What Beauty Springs from your Mind
I don’t want to write sonnets and rose-petal songs for you, no red-wine-and-cheese poem to steal your heart away – for that had never been our intention, our design of which you and I came to be in the interminable cataclysm called life. You’ve been the subject of far too many loving and hateful writes to have another composed of you and I just want to make it clear from the beginning that beaches were made for us for contemplation, not romantic walks by sunset, although we can, if you prefer.
You see, what springs from the essence of your mind and is lashed by your tongue, I can’t help but to marvel at what precious artifact you are, a treasure of the consciousness of God, so delicate in that I wish to preserve it but you are too robust for that. I am consistently and utterly blown away by the things you can come up with, and here is the unbearably and overwhelmingly honest truth: I could fall in love with the way you think.
I don’t fancy the concept of love in the inflated and glorified way I used to, because I understand now that it was useless to think that I could achieve someone else’s ideal of love and make it my own. As a strong proponent of asexuality and throwing rocks at happy couples, I am surprised to find myself thinking, “my, it is a bit warmer today,” as I stand in line at Safeway with a gallon of ice cream and a loaf of white bread, standing next to you and your curiously bespectacled presence.
I am so utterly terrified of the future, the unknown and the unknowing that plays with me as Schrodinger’s cat does. I am afraid of midterms and final grades, of kittens named Scott and of you. I know maybe you find that sentiments like these pale and lose meaning in the face of secondary definitions, but what that moon hanging from your neck means is not that you are something aspiring to be like the last girl, but that in my heart you’ve replaced her, more than replaced her, you kicked her ass. You have become the primary definition, and I hope you appreciate just how much I look forward to the fearful future when I sit holding your hand, stroking the mess that is your flowing hair, listening to the impressive things that spring from your mind.
Take a shower, yo.
Does the Frog Have a Soul?
Each and every single one of the cakes you left me resemble you, petite and perfect, well put together and precious in quality. Maybe it’s the penultimate moments before dawn begins to wake, but I think I might have found someone really out of my league. Because we fancy girls with curvaceous bodies and indefatigable self-worth, men had forgotten the qualities in women we should treasure and value. And when there is someone like you, so innocent and so untainted, I cannot help but to desire more and more to protect you from the illness that the world infects called hate. You are immune, imbued by truth and righteousness.
Does the frog have a soul? Huxley asks if the body we fill by the essence of being that we call soul is just the casket for a rotting, putrid existence. That if we graft extra limbs and eyes in a craft to improve the body and the soul adopts the new body, is the old body not any less worthy? Then if we detract from the body, what are we left with, then the mere shell of the existence that we behold?
You are out of my league because your eyes do not pierce, do not judge, do not shame and you are out of my league because you laugh and you read and you still care and believe, and you work harder than anyone I know. You are the embodiment of perfection because you are beautiful and yet you continue to believe that you are not complete and I admire your passion and you are wonderful. You are wonderful because I cannot add to make you any better, you scare me because you are so fantastically constructed, and I am laughing because boys are told lies when they’re told about women who are out of their league.
She is smart and funny, kind and gentle – I marvel because I lack.
Inflated Images and Deflated Balloons
What I miss the most about you wasn’t the dates, the flowers, the sex - it was the books we read together, your company and the capacity to pour out the million things I felt for you. And I thought it would be impossible to replace you because you were so perfect, knit into the shape that hugged the warm curvatures and valleys of my hands. And when I think of things that could fall - flower petals, snowflakes, teardrops, and I for you, I realize that in your perfunctory love for me, I lost myself in a brightly lit place where I stubbornly closed my eyes and desperately believed that you were the only one who could pull me out and into happiness.
The sweater you returned smells like dried tears and regret, the scent of wasted hours and unwarranted anxiety. In my tormented fervor of passion I learned that God is an arsonist, heaven is on fire, and the graveyard in my mouth full of dead words that had died on my lips spell the sentiment that I was young and foolish.
Nostalgia is a dirty liar that insists things were better than they seemed; I read that once before, and I thought of you, not the way I longed to bring the sky and stars down for you but the way I realized in metacognitive enlightenment that this was talking of me. You used to say, “Love you!” at every departure, so conveniently leaving out the “I” as if you didn’t want to commit to your own declarations, to me.
What I want to be is needed, indispensable, absolutely necessary. I thought I could be there for you, help mend you, save you from the misery you submerge yourself in. And believe me, you were everything to me and I was prepared to set myself on fire to keep you warm. During the time we didn’t speak, I missed you and in my anguish I constructed this inflated and unrealistic ideal of you, a version of you that I fell in love with all over again – but you didn’t fit this quixotic picture of yourself that I had drawn and that’s okay. This is what you always wanted, and yes, maybe there’s someone better out there that would reciprocate my love and take me at more than face value – not that I wouldn’t love you if you came back to me. But for you, I hope you realize one night in a bar at age 28 and 5 drinks in that I was the best that you could’ve ever hoped for, and in your weakness and indecision you lost it all.
I realized why you weren’t my cup of tea; it’s because like coffee - I read that before too. They call you heartless but I know you have a heart and I love you for being ashamed to show it.
The Practice of Letting Go
There was a day, a Saturday it must’ve been, because she told me she was coming to meet me after my teaching was finished for the day. She was going to eat dinner with my friends Serin and Stella; I was so excited to show her off.
She came late, and I inquired as to why this was the case. She was lazy and never on time anyways, but she drove recklessly and fast enough to make up for it. It turns out that her ex was keeping her. He hit her.
That was the day I found out that he had been abusing her. Hitting her. Choking her. Hurting her.
I was prepared to kill him. I never saw such a deep shade of red. I was going to make him pay and he was going to pay in blood. I was ready to break him and make him cry in pain. I lost myself; I was going to humanize him.
And she begged me not to. She never wanted to trouble.
So I didn’t.
When I looked at her, I realized she was everything to me. She was my happiness. Love songs made sense and had profound and applicable meaning. I had a reason to wake up in the mornings. I couldn’t sleep thinking about her.
And at the restaurant, she went to the restroom. I slipped a note on a napkin and slipped it in her bag, a common practice of hiding small love letters in her pockets to read later.
When she found it, she read the words I so hastily but genuinely spilt: “You are my everything”.
And she looked me right in the eyes, smiled behind her sadness and said, “You are everything to me, too”.
And after we had split from my friends, alone in the parking garage, where the wind tunnel whistles, I softly pinned her against a wall.
And kissed her
This is what happiness is.
That was the moment that I realized I wanted her with everything I had. I thought that I could protect her from some sort of sadness, some sort of perpetual and unrelenting pain. I was prepared to take on the world for her.
How foolish is the young mind. I bleed of the open wounds and sit with my arms still stretched out in full acceptance, screaming, “How I adore you, how you are my drug and poison, how I am in agony because I dream of things I wish I had done better for you”
Inflamed Knees and Bruised Knuckles
In the space of about 3 weeks, every single thing that was important to me was taken away from me. It is the cruel and unfortunate vicissitudes of life that dictates such events; and I find that I struggle sometimes to find any reason or will to move on.
And in the near death of beloved ones, tears of unfaithful spouses, ephemeral heartbreaks, the squeal of reckless driving, and holes of fists to walls, I’ve become so jaded; so tired of the trials and tribulations laid out before me. So finished with having to start over or hope things will get better.
And in the kaleidoscopic mess of life, I felt that old loneliness clench my heart once more in an unforgiving and merciless embrace. How this familiar sensation fills me with dread; how I detest this feeling.
As I walked home from campus alone in the cold of a weary and cruel night to an apartment full of strangers, I’ve never felt this alone before. The self-loathing is immeasurable. Faith is the object of the fetishism of the weak and helpless.
And so is desire, that weak and hateful sin of daunted men and rightful cowards. I don’t dispute that it exists, but it doesn’t mutually exclude my belief in it.
And I knew the misery was upon me; it has always been there, merely mitigated by the presence of someone who truly made me happy. But the misery grows and develops and consumes me, and rightfully so, justifiably in every context.
I’m too smart to kill myself, and too stupid to keep living. Stuck in the purgatory of reality and rationality, I can’t seem to stop hating myself, and wonder what it is that makes the self undesirable.
Too afraid to keep living, but strong enough not to stop. The perpetual Catch-22 of going on or giving up.
I’m tired of looking at the walls of my room and hoping, wishing that my heartbeat wouldn’t be the only one filling it tonight. I feel stupid wishing for impossible things; I’ve never been lucky - I’ve never even won a raffle before.
There’s no way but forward now, but I’m so tired of everything. Fuck it all, there is no place to preserve faith but in yourself. People will lie and cheat and hurt and hate; it’s simply better that you reserve your trust and exercise all your judgment, for the sake of your own happiness.
But what if your happiness abounded in the presence of someone else? What if when everyone told you that it was the concept of falling in love that you fell in love with, but this can’t be true when that person is all you desire?
God is fucked up, and I like it in some twisted, masochistic way; it keeps me calloused, prevents me from getting soft.
I just wish it didn’t hurt or feel this way before the alcohol starts metabolize and waste you away.
Pining Wolves and Tantalizing Moons
I’m miserable and I don’t even have anyone to gripe to.
Misery is my company; I think from a long, long time ago, I started to believe it was an inevitable facet of my life that perpetuated itself in all aspects of who I was and what I did. I thought that it would drive me and harden me; I believed that in its noxious hatred and anger I would become successful through justified and glorified travail.
As the wolf pines for the moon, its love, high in the sky and isolated, out of reach and from the availability of his actions, so too am I sitting, miserable and alone.
She got a dog through an impulsive transaction. That compulsive buying has placed in her company a real, and breathing, living animal.
It’s fucking adorable. And I both love it and loathe it because it is innocent and lovely and beautiful, but it consumes what little time I had with her.
Commodity fetishism is the Marxist and Freudian concept that the purpose of buying had shifted from the merely obtainment of a useful or utilizable item to that of a deeper scale; the item in question provides more than just utility - it provides happiness, inherent excitement, and the feeling of worth or attractiveness.
It is also found to be a habit borne out of sexual frustration and pent-up exhaustion.
I don’t think I pine at my moon for much; in fact, even food becomes insignificant in light of her presence. With her, time starts to sprint in unfortunate haste, and with her, all things are quieter, less painful, and less miserable.
Every good drug has its intrinsic ramifications.
I hate myself when I’m not with her. I’m scared for and of her where she’s not around. I’m even tentative to text her sometimes, because all I can see is that I cause her more exhaustion and irritation from the fact that I am not as important to her as she is to me.
What cruel misfortune and injustice.
Maybe it’s because I had always been there for her, reminded her from the beginning that I would pour myself out to her.
Maybe it’s the fact that she’s actually never truly alone, because there is always her ex in the house. Boy, do I hate him .
I practice the guitar only because she likes to hear me sing. I work hard in hopes of seeing her pretty face when I come home. I sit up at night and can’t sleep because I’m distracted by the thought of her. I want to take her on adventures and make her feel loved and give her everything I always wanted.
I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong, because she’s not happy.
I had speculated that my relationship with her would be like that of the sun and moon, with the sun so generously and without expecting anything in return showering its rays on the moon, and the moon giving nothing back but glowing, responding, and letting the sun know that she feels loved, important, and he is the same to her.
But I’m afraid that it’s bleaker, like the lone wolf who pines piteously to the sky, hoping for the moon to notice him, wishing that he could be more for her, everything that she ever needed. I’m tired of being that wolf, chasing something that seems to always elude him, not being able to do enough to reach her.
I’m so tired. All I want is to feel loved. I expected nothing from her but to feel wanted and important.
And the constant reminder that I’m not good enough.
This is how you start to lose yourself in the misery.
Hospital food really is terrible. But I can’t complain; at least I’m physically capable of consuming food through my mouth and not a nose tube jammed into my stomach. I’ve gotten more comfortable with Lean Cuisine than I’d like to have been.
The least of the evils is the macaroni dinner. The cheese is quite viscous and sparse, quite unlike the sumptuous meal printed on the label.
But the departure of the quality of food from its packaging is the less conspicuous of what seems to be the source of randomness, unknowingness. In the cellophane-wrapped plastic bag is something that I know nothing of, and everything that it is that it can be anything that I may know everything of and guess. I have no idea what is inside, apart from the ostensible veneer that proceeds to persuade to me that what lies under the plastic and paper is gelatinous mac and cheese.
My brother is no different. It’s apparent that who he is is who he seems to be but the essence of him, where is that? Is it different? I can but guess what demons and devils plague him.
His hallucinations are getting worse. I don’t know what to do or say anymore when he screams at someone who isn’t there or warns me about the beasts in the ceiling and in the floorboards and in the hearts of men. I don’t know where my brother is.
We Mend the Broken
What little sleep and hydration I have, I attribute to last night’s trials and travesty. I don’t even know when my brother will awake.
I used to fear death appropriately, thought of it reasonably and with deferential weight. I hoped that it would appease the Reaper who fidgeted with the handle of his justified scythe. Now I fear life far more; I realize what a delicate balance of reality, physiology, and delusion it is.
When they fished him out of the water and breathed into him life, they were greeted by blood and some serum indicating life. The night was long, and all I had wished for was to run away far enough to forget the troubles of this world.
I desire not to be an only child; and I plan on never being one as long as I live.
I remember when I heard the news, the desperate, pathetic, animalistic reaction that the news evoked from me. The fear, the horror, the hopelessness, the childlike impulse to break down and cry.
I remember talking to him in his lethargic, drugged stupor. I told him that I was sorry. It was all I could muster really, but all that needed to be said, two syllables that carried the sentiment that I was never there for him the way I should’ve.
Today, he will walk. I know because despite the difficulties and obstacles that threaten to obstruct our lives, we get up and walk on, slowly at first if need be, and faster until we are running.
And my, how it all came crashing down last night.
I wished so hard for you, that when you came along, I didn’t know what to do for you. I thought I did all the right things, but it turns out that that wasn’t enough. This moratorium, this abeyance, I wish for it already over.
And with each and every piece of my shattered heart I will love you.
You who share my flesh and blood. You who I wish to share my being.
The storm is passing. And to both, I can conquer the world with my teeth if I have each of you holding my hands.
Fire your Neurons, your Artillery, and Troubles
I’ve not a deep sleep in days, sometimes waking before the sun in convulsions and sweat. The Nightmare feeds on the charred and molded fringes of my imagination. The only solace is that it passes as soon as it comes, and when my heart starts to rest and my blood cools down, reality pleasures me with its relief and invigoration.
But when the Nightmare exists in real life and regurgitates what unlikely scenes of horrid and blood, I become more doubtful and distrustful of the justice of nature and the laws which govern balance and equity.
Did you know that you tame the demons who generate these Nightmares?
I’ve been companion to loneliness far too many times; I recognize its effect on me, the way it makes me feel inside, its scent, its touch, its bitter taste, and the way it starts to feed the Nightmares.
And I just wonder why in this difficult time, victim as you are to the vicissitudes of life and traffic, the turgid stature of cultured men of culture, why would you prefer to spend your companionship and camaraderie in the presence of loneliness?
Don’t you know that in this insecurity and isolation lies the same demon that swayed even the devil?
I read somewhere that people are like books, and the essence of our beings are scribed by our experiences.
And there are those who will come in your life, and run their fingers down your spine in search of another; they are the unfortunate who will never witness your charm and beauty.
Some will pick you out and read the first chapter, but will set the book down when they get bored of you; they are the misguided who will never understand your depth.
There are few who will rifle through the pages or skim the index for their favorite parts; they will never be privileged enough to read between the lines and in the dark corners of who you are.
Very few will actually read the whole novel and think it was great, and occasionally bring it up over coffee or before bed; these hapless will never fully understand the brilliance and genius that lie in metaphors and symbolism.
And there is one who has read the very depth of you and decided that you were worth keeping. But he threw around the book carelessly until the pages tore and the binding broke. His idiocy is that he never learned to value you.
I want to be the one who reads the whole book, line by line, and keeps the book in his car and takes it with him wherever he goes. It would be my favorite novel, and I’d read it again, even though I’d know what the plot is like, what all the characters will do, despite being able to predict the next chapter.
I’ll state without hesitation that this is my absolute favorite book, and brag to nonbelievers all the beauty and perfection that went in to crafting this exquisite and wonderful thing. I want to write secrets in the loose leaf pages in the back, and when it gets old, I will be even gentler with it, and take care of it and treat it well, for it has treated me just the same. I want to recommend the book to others and someday write sequels to it.
And when I understand the bare essence of your being, I hope that you’d read the novel that is me, and love it all the same.