of crazy days and beers in afternoons

i need you to show me the way from crazy
i wanna be so much more than this

i had a rather good day today working on my vocals with catt. it was fun and absurd with catt belting out the most obscure songs that ive never heard of in my entire 21 years life span. and maybe we would all become lola from co copacabana one day. all jaded with a tiny streak of sanity left. i dont know, the songs were sad like that.
sometimes i wish i could just sleep on forever. its annoying to be awake and not being alive enough.

its tedious sometimes to live life as it is.

in the color of my father's eyes

the night feels huge and i feel tiny. not up to saying anything to anybody, just ramble by myself.

why am i so often the last to notice my own mistakes. why am i often so blind to my mistakes even when they've been pointed out to me for a long time. by the time i do see, it's too late. not too late for me to learn, never that, but too late to share the joy of learning, too late to share the fruits of it.


and i sit at my keyboard, staring at the blank screen, watch the cursor winking at me, endlessly. so i sit here and wait for words that would save my soul and set me free from these burning desires and hatred or discontentment that im feeling but nothing like that comes. just words that are used up, and words that are useless, and words that i don't even bother to save.

i just want everybody back, anybody actually. i know i shouldn't want such things. and i know that what i know is not always what i am. but i want. want. want.

my mistakes would be regrets if i thought that they'd be more useful that way. but no, just do differently the next time. maybe i'll trust instead of fearing. maybe i can tell the difference now, after all this time. and maybe, knowing the difference will make a difference, some day.

i still dream of moving across the continent, owning a house with a nice kitchen, a great entertainment set with a nice couch. someone said, maybe i should get away from some people but i think i should get away from myself. i can never be myself when im stuck here in this stinky awful place. i can never be contended. i get pass everyday promising myself better days in a foreign land soon. i dont thrive here. im shallow this way.

dizzy with the need to sleep, dizzy with the desire to stay awake. but i'll go to bed and turn off the light. write tomorrow, write in the morning. i just cant even begin to describe this scorching need to be with someone now, too ashamed to even type it down. im hopeless yet hopeful.

i come along just because im lazy.
i go along to be with you.

some days are meant to be lazy

suddenly i feel that i'm about to understand something important, something about being, something that i previously understood entirely differently. indeed, i now realize that i did believe that i knew enough, which is always a dangerous thing, especially since such beliefs can sprout up in secret, without giving notice of their existence, nourished by hopes and fears and barely realized values. this about-to-understand is a nudge at the back of my head, a vagueness, a vaporous sense of uncertainty, the kind that tightens my belly into a ball of anxiety, coated with a sprinkling of excitement. "what does it mean" and "what will happen" and "where am i then" and "i'm confused".

i wonder if cats and dogs and birds ever get this feeling in their tummies. do they realize, and re-realize, and realize that their previous realizations weren't all that there was to realize, after all. oh idleness.

and her happiness is sublime to see, her gestures more calm than in months, her patience no longer worn by constant bickering, his presence soothing her heart. i like watching them, i like sitting in their delightfully eclectic kitchen and talk with her without feeling that there was anything that he couldn't overhear.


are we truly who we are because of the small things, is our truest identity truly hidden in the things that we don't truly pay attention to. do my habits reveal me more than i could, is there something to be known in the way that i always pick this spoon but never that one, in how i always slip my keys into the pocket of a certain coat whenever i come home, in how i take forever in picking fruits, in how my voice lowers in pitch when i talk with certain people. he has a habit of expressing concern over how fast i drink my orange juice at lunch, she has a habit of searching for words with her hands as well as her mouth, he's in the habit of forming his questions so that it's near impossible to give an answer that would please him, and she just can't fall asleep unless the curtains are completely closed. are these secrets in ourselves that we never truly realize but other people could reveal for us. possibly, plausibly, probably. perhaps.

all this leaves me pensive.

i want to be a baker now. wearing an apron always makes me aware of the image of a housewife, and how such images really don't say everything, not at all. if i store food into plastic containers, it doesn't mean that i'm sexually frustrated. if i hum to the water pipes while doing the dishes, it doesn't mean that next i'll start scrubbing the floor because it's all that i can think of doing. and if i were to start scrubbing the floor because it was all that i could think of doing, it wouldn't mean that it was all that i could think of doing for the remainder of my days. it's strange that such images are lodged so tightly within our minds, and strange how reluctant we often are to look beyond them.


in the image of a baker now.

inevitably so

and though you speak in snowflakes
your frost no longer bites
but only melts upon me
for i am warm.

i would have continued sharing the wonder with her, in ways both intimate and amazing, but she says she no longer loves me, to which i can say nothing in return, only sigh and feel compassion as i would to any other who sinks away.

and i hear echoes inside where she used to be.

oh i know that this isn't the end to me, not even an end. this is another day. i do what i would have done in any case. i live, i breathe, i allow myself to be sad and joyful in turns, dazed, amazed, through and through. in motion without moving. and sad.

one night i sit up in bed and cut away several pages of a book that i'm reading. i've never liked those pages, just knowing that they're there has always bothered me, pages full of suggestions and recommendations, telling me how i should understand something. so off they go, into the trash, leaving behind only jagged stubs of paper, and a sense that some wall was removed from where it stood between me and the universe. on i go.

and later, on another day, another time, today, i sit in the kitchen and i remember you, and the pit of my belly is falling down, down, down through the floor and the ground and the core into emptiness. i can sense how fucking good it'd feel to become hard now, how fucking good it would feel to be bitter and full of hate. but i no longer know how, damn me but i don't know how. i've forgotten what i don't need, i've forgotten what i have no use of, so i forget what i can't remember, and notice the song on the radio. humming inside and tracing the ceiling, and the timeless softness re-enters my eyes.

softer, softer, soft enough to consume sadness, know it sinking deeper into me, know it touching me as it passes through, know it leaving a little something behind, a little something for me to recognize it again when it next comes by.

merely thinking

sometimes it's just beautiful to stop and listen. to throw away the questions that plague reason and to just let go and accept emotions without questioning. it's okay sometimes, to not always feel all right and a-okay. there's a certain beautiful frailty in the silence of not knowing why . i forget very easily, much to my dismay those simple things.

it is the return to welcoming and embracing sadness, were sadness a long lost friend.