Friend: “You gotta marry up!” (on how he married a hot girl)
Me: “But when you are marrying up, someone is marrying down.”
Friend: “I thought that was a brownie.” (referring to an obvious non-brownie object.”
Me: “I feel sorry for you.”
You don’t actually give a shit anyways.
I learnt overtime that I realize my own predictions. Repeat the same process and hope that things will miraculously turn right. I live with this consciousness of stupidity, taught myself to be void of emotions so I will never get hurt. In return it’s a sense of emptiness that consumes every other aspect of self.
This talk of all or nothing, no return is for if I do come back with less of myself, I can think about not losing the whole. I do not deserve to think that I have problems and issues because they are relative terms. How do you fight both sides of a war and still lose? (A reader brought up this statement awhile ago. I am afraid I don’t have an answer, or maybe I am too coward to commit to one)
I am not sure when I started preferring cowardice over failure, emptiness over turbulence, pity over aggression. I don’t plan on fixing them and I don’t want to be fixed. This stubbornness chases my consciousness around. By now I’ve written myself into contradiction so I will just leave it at this.
I do not believe I will ever have the courage to admit that my hostility comes from vulnerability, at least not for awhile. It hurts me that my vulnerability hurts others. It hurts me to know that my weakness is a weapon. I said I don’t feel sympathy. I don’t. Not for you. Maybe, I don’t know. When you trip over me, I penalize myself for my clumsiness to the point I completely forgot you were lying there in pain. I walk away without a bruise, head filled to the brim with replays of my inability. Except I didn’t trip you over, except you weren’t lying there in pain, it was, something else, and much worst.
I’ve been wondering for awhile now whether I should include images in this tumblr. After all, that’s sort of the point of tumblr right? When I first start I felt words leaves room for imaginations, but over time you also realize, there’re things you can’t quite put into words. As a person who create images on a daily basis, I understand people’s preferences for different artistic styles and their potential bias. Perhaps there’s an objectivity to clean typography on a blog page, or maybe I am too timid to drift away from this objectivity or being judged. I am still unsure.
I opened up my eyes so quickly I felt a jolt in my body. I was panting. I closed my eyelids again, trying to grasp the dream that was slipping away.
The rest of the day I spent reminiscing the silhouettes and impressions that were left behind. I was dreaming with my eyes open. I imagined the silhouette re-enacting the scene, although this time it was slightly different. It was a bit more satisfying as I choreograph these imageries at will. It was, sitting there across me. It was, standing there beside me. It was, reciting the words I carefully composed. My heart was racing. I find myself gazing at objects. Ordinary objects I cannot recognize for my mind was occupied. How could you not see when you eyes are open? I was seeing colours but I was blind. I was hearing words but I was deaf. Sensations bottlenecked at the tip of my spine.
Just as my mind was choreographing the hauntingly beautiful scenarios, my logic started to tear it apart. I was breathless from this longing for perfection and clarity of reality. I realize I cannot stay up 24 hours a day, I realize I cannot live without air, I realize that expectations are co-related to frustrations.
I dismissed these imageries and put on this armour of objectivity that protects me from disappointment. When good things do finally happen, it will be, an arranged surprise.