Tuesday, August 20, 2013


Can't sleep. Thinking of you. Wondering if you're mad. Wondering why we always play guessing games and why I always end up wrong. Wondering why we are this complicated when all we want is simplicity. Wondering why I over-analyze things and conclude without valid evidence. Wondering why I'm like this. Wondering why you love me - this mess. Wondering why I'm messy. Wondering why I resort to writing when I can text you or talk to you. Wondering why you haven't texted me. Wondering if the network's not okay. Wondering if you phone's okay. Wondering whether you're asleep or not. Wondering why I choose to stay awake and wait for the impossible text to be received. Wondering if you're really mad. Wondering what I can do to make you feel better. Wondering if I make sense to you sometimes. Wondering what you're thinking if I don't make sense sometimes. Wondering why sometimes you don't tell me where you're going. Wondering why I keep asking you where you're going. Wonder if I irritate you sometimes. Wondering about what you're thinking if I get irritating. Wonder if I bore you sometimes. Wonder what makes me interesting to you. Wondering what you'll think after reading this. Wonder if you'll clarify these ponder-ings. Basically, just wondering.

The Outcast

Concerns transverse through my brain about us. Well not exactly about us, but about how people will react about us. We've both struggled to keep our relationship as discreet as possible and now that our closest friends know about us, I can't help but feel threatened that the information would just burst into the open. It's not that I don't trust them but just like what you said, the risk of leakage.

I'm worried about you most of all, because I don't think people will really be surprised about me. I'm concerned about how they'll treat you after them knowing. Society is prejudicial and harsh, especially a society as conservative as this city-or this country for that matter.

I don't want you to get hurt. I'd rather be the outcast than let you be one.

Friday, August 9, 2013

For Some Reason, Mushrooms

There's this excruciating desire to juice literature out of my system that despite the raving examinations in a few days time, I decidedly stepped away from the boredom that is Accounting and the hassle that is Anatomy. As Ingrid Michaelson's You And I sets the mood this afternoon, I sit here in infinite relaxation while my phalanges do some action.

And I felt power - a quiet surge of energy, resurrection (maybe?) and slight tinge of remorse as I remembered that failed quiz that I vow to avenge. But more so, I felt liberation-that despite how short this post is, this provided me the necessary breather to go on moving and ensure myself that I'm still a live organism that devours Murakami and farts some of it sometimes.

Mushrooms. Some grow on cow poop but they still look uber cute. I think life and literature are like that sometimes, cute despite the shit below. And random. Decidedly random.

Friday, August 2, 2013

August Rush

Today is a lazy day. Partly because  it's Friday and partly because I slept late last night. Actually I slept way past you did. It's like one of those cheesy films when the protagonist gazes at his lover while the latter rests in eternal-ish slumber - except that I'm not really looking at you, but nonetheless, I am imagining that I was, touching your face, every contour, every crevice, every surface, I committed to memory.

And like many cheesy movies, this happened after it and you lay exhausted while I secretly wished for more. I am hugging you now, knowing your warmth, conjoining our stark nakedness. And as the last few moments of night emerged just before dawn, I, too, slept contented and very much happy.