Matchbox Maladies

Catastrophic uncertainty of the self.

Month: September, 2013

Dear Ker

by Sine Qua Non

I think I ought to write to you directly now, here. In the hopes of finally gaining some peace of mind at least for me to be able to sleep this night away. If I have to do this every evening until I get so sick and tired of doing so, then I will.

Never mind that you’ll find this blog and find out all my thoughts. At the moment, no one else actually knows this blog exists. Maybe my best friend and my roommate but I don’t think they would care enough to remember. Plus in the digital universe, this blog exists as nothing but a dump of all the thoughts I don’t really want to share to mankind. But that I need to get off my chest.

First off, you’re quite a jerk.

The least you could do is man up and give me an answer. You owe me that courtesy to say the least. And, yrs, no matter what your too-cool-to-care mind would think, I don’t deserve to be treated the way you did.

Operating on anger here, yes. I wish I could scream this to your face right now and follow it up with a splash of vodka. But some other girl will spill that vodka on your shirt tonight.

And then in a few weeks time you’ll jerk up (oops, yeah, well Freudian quip, not slip, intended) on her. If she’s lucky, maybe even months.

Jerk. I hate you tonight. I’ll let the feeling simmer for now. It’ll help me deal.









But who am I to expect that from you, right? Damn right.



guilty pleasure wallowing torture

by Sine Qua Non

This is the sad part about it. Or rather the very honest part. That at the end of the day, literally, or actually at the beginning of a new one, I am nothing more than a sentimental human being enslaved by her own sappy feelings. And here I am, like any pathetic 25-year old, sitting in her pajamas with a Twilight theme song full-blast on repeat, typing away what’s left of my wakefulness.

And this won’t be the end of it. After this very sad, pitiful confession I’ll probably be scribbling in my notebook still. Or not. If I manage to purge all my feelings here now.

What else do I have to say? That I continuously subject myself to torture anyway. That I know for a fact that until something else comes my way, there will be no definite end to days like this, waiting for him to tell me that I’ll see him this weekend.

Or maybe that’s how it ought to end at this point, that until he picks that next weekend for when we could see each other again, there will be nothing else between us but a void of presence where all emotions crash and meld together. How have I brought this upon myself?

I keep saying I’ve laid out all my cards. I have not. I know the four aces are still with me, and those are my final cards. They are not on the table yet. They seem to be, but no not yet. Not concretely. And I will lay it out. But I’ve been dealing all the cards, maybe not all this time, but I’ve been dealing them certainly in the recent encounters. Enough tob make me think that it is indeed his turn to put down some cards of his own.

I’m not going to pull it out of his hand now. I couldn’t care less what his cards are. I just want to be able to lay down all of mine.

God, this song is so awfully soppy. But I keep listening to it. I think it is through this song that I hope to pin my upcoming fatigue of the things ensuing. I will tire of all of this eventually. And I can’t wait. But for the moment, here I am. Writing, writing, writing. Pining, weeping on mornings I wake alone, cringing at every other song, skipping a heartbeat at the mention of his city, frowning at a murdered chat conversation, trying ever so hard to purge him from every fiber of my being.

Oh wow. How hard could that be. How. Hard. Could. That. Be.

by Sine Qua Non

i feel as if i should keep writing and writing, one entry after another if need be, as long as one thought completes itself in one entry, until i’ve exhausted myself of all the feelings and emotions that spill from my fingertips onto the screen and the whole universe overflows with waterfalls of tears up to the tiniest pinpricks of pain, until i am empty and void as a children’s playground at 3am

truth be told, i don’t even know what i want to say anymore, there are no clear thoughts, clear stories in my head, only that it would do me good to keep typing out words like they were tears and i need to be dehydrated of them to get rid of all the fever that boils inside me

i am hiding behind the lie that i expect nothing of him, that i no longer wait for his name to pop up in my screen, asking about how i am or what i will be eating or what i’m working on this time. unfortunately, despite every other petty distraction i throw in front of me, all my thoughts still crawl back into his arms. and when i find myself in that empty embrace i begin to weep and my chest hurts again and again and it cripples me, every part of me. as if the love for him is not content with making me incapable of walking. that every part of me should be unable to move in his absence. from the sway of my arms to the flick of my fingers. it cripples even the peristalsis in hunger or the heaving of my diaphragm. i feel it strike at even the slightest trickle of blood making its way through my veins. it strikes at my already weakened heart.

and i understand,so ┬áthis is how one is able to surrender to death because of an overwhelming sense of love – that if one is unable to love freely, there would no longer be any point in living at all

could it be colder than it already is

by Sine Qua Non

the strange thing is that all the sentences have arranged and rearranged itself in my mind for weeks now but I never got to typing them up here. i manage to scribble in my notebooks every now and then, but then, no scraps of my broken heart have yet been scattered in this digital universe. quite a difference a day could make, too. i seem to be unable to conjure the same sense of sadness and longing that i’ve felt in the last few days. not now, when he’s at it again and talking to me.

There is a rollicking kindness that looks like malice, that’s what Nietzshe said, i think.

While it be good that I am not totally as frenzied about plunging into conversation with him again as I used to before, what I’m trying to figure out now is how i should now go about letting him know what i feel. for days, i’ve been so conclusive about the fact that we will never speak to each other again and that gave me an excuse to cook up the entire scenario of writing the letter and sending it. rehearsing in my head which way the words would dance on the paper and how the folded piece of paper should land on his hands.

the thing is, that i don’t actually know what the thing is.

truth be told i keep saying i could no longer play his game. that i could no longer permit myself to be taken for easy scum he could call up and disregard after he’s done with me. it’s so easy to say that on moments that i am not waking up alone to a dark sunrise with the coldness reaching itself into my chest. it is easy to say that when i know i won’t be alone on weekends, occupied enough to prevent my own thoughts from reeling itself back to him. the problem being even just a break to pee allows me the space to remember and long for him.

but, really, i refuse to chase. i want to be chosen.

and the strange thing is, and now i suppose this to be true since it comes to me so suddenly and so strongly — that i feel that i am not being truly selfless about my love for him if i do not chase him and fight for his attention. i have no clue if that sounds stupid, sadistic, or just honest and true. i just draw back from questioning my own motives when i recall the kind of torture i put myself through every time i park myself at the edge of hope’s cliff and watch myself pull out my heart and feed it to the vultures that circle the grey sky above me. he never comes to save me. i always jump off after my heart falling fast before me.


i love him, i do, but i could no longer stand the pain.

i guess nothing more needs to be said after that. only that the next time i walk to the edge of that cliff, i’m wishing somebody will be ready to fall with me — backs to the ground, eyes to the sky.


by Sine Qua Non

It’s crippling, isn’t it? Knowing fully well what needs to be done and yet being unable to do it. Having imagined so intricately all the possible outcomes and the appropriate intended reactions for each. Even having a clue to the kind of surprise that you so cautiously prepare yourself for. And yet, so frighteningly still you sit, so helpless to a sorrow that claws through your chest, your mind baffled by the utmost surrender of your heart.


But what can we do, when what pumps us with life is probably what defines the essence of existing. To love and be loved, great joy and great pain. Everything we become wise for, everything that costs us common sense.


It is crippling isn’t it? And when you fall, oh sometimes there could be so much more warmth from the cold, hard floor.