Unfinished Businesses Inside a Toasted Head

"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.