It is a pity that obtaining reality can be a weakness. When given appealing work, it is so easy to act completely oblivious until I must force myself to rush. Intervals are about masturbating in bed, imagining different modes of conversation with those I find attractive, clouded by the ambition that I may be able to, carelessly, appropriate anything that is aesthetically pleasing. Manifesting desires is a delight in imagination, and introversion is a hindrance to importing most of it to materiality. Perhaps my desires are hunched so inwards, that the belief that I could live anything by thoughts has become foundational to me. To fall in love at the desired moment, to surrender to throbbing sadness at the desired moment. Surely all the things that don't happen in most days which rather, end in dry and grubby tears after masturbation, and I wait impatiently to fall asleep. It is only sometimes that dreamlike incidents come close, and when they do‐yes, yes, good, more, more... let go of the cerebral, let be addicted to something, come‐but I would rather relinquish all those desires, and persist living only under the foot of all dreamlike incidents. Beating the brains out, writing, shedding tears, until stories become soggy like soup that must only be spewed out if it cannot be swallowed any longer.
Long-lasting stories seem to transcend by running in reverse. Once I watched a skit that parodied conversations that cannot make any meaningful delineation, for fear that anything could imply prejudice‐and in order to do so, the skit used prejudice as its humor code. It is a pity that I often feel as though I cannot prevail, or take longer time to prevail than others, over the discomfort that I must endure to understand forms of transcendence. There is a constant urge to face more discomfort, as well as an urge not to wet myself so easily from such discomfort. The aggression of a heroine who could lend their body for survival, or the aggression when, someone ridicules me and I could make a countermove by saying "It is true, I am that kind of person". I should refrain from talking about my values in aggression, for knowing that some body will be hurt in ways that are inexplicable.
That sadness can be a vanishing point for some notions, an isolated conclusion, forges a pathetic little world in itself. Sadness makes me want to run away from it, and for the same reason, it is the only liberating feeling. It is painful because it lets me know I am alive. I have a lot of tears, and people ask how I can shed so much it is like a squall. Tears wash away history, strategy, and the shamefulness of words that fail to witness them. Remains of these things are reminded to me by dirty soap dish, hairs of different colours in public shower drain, clogs of dust. The smell of damp pillows when you fall asleep wet after a shower, they are put to sleep. The first memory of my love for the expression, putting something to sleep, formed when I was nine, at a night before we made soup, my mom would soak a body of chicken in milk. She called it putting it to sleep. We were in bed and a quiet beheaded chicken lay in the sink. It felt like a treatment for a peaceful night.
The insides of girls, who can appreciate little things, make simple faces, and imagining that they are, actually, full of sludge‐desire for fame and success, desire to use me up. On seeing girls, there are moments when I want to escape them forever, and then my heart melts like wax and all I want to do is to tightly hold their hands. Sometimes they are so much like my mom in front of strangers it is painful to look at. Last week I found a classmate's instagram where she posted a picket that said destroy my pussy not my Earth. Girls are baffling and I find myself dominated by a surge of frustration, yet how could there be any being so amiable and sweet. When I observe their bulging ambition I wish I could ignore them completely. Ambition in the angelic face of a girl renders me helpless and vulnerable, like a non-reversing mirror that stripped away every likable part of my face. I fear that I may never appreciate these parts. Or should I even?
Pleasurable people‐standing in front of them it is difficult even to say hello, my agencies vanish, and I find myself muttering like a child who finally realized their age. Pleasurable people ask simple questions, most of whom come from worlds different from mine. Conversations with them spur fatigue and enthusiasm, as I need to gag my entirety of words to deliver my likes and dislikes, the kind of things that would be expected, in most days, to affect without having to deliberate. My affection for those who aspire to feel. The inquisitive face of a person immersed in conversation, to get as close as they could to the world of a stranger, impresses me. It makes me talkative like a fourteen‐year‐old visiting karaoke for the first time with unnies. I am eager to grab the mic and rattle, and my eyes are buggy, trying to squeeze the most out from a little extrovert inside, as if it was from‐the most I could get back then‐sugar high. Unnies always bought me delicious food. I would like to buy delicious food for someone also. Or make food for someone. There was an unspoken promise among unnies who told me there is no need to pay back, just next time when you see another younger one, buy for them. Where have all the unnies gone. Now in front of my face is another one. Time will come when I should feel pain with this one, too. Plastered with tears and scab, bringing back my fear of the world for being too alive. I stare into its eyes, the curious eyes of which I am not sure if it will ever stand up and tell me yes I, too, feel your fear. I associate the memory to the persisting sound of a car horn right before accident, and an animal gazing at its headlight entering from the furthest corner of its eye.
Being together is a safe promise, and I don't want to get used to that. I close my eyes to feel alone without it knowing, where I find myself bedded under a pile of sand and constantly washed by ebbing tide. The pillow smells musty already. I hope all of this would come to an end.
