Folie a Deux
I need someone who sees the fire in my eyes and isn’t afraid to play with it; instead, all I ever do is set myself on fire to keep others warm.
I used to tell her that she was the reason the birds sang in the morning, why the lascivious moon wails at night. Her stare tells me that I am the reason that storms destroy innocent cities and hurricanes are named after people.
The book we read together had been damaged by rain, the necklace I got for you still hidden in my drawer, your toothbrush thrown out with the last strands of your hair I vacuumed away.
It’s been months, so many moments past, so many people come and gone – why am I still broken, still thinking of you before bed, still crying your name when I’m drunk?
I’m falling apart faster than I can help it
The hand I was given? God dealt shit
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.
Double that God Complex
I’m constantly reminded by the one person I don’t want to reveal my flaws to that I’m too self-deprecating, too self-critical, too flawed. Maybe it’s in the presence of her perspicuity and honesty, and straightforward and puerile sort of naivete that fosters in me illogical and unadvisable integrity and trust.
My, were the last few weeks hell. On top of my brother narrowly escaping from the clenches of death to the unfaithfulness of my hero who had torn the fabric of our filial unity apart, to disappointing the one person I wished to make happy, I have yet to start studying for an important final coming up in just a couple days.
I saw the movie Fruitvale Station yesterday. I could see why it was so highly recommended. As I sat in the theater witnessing the very end of a life, I wept. I wept and I wept and I wept for dying brothers and unhappy families. I wept for unresolved arguments and half read books and the tears that fall down lonely contours of cheeks and bones.
I wept and I wept for our misery and our incompetence, for our unhappiness and for the futility of it all. I wept for justice and pain and hatred and anger. I wept all that my life had yielded distastefully, the sullen and sorrowed fruit of bitterness and charred remains of heartbroken mothers and unfaithful lovers.
And I wept because I did not know what to do, the feeling that I may never be good enough but I already was, and I believed that somewhere I was above it all and then again I am humbled.
And I wept because I missed you, and I hated myself for ever making you feel anything less than you deserved, and that you are beautiful and sweet and lovely and mean the world to me, and God was a merciful or merciless fool to have burdened you with me, my past, and my loneliness.
And I believed that somewhere along the road we’d pick ourselves up and stretch our arms out again towards the sun, and I’d love you with the unmistakable rays that conflated my soul and the burning desire that dries out my flesh.
And I promised that I’d be twice the man he ever was; and I’d do it all for you. Because sitting in the loudest silence of tender and broken hearts in the other room, I wept for the injustice that had clouded our judgment and precluded misery from ever leaving out hearts.
And for you, I will be everything you need. I’ll be all that you’ve ever wanted. This is the story of a self-deprecating boy who strived to touch the feet of a cruel and justified God.
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.
Love songs are full of meaning now. I used to read empty theories of the thoughts of man and of God and believe that I could envision ideas, conceptualize ephemeral unrealities. But with the subject that is you in my life, I can predicate you with objects and phrases.
And are you happy now? I would hope so. “Electric Feel” is blaring now in the background, and I can’t sleep thinking of you.
What a shitty week this will be without you. The worst of it all is the fear and doubt and desperation that will overwhelm and consume me. Because you tend to have that effect on me. Oh how you can imbue me with strength and take it away from me just the same.
But why aren’t you happy now? I can see that despite the other that stands in the bedframe of my comfort, you pale yourself in comparison without the thought that it might have predilection or another reason that left us across the rubicon, and regard yourself less and loveless.
"Lego House" was playing, and I’m not sure if the soundtrack was loud enough, but I lost its resonance in spite of dragons, abbreviations, and guitar strings.
Happiness need not given, but should be shared. I know not a single man to roam the earth he’s razed and believed him to be devoid of or undeserving of happiness.
But her advice is your resounding anthem. Why do I bother even trying to start poems? In the end, they’re always about you anyways, my lustrous moon, my sword.
Oh, how you bruise and batter my weathered and jaded heart.
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.