"See? It's happening again. I should not do the
same thing to end the pattern. It will stop happening all over
again. It's hard to explain but you have to believe me. I'm not
imagining things, it's true.. I'm not crazy.. you have to believe me.
I will save you. This time I'll do it right. I have to kill them all
so we can get back home."
I – A Deficiency
Something very little came about inside that tiny heart of
hers. It grew. It swelled. Then it was transferred to her esophagus all the way
through her throat until it came out of her mouth as words- the gutsy,
dauntless truth. I really admire her. I want to have just the same freedom she
has to speak out what is in her heart without hesitation.
Then, here comes the doer. He blows up anything, anytime, anywhere
regardless if it’s large or small as long as it’s worth destroying. He does it
without a second thought. Why is he doing it? Beats me. I just envy him.
Then I met M. M is locked up in a home she had always been
dreaming of – a mental institution. She likes it there anyway. She can think of
anything, do anything, and say whatever she likes. No one will question her. No
one will criticize her. No one will stop her. M is the person who I exactly,
absolutely, irrevocably want to be.
They are all my heroes. Why can’t I simply be like them? Why is it
the moment we are born, there are things forced upon us regardless of whether we
like it or not to modify and shape how to live our lives?
Poor wretched girl I am with a soul irreversibly torn into pieces
by this preconceived pattern which subjects everything to its design (see Dear Mr. Gray @ www.widdifulmungo.blogspot.com). Being under its guidance, I lost all
ability to take a shape or form. That’s why I admire and envy my heroes. I am
incapacitated to even assume what I have none – an identity. And it makes me
sick. It makes me sicker through time. It’s like the sickness is being poured
into this hollowed heart of mine day by day and I am just helplessly waiting
for the thing that I am most afraid of – that it might overflow. I am damned.
Oh sons of perdition, why even you cannot provide me at least the
very lame reason as to why I have not been blessed with what they define as
sameness in all that constitutes the objective reality of a thing? Why is it I when
look at the mirror, I see no one? Am I a ghost?
II – A Love Story
Nothing but a temporary conglomeration of atoms, wavelengths of
energy – this is what we are according to a song that I have been listening to
for the past year. But try as much as I to oppose the hostile idea toward
humanity, and try as much as I to stand in defiance with my own argument that
not everybody is the same and that it is not just to generalize human beings in
that judgment, somehow I find the song right in a way.
The indistinct urge inside of me to agree to the song’s notion
came to me one day in a wave of overwhelming yet liberating meditation of my
own instances of attraction to certain things, living or not. This meditation
that I am talking about possessed a certain degree of intensity that no words
can actually manifest its full and accurate meaning.
But I would like to give myself a chance to simply explain this by
using my own experiences that revolve around this attraction that I am talking
about as to let the comprehending minds of the readers find, if not the exact,
at least the nearest thoughts to my own.
I was fourteen when I had this unsettling feeling toward certain
people. Of course, everyone would say its normal to feel that way considering
that puberty stage includes being at the age of fourteen, thus, naming the
object of the feeling in layman’s term
as “crush”. Like all others, I felt that attraction toward the opposite sex.
But not too long.
Later, I found myself having the same feeling for the same sex.
Much later, I found the same feeling for non- living things such as paintings
which evoke a particular kind of arousal which for the life of me, I cannot
name. This attraction for living and non-living things extended to sheep,
horses, trees, flowers, rivers, and most of all the sea.
Years went by and I patiently observed this same old familiar feeling
coming back every time I see someone or something that interests me. When I
reached college life, I was bored. I was all fed up with the same things that I
never felt the same feeling anymore with people of all sexes, animals and
things that I am fond of before.
One late afternoon in a particularly cold November, I visited a
not so popular cemetery. The night hinted its advent as I saw stars starting to
appear across the sky. It’s starting to get dark around me as I walk back home.
I saw the sad yet beautiful wild flowers growing all over the graves. Most of
the graves are down already. In just about a few minutes it was hard already
for me to find my way back home as fog surrounded me very fast. I can hardly
see anything and I halted. Suddenly, I heard something behind me. I turned
around and I saw it. It was an open grave which was starting to go down. I took
a few steps toward it, knelt down and peeped inside those cracked stones and
cement. Then, without a warning, I felt that same old familiar feeling which I
had missed so much but this time, it’s different and much more intense.
I found the love of my life. That same evening, I moved him out of
that miserable grave of his and took him home. My family condemned me for
bringing him home and choosing him over them. They threatened to bring me to a
doctor or enroll me in a mental institution if I won’t leave my love. But
still, I was unmoved. So much for the details of how I was thrown out of our
house and was forced to live on my own. I never regret anything. We are now
living ten years together. It’s just that same old familiar feeling is getting
stronger day by day. I am aware that I never knew anything about him but I have
my whole life to find out, especially why he is not moving nor talking at all
and why he is almost stripped of his meat.
III- What is Essential
I despise the trivial things I have to face every day. For
instance, my superior at work getting frustrated because I am again, absent. Or
perhaps the need to go to the grocery to buy things I need to stay alive such
as food and medicine. Or having to endure the pain of putting up with people –
meeting them and talking to them. I don’t want to see them, I swear to God.
Most of all, thinking about my job makes me want to vomit. I absolutely desire
to get rid of it because it’s a trifle.
I lost all will to think about those horrible things. When one
sees me with these symptoms – sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and
concentration, a significant increase or decrease in appetite and long hours
spent sleeping – he or she may evaluate that I have clinical depression.
It’s like all things lost their color and brightness. Like time
ruined them. Like they lost their functions. I mourn for this. I grieve the
impermanence of everything especially things that are of value – like the very
first computer my mom brought for me and my brother. It’s like things lost their meaning. And I
hate it that every day, I am forced to move on, simply by living and let myself
participate in a worldly meaninglessness called routine.
Yes, you might be thinking I am indeed depressed. You can think
whatever you want for all I care. I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. So
much about me and all things I hate.
Let’s talk about you instead. You are lucky my friend because you
are reading this. You will be able to open your eyes again to things that are
more important than your perfect attendance at work, things that are much
better to ponder on than the daily gossips you heard about your manager. You
will be able to feel again nameless emotions you were deprived of when you
started growing up.
Close your eyes and picture this out:
Tiny city lights at night. You are watching these lights from a
distance. These are lights coming from a foreign city with foreigners speaking
foreign language.
Woods at twilight. All you hear are crickets at a distance and the
hooting of an owl from time to time and all other sounds you can imagine coming
from a forest. In the woods, everything
is bathed in gloomy blue and indigo with a hint of pink. All you see around
that blend of light are silhouettes and the stars beginning to appear above.
A snowy evening. Snow is falling gently from the sky. Stains of
blood are on a spot on the ground. Near
that spot, lies a girl on her back wearing a black coat. She is staring at the
snowflakes gently descending unto her. Her black hair is already white with
snow, her face pale and her lips red as the blood around her. There are six
gunshot wounds – three on her stomach, two on her chest and one on her
forehead.
IV – I am a Dream
I am a dream- haunting, mysterious, surreal.
I am the sweetest or the worst you’d ever had. I am the mixture of
emotions you keep down the surface- fear, happiness, loneliness, rage,
emptiness and all others that do not have names.
I can be real or not. I am both ugly and beautiful. I am yours and
everyone else’s dream.
I am the shadows under your eyes and that particular cold wind
that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. I am the painting of a
nameless man watching the setting sun. I am the Moonlight Sonata playing indistinctly in the piano room at
midnight. I am the abandoned house with the gate locked. I am the prettiest
garden where you roam alone. I am the tidal waves running toward the shore,
much huge each time.
I am what you are running away from but also the one waiting at
the end of line as you run all the way to me. I am the only scarecrow in the
middle of the golden field. I am the raven who visits your window nightly. I am
the picnic you had with people unknown to you on such a warm sunny day.
I am the one who knocks at your door during rainy nights. I am the
long forgotten necklace you found in an antique dresser. I am the manifestation
of a suppressed grief - the tears
streaming down your face when you are asleep or the smile you have on your face
when you wake up.
I am the car you’d seen running without a driver and that gloomy
bedroom bathed in luminous blue light. I am the stranger alone on the next
table or someone who is about to jump from a bridge on a rainy day.
I am that white figure from your peripheral vision and I am the
girl in black you passed by at night as you walked that desolated street.
I am an excess thought who has materialized – fleeting and
evanescent, both vivid and cloudy. I am a means of escape, a refuge, a reverie.
I am also a tormentor, a monster, a ghost of yours.
But in the end, I am a dream. I am just a dream – haunting,
mysterious, surreal.
