2 x 4

My predicament would not hold true, if the moon hasn't exploded the night before, had the sky filled with dark, dense clouds, moving swiftly as the wind blows. Chasers traverse across the highway like lifeless flesh, succumbed to the ephemera of darkness.

Oh it's the tantrum in Orexia again. The invisible walls would falter come night falls as miasma of fears emerged into the thin air like a contagious virus, as fire burns, hatred grieves the wall, it was bedlam.

Spreading across the forlorn shore are the faint traces of your existence, as if you had been walking in the air, caressing the ground so softly with the tip of your shoes. Scrapping palm tress and the sound of bushes reassured the inscrutable occurrences, the growing feeling of guilt and uncertainties, so disturbingly abstruse, so disturbingly real.

Maybe, Tomorrow,

I have a journal hidden under the desk for almost two years now.

I always chose to leave empty the first page before I start writing, thought I don’t exactly know why but I always did, so much as I would leave empty the first page of a new exercise book, so much I would leave empty the first page of a new drawing pad, much like how I would leave empty the part about me to people around me. It’s a gesture, it’s like the only thing that I could control, and what is going to happen beyond that blank page would be an arcanum waiting to unfold itself. Though I’m not sure, I’m not sure…

I don’t keep journals anymore.

Like, ever since I realize the whole point of keeping a personal record is a form of addiction and crave for nothing but self-pity. I don’t have a lot of time for self – pity because I think I’ve had enough of myself and I am constantly wondering how people put up with me everyday. I have always thought I’m paranoid. If you read my journals, you would know. I would write my entries so detailed down to every single bit of information but in such a vaguely manner so that if someone happen to stumble upon my journal and read it, they would have no idea what it was about.

I think I am emotionally inert when it comes to the relationship department. The idea of closure to me is like a ticking time bomb and I would be the detonator that sets if off. It freaks me out all the time. I carry a past with me that I am not willing to share with people even those closest to me because it would’ve made me vulnerable. No. It’s not okay. But what worries me the most is the idea that I would drive someone I cared so much away if I won’t be able to share everything.

I am missing someone terribly right now, yes.

I hate to admit that because I find it hard to digest all the things that have happened at the speed things are moving right now, and most of it, I hate to think that I’m missing someone for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes, it’s hard to put your mind on things that turned out too good to be true. It can be good, I think it’s a good thing, and I wanted it to be good but my prescient at work is telling me this would probably end up in a self-destructive heart-breaking way. Honesty, I hope that things would work out because it would finally give me something to look forward to.

I am ideally romantic, (behold your nausea, not the candle-light-dinner-romanticism, but you never know what I am capable of.) That said, it’s probably the perfectionist inside me that has gotten the best of me. I have a beau ideal inside my head of how things should work out, stubbornly adhering to my very own idée fixe that is, at times further from the reality. So when things start to turn out a little off the meme, I would get paranoid, distract and lost. And because of that it would only be legit if I were slightly delusional. That is also why I am a naturally talented cynical pessimist who doesn’t believe in miracles. I cannot be optimistic when I don’t know how things are going. I hate to start something, because I don’t know where I would end up and I know as soon as I embark upon the ride, I would start thinking about the terminus more that I would have been enjoying the process. It isn’t like airplane rides where it takes you from point A to point B with interstice of nothing but air and clouds.


Oh, I am writing this, I’m not sure why, and I don’t know where I’m going with this. I hated the feeling. It had to go somewhere, it had to make sense. It’s not making sense, it’s not making sense, it’s not making any sense….. it’s not mak…..