I see you've engineered a new tear-drop, flawless in its structure, rich in its appeal, and with programmed beeps for the right hour; and the way gravity pampers it, almost real. Do you know that “almost” is not a thin line, to those who’re not as obvious as gravity? I could be fooled, again, denying the sincerest of doubts that are too strait-laced to be awed by the beauty of a lie. Or I could contradict the plausibility on display, create two poles, and rise above the platitude. We could be two people buying each other’s lies. Or we could be two highways selling our own ways.
Either way, truth isn't a label you get when you cry to prove your point.
But I never
asked for pity. You’ve lost your childhood and you’re out of practice. That’s
why you’ll never understand, what all of this means. That’s why you mistake my
rhymes for a strategy, my loud wishes for a certain size of a donation box.
Don’t ever, ever mess with my innocence. Just so you know, I can be mean too.
I can see you. Winter isn’t here just to live by calendars and forecasts; it’s here to fog up the air around me, and the air around you. I can still see you. You can’t see me.
Here, right now, how I see it all matters because tomorrow relies on it. So I’ve decided to see through you. And winter is here, so I can have something to blame for the cold feeling I will have after having seen through you, or something to thank, for you will not have seen through me.
There are wires; there are hearts, not used. And you can’t see me. That’s why tomorrow; all of this will be just a memory. I seeing you not seeing me has no future. And winter is here, to teach me to get used to it.
And maybe I’ll grow old by the time I figure this out, but I’ll be old and strong, having lived through many, many winters.
I have memories, far too many, actually, of being
out-flooded by my stubborn streams, whose repetitively confirmed idiopathy
couldn’t gather much weight to stand as a defense against the imminent damage
to my perceptive realms, only to twist me more, to leave me a bit more
beseeching for salvation at times, a bit more callous to the persistent pain at
times, and most of the time, way too much drawn away from the things around,
everything else, that is, not because of their relative trivialities but because
everything seemed to have an ever-active
mode that blatantly meant to say ‘like-me,’ and I was not looking for something
likeable; I was looking for something/ anything that would make sense.
And then there are kindergarten kids; one cries and the other
immediately cries, not imitating, just being naïve and irrational as ever. And there,
in that irrationality, paradoxically, is that rationale of connection, which
crushes the wall of the well of solipsism and something about it, if not the
flood itself, makes sense. (Seems like I have company; and suddenly, flood can’t
be that bad.)
I doubt how I define enough is actually what enough is, so if
I were to convince myself that I can go another round of your who-smiles-best
contests, risking my heroism in my own story just to not be omitted from the big picture, I will obviously make myself smile, one more
I doubt how I define smile is actually what smiles are, so
if I were turn around all of a sudden, I might need a fraction of a second to
reabsorb my expression and make room for reciprocating the expressions in air
and I will definitely join the conversation, one more time.
I doubt how I define a conversation is actually what
conversations are, so if I were the one supposed to make sure the lulls don’t
get a chance, I will probably talk about health and relatives; movies and music
and strain harder to remember everything I have overheard people talking about,
leaving the philosophies and whims, the regrets and resolutions for a
conversation with the walls of a rest room nearby, one more time.
I doubt smiles and conversations inedible to my actual
system make a cause good enough to protest, so I will suppress my impulses, one
Anyways, I will give you a good show, even if I doubt I’m
I only meant to knock on your door.
I only meant it as a yes/no question.
You didn't have to explain why your walls are colored with the color I never heard you talking about, why that particular picture is hanging there, why your coffee mug is still stained all over, why the socks from your pair of socks have been assigned distant corners; why the lights are still on.
But you did. And I don't care. (I never should have.)
FYI, there's a crack on your shell.
And that's not because I knocked.
Of scandalous smoke and misty words, I know little and I’ve
decided to stay that way. Of nothingness and its paradoxical substance, I come
to know more every day. The void inside me (or is it the other way round),
compromisingly voracious that it is, ever taking in one more round of foreign
smokes and words, and one more round of domestic analysis, never filling
though, is punctured here, rusted there, and so when you fire a storm into me
in one of many wrong directions, it leaks sometimes and that isn’t my call. I
wouldn’t go so far as to blaming the navigator because if you’re not rowing
your boat somewhat smoothly, it doesn’t mean the entire tide is your fault; but
I dare go as far as to say that you shouldn’t sail in a kind of sea that you’re
not ready for.
So hell yeah, I’m dangerous. You can’t just bump into a
person like me walking with this void and shake hands just for the fun of it. This
black hole I have that happily devours things, trash or gold, every time you
feel like disposing a sin or protecting a secret, is spinning every second of
its own existence, unpredictable in its manner, searching for something to
settle for, a meaning that’ll nullify the emptiness, a tangible proof to
convince itself of the importance of insanity that will stand for itself when
I’m occupied with handling the periodic fits of convulsions, and it does not come
with an insurance like it’s a bank deposit or something. You can shake hands
with me, no problem; come to think of it now, it’s a necessary distraction for
a while, but you can’t sign a deal with me. It’s not often that it rains
simultaneously in two different worlds and it is only when it does, that we
understand how the other one feels; at all other times, it’s just out-of-line
conversations and empty sympathies. And such things provoke the dark knights in
my empty empire and sometimes they even draw out their rusted swords, not just
for the fun of it, but with the acumen that a naïve nothing is way better than
a shitty something.
So let me admit myself to my own what is still a Montessori.
And I understand your concern but with
time I’ll build a school that will educate every twisted thought I have and
will have, not a private asylum.
I’m not being so much as adamant as I am being careful but
until I find a meaning, I’ll just stop by. For a while. Too much of me isn’t a
There’s a long list, it’s you who picks. The ingredients,
the freshness, the garnishing, you judge from the looks of it. You pick and
spend some time with it, and decide how often you’d like its company. (Don’t
get carried away by the complementary drink alone. You don’t always get it and
that’s no reason to complain.)
But everything I am stuffed with may not be exactly what you
are expecting. I hope you’ve heard it too; how they say that everybody is a little
bit of everything. Without mentioning the percent composition, they say so to
misguide you to thinking that a particular thing could be something else, if it
may please you, provided it’s given another chance, which isn’t to say it isn’t
true but which isn’t to imply that that very something won’t be another race of
different the day after tomorrow either, for if a little bit of everything is
involved, every saint and every sinner; every dog in it will get to live a day
or a moment at least.
So promises of tomorrow are a disrespect to the day after
That’s why it’s important to give truth a chance, and
excuses a retirement.
And that’s why a repetition is a necessity. What is on
display may not be everything that I am, and even more importantly, vice versa.
I like to believe what’s melting is ice and ice is just
water, certainly not what you paid for. And I know it’s not the case, unlike how you don't know what I’m selling is my own truth, certainly not what you’d expect on
Because it seems as though the trick is in the cream, and
though I don’t like it when you call it flavor, I’ll work on my translation
skills accordingly. I’ll probably go through it again and picture myself as the
apparatus and you as the temperature. But help me, how do I know what’s the
threshold for the glass the apparatus is made up of, for though my insides are
readily vulnerable, I’d need to keep my form?
One scoop out of refrigeration isn’t exactly a sin, it’s a
destined cycle. So it isn't fair that it gets mocked when it’s in a
transitional phase as if it’s always going to be weak and leaky. As if it won’t
cross the bridge and get to the other side.
(Especially when you’re the one who’s more
concerned about the form I’m contained in.)
The point at which it melts isn't exactly the answer you
should be working on when what I’m asking is when it ceases to exist. So tell
me when did I become someone else?