haven’t you been so devastated that your lips refuse to move?

haven’t you been so sad that your eyes would only stare blankly?


back to the womb

We all feel that, perhaps, we all do feel and not feel in our selves

 the world, as if we were born out of deep silence and

cold wombs. And then we enter the world that is now where we sit,

and eat, and move;

we feel but a little strange. We start to think, of the strangeness,

and then little do we become aware of the gap our

consciousness hollowed to us. When we see the island from afar,

sometimes, it becomes too late for the boat to go

back to its dock. We are forcibly and mostly aware of our

deliverance from humanity, from the warmth of the living.

Instead of the erratic waves of moving bodies we once joined,

we are suffocated by the heavy inanimate fog in

the middle of our lakes.

a nerd’s story

What if you are an artist, an unconventional being, you are a nerd. your friends totally accept you and love you as you are. you tell yourself, “i don’t need a lifetime partner, i am happy now.”. simply put, you are a happy contented misfit. you go hopping gaily down the road.

one day, on your way home, you met this person. a kind, smart, and good-looking fella who happened to be in your circle of colleagues. at that point you already know he’s an interesting man, cause of course you know his depth and the vastness of his reasons. you know these things because when you talk you never hide your thoughts, and it’s just amazing how he can keep track of them. from then on you never looked at him the same way anymore. you liked him, you dreamed about him, or you induced yourself with his thoughts so that you could dream about him later. you talked to him, blah-blah-blah. he said he understands your point, then you feel good about it. he can converse with you which is so exciting. then you start to think, he must be different, in a romantic way.

one afternoon you asked him what attracts him most about women. then he’ll say he likes smart women (that’s you), artists (you too!), wide readers (again!), cute and cuddly (is that you?), sweet (i doubt), prim and proper (terribly not you!), graceful (go look for a ballerina!!). suddenly you realized you made him dictate the formula that kills everything you hope for. you just smile and say, “oh! like everyone else. i hope you find her.” then you gave a list of women you know to be just like that, plus you gave him their numbers and tell good things about them until he started to be really interested about these girls. he asked if you can set them up in a date. then you know you drink that last drop of formula that kills everything you hoped for.

that night before you went to sleep, you thought of him again, this probably not the last time, but it would be unbearable henceforth, think about him and have nightmares instead of dreams. so you decided to kill that bastard in your mind with every reasons to hate him, which can’t go further than three. so you just made things up, painted an ignominious portrait of him so that he wouldn’t cross your mind again. you made a Portrait of Dorian Grey out of him.

then you console yourself, “there could be another out there. just wait.”. but what if he’s the only one, and indeed, he’s the only that exists in this world to be him. then you just have to change and become his ideal, and everything he wishes. but that would be……. bullshit. you would be his perfect match, and you are an incompetent con artist. you cannot be anyone else but you.

you grab that book, A Portrait of Dorian Grey, and console yourself further. you cannot be Basil, he is an artist, and that’s all about it. so now you just wish you have his story and so that there would be nothing left in you but madness. then you’ll die a not so gentle death by being too impassioned of love. you thought, to die in fiction, as a fictional character would be better. but you are not Basil, you could be Sibyl Vane instead and kill yourself the Virginia Woolf way, down a cold stream.
but that is all too romantic so you just want to kill yourself a simpler way. then it’s nearly midnight, and you haven’t killed yourself yet. you just dozed off, forgetting how to end your life in fiction.

a full-fledged nerd, indeed. you die an artist, in an unconventional way.


i write because i keep on forgetting about the things i have to remember, or worthy to be remembered, reminisced, rekindled. i forget things most of the time, most of them are important, ought to be kept a lifetime, but i still mange to  tuck them inside oblivion. i write my current feelings for i’m afraid i might not remember them anymore and i don’t like to let go of them. i’d like to know that once in my past life i felt that way or this way, or i made a difference of mood on someone’s life.

once there was an anime series I became a big fan of. the girl who is the  protagonist of the story have to sacrifice all of her memories in order to save her one true love. i can’t remember what happened next, but that was  a really scary thing. when you forget all the was happy and sad in your life, everything that made you who you are will be all gone forever, not keeping a single memento. i think that made a profound impact in how i then on lived my childhood, and how i try to remember them, even the dire things that happened to me before.

i am frequently scolded about how i constantly forget things, well, it is  both a curse and a blessing. forgetting easily let me go of guilt and every thing negative in my mind. it emancipates me from the burden and pain of recurring events that i wish to forget, and i’m just glad that i could somehow manage to put them into trash.

of course, it is really a matter of skill, this art of sorting and filtering information. great people knows what to be remembered and what’s good to forget.