
Do not make eye contact.
I repeat.
They reveal too much.”
We should all just stop playing the victim sometimes. We need to be mature, and not blame certain circumstances to other people because that doesn’t solve anything. It just make us all look like a bunch of fools, fighting over who’s right, who has the bigger advantage over someone or something – I mean come on. Maybe I’m just ranting here, because self-pity has been my only friend these past few months and it is not comforting at all. But it’s what I’m used to. So somehow there’s this level of understanding between myself and misery because let’s face it, we do love to live vicariously through some other people’s mistakes. It makes us feel not necessarily ordinary, but a bit balanced because then we are aware that we aren’t the only ones who can’t get past the suffering and all these fucked up experiences we recognize by the term ‘living’ and yes, it sucks, and pain is a given thing above all else.
This misconstrued concept about having to look for deeper meaning to every event that happens in our lives is just too arrogantly displayed that we cannot even begin to accept that sometimes it’s just like how we use words with no interpretations at all: merely a form of reflex. But it doesn’t negate from having a certain impact into our lives.
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