by Sine Qua Non
and yes, it’s you. i love you. i know.
and yes, it’s you. i love you. i know.
yes, i love you.
i’ve fallen. i’ve fallen hard and now i’m caught up in an involuntary motion of rolling downhill. and i will roll with it.
i love you and it’s not wrong. if i do something about it then it will be wrong.
i love you and want you to hear it but i do not want to hear what you have to say.
i do not want to be the mistake you will make. nor do i want to subject myself to be caught up in the illusion that something can happen if i wait.
i love you. and that is why, now, i am going to have to walk away.
i love you my bite-sized comfort, virtual hugger, reluctant kisser.
i love you. i love you. i love you so.
(insert an entry about a kiss that never happened, maybe never will)
so bad i need a cigarette. so bad. that bad.
it makes me crave for a double shot of scotch at four in the afternoon. it makes me wonder whether you’d join me for that double scotch or not. it makes me want to tear my hair out for wondering if you’ll join me for scotch or not. because the answer will most probably be that you won’t. or i’m not really sure. wait. i could find out.
(and yes i’ll do it and then i’m anticipating that the answer will make me want another double shot of scotch again. double double shots. bang. bang, bang.
so i said it out loud. and yes, you said no. just like what i thought you’d say. and do i feel bad? maybe.
yes. or i think i’ve anticipated the ill-feeling for so long that when i get so comfortable about what we have i remind myself that there’s absolutely nothing to be happy about the set-up that we have. based on the kind of fixation i have for you and my apparent inability to just leave things be and make most of what i have, what i get, what i won’t.
the past few weeks have been fine and dandy, really. i would sometimes fall into the delusion of thinking that you do want me in more ways than just a 10pm booty call. thinking that you do see me as beyond my body. that the conversations stimulate you as much and yet that you would crave for me too. i actually would sometimes think that i matter to you. and it was all pretty until i realize today that somebody matters to you more. yes of course again this is non-conclusive. in the sense that i could not really bring myself to ask you outright about these things. or that i jump into assumptions that may not really be as logical as it should be.
i don’t really know what i’m doing to myself now. torture, maybe. a sort of repetitive whacking of the head.
so you like that picture of her. and i don’t remember you ever liking any of mine.
it’s that petty. universe, whack me again please.
and when it dawned on me, this petty little truth, i realize that i have once again fallen into the trap of living in my imagined fantasies of what you and i have become, could be. apparently now, its what you and i could most probably never be.
or i don’t know really. i’m just trudging on with this heap of emotions i’ve been trying to sort out and make sense of. trying to spare myself the pain and yet i willingly walk into a roomful of traps.
i am at a loss. this is all making me depressed.
i need to figure out what to do. no, not to get you to like me. more to get over wanting you to like me too.
because if this drives me crazy right now, what would happen to me if i find out you never would?
ah, tear my heart out. tear, tear, tear.
i’ve been sitting here for close to thirty minutes singing the same song over and over again, imagining that you were sitting right in front of me and chuckling at my a capella version of Stars’ Your Ex-Lover Is Dead.
And when i get to that part when I have to sing that there’s one thing I want to say so I’ll be brave, when I croak out the words you were what I wanted it cuts through you like a knife and then you start bleeding on my feet while I take sweet time to finish the rest of the song. as i end it with i’m not sorry there’s nothing to save i read from the look in your eyes the same words in the song that say now you’re outside me you see all the beauty repent all your sin. it’s called regret but it is not really too late. we get knocked down by a couple of harsh truths in carefully written lyrics but we get back up again with another song that could save us.
or you keep bleeding. my hands are stained with your blood and my face wet with your tears. listen to the instruments poke fun at what we have. or what we don’t.
i’m not sorry there’s nothing to save. i’m not sorry. there’s nothing to save.
the thing about keeping a secret blog is the fact that i could actually write ANYTHING about what i think and feel and nobody will actually ever find out. hopefully. sort of. because, of course, a part of me secretly hopes that you would come across this in this big-ass digital universe.
and maybe figure out that the stuff written here is all about you. yeah that’s a strikethrough right there cause i wanted to erase what i wrote but i actually shouldn’t because, WHO THE HELL AM I EDITING THESE THINGS FOR?
It’s a fucking online diary. If anybody actually reads it, nobody’ll really know who the fuck I am.
Whew. That was quite liberating.
Okay. I don’t know if this will be a one time thing or not. I’ve really worked hard in trying to keep a sense of literary-ness to this blog. Sort of really churn out some really quaint stream-of-consciousness lovey-dovey shit that despite it’s stink of red hearts and romatic ek-ek (now, THAT sorta culturally places me at the moment, damn) would still sound and read really well. Well, what can i say. I’m a very poetic romantic. Or a very romantic poet. Or whatever.
So here I am now at the moment actually trying to figure out why I’m doing this again — ? Ah, well, because I’m home alone and sick and sort of getting lonely and I just watched a movie called Bridesmaids and before that watched a bootleg of Book of Mormon and in that bootleg a man was laughing from the audience and his laugh just sounded a lot like yours and that got me thinking of you then the rest of the day. Yeah, especially while watching Bridesmaids.
And I am writing this down because I don’t know how else to put it. I really don’t. Usually, if something poetic or metaphorical or eclectic or what-not comes to me, I just write it down. Eh well today, this is what came to me. And I figured, why the hell edit? Why not write it down? It lends a different voice to the blog. That’s not quite the blog but well, it’s still my voice and it would be refreshing to read this in the future. Okaaaay I wouldn’t really know that yet but I am anticipating that this would be a refreshing read amidst all the other stuff I’ve already written here. (NOTE TO SELF IN ALL CAPS: DO NOT LET THIS VOICE BE A STANDARD VOICE OF THE BLOG. KEEP CALM AND FINISH THIS ENTRY AND GET IT OVER WITH.)
This is actually pathetic because I’m setting up myself for it. Looking for the mushiest tracks I could listen to to get me in the mood to keep writing. Which is also becoming interesting because I actually want to use this as a study for an upcoming monologue I should write. Yeah, truth to follow. Haha. I didn’t think I would be writing a monologue but I think after this entry I should.
So where was I?
Ah yes, I’m about to find myself a cheesy song to write to. Haha.
Okay the song is called I Want You
Yeah. Honey, I want you so bad. On a lot of levels. Cause the nights we spent together weren’t very bad either.
And before I get started on that I am going to go back to why I started thinking of you in the first place. I wanted to ask my friend if when he downloaded the bootleg of Book of Mormon he consciously sought a copy that would bring me nights of demise. Or whatever. I couldn’t think of a more dramatic-but-not-too-mushy word. I hate how the guy who kept laughing at the insane moments of the play sounded just like you. I hate how, in the middle of jokes about AIDS and Christ I had no one but you in my mind. How the mind’s eye betrays me by playing a slideshow of your face, the way you laugh, smile, your hair, you beneath me, you inside me, you squeezing your nose into my nape. I hate how instead of clicking on a song a click on a spoken word video that puts me in a mood that takes me away from this voice and brings me back to that voice that fantasizes about you like you weren’t real. Like i could never have you and could only write about you like a poem I couldn’t own, a metaphor that could not be real. Something my hand couldn’t hold. Something that is not concrete. That could only be read meaning into but will never be what it really is.
So that’s about it, just at the splitsecond the poem ends I realize the truth about why I had to write you into the night like this. To tell myself that you are real. And that there is no certainty in ever having your or never having you. That I wish i could stop writing you into poems and verses and maybe hold you for real someday. That the pain would stop being so imagined and distant in my head. That when I hold you next time, you will read these words with me and laugh and on another week we will curse each other for having loved so much and given so little. And maybe embrace again. And laugh again. And stroke each other’s hair and stare into the night under your room’s dim yellow light. Why does your laugh have to resound in my head?
And that’s how love is when it is real and you cannot deny it no matter how hard you try to hide under your sheets and pages and pages of yellowed sheets. Paper, I mean. It rhymes on its own. It finds its layers of meaning. It finds its voice. It finds its own.
when there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire
here again after so many weeks of evading, avoiding, denying, searching, trying to put meaning without overreading, hoping that there indeed will be some sense into the sensations of wanting, being wanted, hoping to be wanted. we are still and quiet. while we say so much and leave so many other things unsaid. it is unfortunate that i cannot gaze into your eyes at the very moments the night calls for it. the answers i seek cannot be sent through mobile. a blinking screen cannot give light to the true questions of my heart. if we had wanted to see each other, then why has it not taken place? why the need to play safe? is it the time, but time moves as it should. it is mankind that fails to control it the way true souls would.
i keep telling myself something better will come. someone, rather. but in my heart of hearts, in the future i imagine, it is still you. only, you will choose me this time.