lank tangles

i'm pretty good at distracting people from negativity even for a while if i really try.

i say this because it's true.

i'm a shock absorber. a sponge. a piece of cloth, a tissue, a cotton bud. i try to suck out as much of the bitterness and heartache, bundle them up close, wrap my arms around them at night and wake to their withered husks in daylight. sometimes they stay for the night, some cling on for weeks on end. but it all ends the same. they melt away. and i'm free again. dry. ready for the next drenched soul who happens to wander by.

i've been told that i am freedom. i shrugged then, and said, i love the taste of freedom, that i know.

i've so much sunshine to hand out it scares me sometimes.

if i had a calling, this would probably be it. i'm an urchin begging for a little bit of your misery to get me by. make me feel that i am of some use in this lonely planet.

so cast down your shadows. go on, leave it all with me.

i'm sorry for ranting under the influence.

i'm sorry for expecting too much.

i'm sorry for feeling too comfortable, setting aside the fact that we just met.

i'm sorry for being crude and harsh, that's how i am with the people i know i can trust.

i'm sorry for being so demanding yet hesitant to dish out anything in return.

i'm sorry for overanalyzing the smallest details an attempt at being sensitive which, most of the time, i am not.

i'm sorry for forgetting that you are young, perhaps too young to understand the things i've been through that made me the way i am.

i suck at apologies. but i'm big at writing notes. and 17 is a cursed number.

i was always so secure in the things i knew were mine, always so damn sure, that i'd wander off aimlessly without a care at whim because i'm confident i'd come back and find them exactly where and how i'd left them. there was no fear, because in my mind, in every sense, they were, are, and for my lifetime, truly, absolutely, desperately mine.

now the immaterial pieces of my insides are suddenly, harshly, like brittle stitches in worn, ancient clothes bled dry some eternities ago by the unforgiving sun --- bare, weak, so easy to rip into insignificant shreds.

irony has waited long, and without my knowing it i have presented her bony, ash-painted fingers my bare throat.

i strive to master the art of faking it.

the universe is the unfathomable wonderland, and the world is the long table around which, sprawled in high-backed cushioned seats, characters so unreal shamelessly and unrepentantly brag in revelation that the tea is exactly two days, twenty three hours and fifty minutes older than what they assured a young girl with clear blue eyes, gone off to search for the yellow brick road.

round and over the sea of china ants scuttle over spilled sugar darkening over stains spreading like burns on cloth. over the clanking of cups on saucers the tales are so degrading they are hilarious; shaking shoulders and pounding fists belly the internal shudder at the back of everyone's mind, and the cackles from ironically parched throats drown out the fervent pleas to never be so unfortunate as to fall on the blind side of such split second graces.

it is a grand banquet, an orgy of counterfeit identities, made so very exciting by its unreality. an unreality that is, and that must be for those whose will is to survive, an unreality that demands the absolute absence of being.

i am a spectator. my will is to learn all. and thus, i too, strive to master the art of faking it.

listening without process.

comfort without kinship.

come-ons without direction.

the baring of teeth.

saltwater.

i strive to master the art of faking it.

it amazes me how we get bored with what we are doing.

decisions.

life gives us choices and we choose what we want or at least the things which fulfills our necessities. what favors us is what we want. i guess we are that powerful, we tend to move from one phase to another.

evolution.

that is what i like about people. we search for nothing.

love. hate. i live with this excess of anger and love with very little room in between. the absence and overdose of one ultimately lead to the other. sometimes it seems even to me that these are the only two real emotions i can really feel. they are too easy to recognize. 

friendship is something i do not know how to handle. friendship is something i do not understand well. its love or hate, i cannot fathom friendship. it is uncertain, weak, pale, fleeting, ultrasensitive. such a difficult thing.

guilt i hate feeling the most. vacillating between right and wrong, feeling rotten for doing the wrong thing and justifying the deed in your mind. and vice versa.

it's all so confusing. 

if silence is what you want, then so be it.

i'd agree to anything if it means appeasing your wants. i can't deny you anything.

if you say i overanalyze, find meaning where there is none, jump to beyond-unreasonable conclusions and get mad at the tip of a hat, i won't argue with that, no matter how much i'd want to contest it in defense of myself.

i'll swallow and throw up the bitter realization that you had every intention of letting me go on and on talking to a wall had i not asked for an explanation.

you want me on my knees, i'll do it. and for this second time, i'll beg you not to leave me behind.

always remembering don't matter as much as never forgetting. i can try to recall when reminded, but i can't always do it on my own. so i'd ask not to always remember, for it's such a bother. but i would to never forget. because i will. i do forget. i can't do it, so, my friend, you'll have to not forget for the both of us. keep us together, never forget.

i honestly do not understand how i can tick a person off so easily. i don't understand at all why my head is always being bitten off for arguing a little about the most trivial things, which used to be okay. i do not understand how things have gotten this way, when everything seemed fine during our last ever meeting. i do not understand.

i'm begging to understand. i tire of this pointless anger. i weary of agonizing over why.

it is when you attempt to blur your feelings that you stumble and fall and eventually lose your sense of self. you may be a box of crayons in a world of numbers, too. still, whether or not you'll allow yourself to be caught in a trap of what you were taught to believe is up to you; you are your own person. you have every right to be as stubborn as you please when it comes to holding on to your beliefs.

live a little, sugar.

Currently listening to: the whirr of the aircon
Currently reading: nasc8 handouts from last semester
Currently feeling: sore

This entry was taken from one of my many ex-blogs, http://www.tabulas.com/~fauxnaif.

Posted on January 17th, 2007 at 10:40 PM.