Zombie, n.:

source: gniniar.wordpress.com

I know love when I feel one. Just like how I know it's a bitch when I see one, and how to avoid it the way I dodge a volleyball when it's flying straight towards my face. But somehow, this me-knowing-everything kind of thing is freaking me in for some instances. Like, it makes me mad and want to scream as if a dumbfuck elephant in the midst of the wild, but still I prefer to shut my mouth and keep it all to myself. That's how I freak in. It's as if there is a party inside my body and at the same time, a war in my head. Anyway, the point is I want to feel love like how I felt it before: Pure. Genuine. Distilled. I know it's all cheese but for fuck's sake! Can't this guy be happy for real this time?

For quite some time, I've been sitting in the Stool of Torment and lying on the Bed of Roses. Nobody notices my pain and wounds that are caused by the wedges and thorns because there is no blood gushing out of my body. And the only reason for it is that I'm all dried up. I'm dead. And I need someone to revive me because honestly, I feel like a zombie now; searching and searching for someone to eat when instead, I should be looking for somebody who would find joy in satisfying my appetite by feeding me everything I need. Does that even make sense? Anyway. I want someone to love me. To say she loves me. To show me she really does. And to say it again and again and again and again! I want her to love me the way I want to be loved.

Come on! Where are you, uhm... er... soulmate?

Where the fuck are you?

Eat me!

And I'll eat you back!

Pussy, n.:

There are times that we are afraid to move forward. Times that we just want to remain seated in the past. Times that we bury ourselves together with the tragic memories. I would love to say it's normal for us to feel sorry about our lives. To feel sorry about the things that we need to leave behind but actually can't--that little by little, start to define who we are in the present. I really think it's fine to feel sad about something, but it's not always like that. It must not always be like that, because sadness is not the answer. Although sometimes somehow it helps. But I guess, the only way to solve a problem is not to think there is a problem.

I just had a serious break-up with my girlfr. It was a real pain. It was tragic. She used to be my world, and I don't know if I used to be hers too. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. Anyway, my love for her wasn't any kind of love I would give to anybody else. She's so special. And I felt special everytime I was with her. Honestly, I don't know what made me feel special. And mostly, I lack certainty if I was really special. All I know is I trusted her way too deep and too much even though Trust with a capital "T" is not something I give for free, and all I cared about was to make her feel happy and lucky to be mine. Sadly, the love we shared together got shattered into pieces because of something we are both uncertain. And just because of that, we're now looking at each other like complete strangers in the dark.

After our curtain fell and closed, I wear nothing but a fake smile. Well, it's not really fake. It's just that whenever I smile or laugh, at the back of my mind I know I am not genuinely happy. And I do this because I don't want anyone to know I'm in trouble. I don't want to bug someone out because of my miseries. It's my problem, and so I'll be the one to solve it. But sometimes I think it's kind of unfair to my part, because I always try my best to fix someone else's agony. On the other hand, I don't want to look at it that way. I just want to help everyone, and also be the one to help myself. It's my choice, anyway. I choose to be tough. But this toughness is about to crack up now. It's like in the middle of the morning, the sun would say hello through the window, as if it has something good to offer. But before I could move a limb or even a strand of my hair, I wouldn't help to ask God why he let me wake up again. I know I'm too young to think about these kinds of stuff, but pain doesn't choose age. It strikes when it rains. Just like a thunder.

I'm trying so hard to move forward and leave the past, but the cycle keeps on spinning, leading me to a roundtrip: I get hurt, I cry, I stop crying, I smile, I try to live and be happy again, and then I get hurt for another time. No matter how hard I try to accept the fact that she's not coming back anymore, that our love is not going to be the way it was before, that I will soon try to be with another girl--and she will too, I still can't let go of the happy memories we created. I'm still holding on to the hopes of our once perfect relationship to be that perfect couple again. Most of the time, I convince myself I'm alright. But everytime I stand in front of the mirror, all I see is pain. It is painful. Very painful. And the pain is the kind of pain that doesn't make sense anymore. It keeps striking my insides. And I feel like I'm going to collapse because nothing's left inside me. It's slowly eating me every single day, and it's really gibberish.

I admit I was not a good boyfr. There were times I failed to show her what she wanted to see, to tell her what she needed to hear, and to make her feel what she must feel. And I am sorry for that. Really. Seriously.  And I also know it's too late for that. I was just scared. I'm a pussy. But that doesn't mean I didn't love you for real.


Fuck!


I used to be my own soldier, but I guess I can't save myself forever.
I need you.

I miss you. So much.

Cloister, v.:

TITLE: Melodrama
BY: Sebastien Angelo
--
Lots of people to talk to,
But nobody really understands.
Like being in a room full of birds;
They speak but all you hear is chirp.

Lots of people to spend time with,
But nobody's really with you.
Like walking on a weak wooden bridge;
You die alone in one wrong move.

Lots of people to lean on,
But nobody's willing to stay.
Like holding on to a rope of clay;
You hopelessly fall down to unknown.

Lots of people to believe in,
But nobody really deserves it.
Like crossing fingers for something great,
But you still end up low anyway.

Imperfect, adj.:



source: tumblr.com

When you grew up seeing and knowing how necessary the word "Perfect" is for the people around you, witnessing how they put the world on your back by letting you grasp the fact and take in the pressure that they want, need, and expect you to be the exact definition of it, but not fully understanding why you should and if you could, probably you would strive to become one more and more and more each dawn you wake up because you want to give everyone behind you a nice shot of evangelical wink and say, "I am perfect now," to make them feel happy. To make them feel lucky because they have you. To make them realize that every thing and every time they have given you is all worth it. You want to give them a reward for taking care of you, for raising you up, for loving you, etc. You want to give them something. A golden trophy, maybe, which is also you; Your perfection. But in my case, I would not. Not because I can't, but because I really won't. Rewarding them your perfection is like putting yourself around their necks like a huge gold medal to display. To show the public that you are shining brightly. That you are nothing but perfect. So, the credit is still on you. The reward is for them, but the pleasure sticks on you---in you. Perfection is all about pride. Perfection is a crime. Being perfect is nonsense. It does not exist, especially in this mad world we're living in because perfection is the absence of flaws, which is impossible for crazy individuals like us, for an obnoxious creature like me. Perfection is just a wish that will never come true no matter how tight you close your eyes and cross your fingers while repeating the perfect mantra over and over and over. Perfect is a hopeless hope that causes trouble, agony, and tragedy. Perfect is just a dream of the nostalgic. Being perfect is being stupid. Perfection sucks. Now, suck it!

Flummox, v.:

TITLE: Questions to your Answers
By: Sebastien Angelo
--
How would you make the unworkable work?

How far would you go to solve the unsolvable puzzle in you?

How much more would you take and how long would you lurk?

How hard would you suffer to keep the cracks little and few?

How high should the walls have to be

To hide you and your misery?

And how would you run right back to the start

When everything around is falling apart?

How good do you have to be

To be good or even just good enough?

How keen should everybody be

To see the real sadness behind your bluff?

How loud should your silence have to be

And how quiet would you cry and scream

To make them hear your rueful plea,

To make them listen to the sound of grim?

How naive should your mind be

To not recognize the agony of living?

And how smart would you need to be

To foresee and dodge the tragedy of loving?

How pathetic would you let yourself be

To tolerate the hurt hiding in ecstasy?

And how monstrous would you want to become

To appear tough and strong that nothing could bring you down?

How many tears should your eyes shed?

How much blood would you have to bleed?

How many smiles could you keep on faking?

And how many lies would save you from breaking?

How much hate do you need to fray

Just to make your insides feel okay?

How much ache has ripped you far apart,

And how much love do you need to fix your dying heart?

How sorry should the universe be

To make you stop pushing everyone away?

How sorry should your soul have to be

To let you take a break from falling endlessly?

How many questions would you want to ask,

And how many questions would you leave unanswered?

How many questions you would rather not ask,

And how many questions would give you the answer?

Deviant, adj.:

Never ever believe in love, for it is the slowest form of suicide. It is the same as jumping off a cliff, cutting your wrist with a blade, or stabbing yourself with a new sharpened knife. It does give you nothing but pain and agony. And the ecstasy you think you're feeling, in fact, is just a product of your own desperate and vivid imagination.

source: modificatuiphone.com

There's no such thing as love. And even if there is, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing. It leaves your heart out in the open, making it a piece of cake to break into tiny pieces until all the debris is finally gone with the grey wind of melancholia. Love is a thought, not an emotion. Therefore, you should not take it and make it as the center of your life for the reason that emotions ruin everything. They raise the tendencies of you being predictable, vulnerable and breakable. You need to keep in mind that your brain must always be stronger than your heart. You have to act and to be tough and that you can love yourself just by yourself. Because time will come, it's just you and your shadow against the world. No one will be there to save you from something. Nobody will give a fuck. Purely nothing will ever be lovely, you'll see.

Recluse, adj.:

The best part of being empty is that nothing can be taken away from you. You don't have to worry about what would be yours, what would be left in you, and what would you leave behind.

source: ankgas.deviantart.com

Being empty lessens the pressure of living as everybody lives with something. And that Something is this famous thing called Responsibility. When you're empty, you simply have no responsibilities to the world, such as being genuinely happy, faking a smile so that everyone wouldn't notice you're not enjoying life half as much as they do, walking like nothing's wrong and everything's alright, acting up like you're super-duper fine, and pathetically loving someone without holding back. And having none means no pain, no failures, no heartaches--nothing at all. You just have to get used to the fact of life that everything, everyone leaves you far behind. The people you cherish, the memories you treasure; they will all get blown away by the thick gust of painful smoke of truth. You will be left with nothing. You shall be empty. It is a must. So what's the point, why bother caring about people? It's like inviting the Grim Reaper to dance with you in your imminent death party. Just let it flow. Let them go and live as if you're the only sodding person in this goddamned spherical bag of bullshit world. You can be alone, empty and deprived because you will always be. So, don't wait for it to come. Run and jump to it instead. Claim it like it's meant for you and never let it go.

It is best to embrace the darkness and let yourself be your own light. Don't ask nor wait for somebody to pick you up like a lost hopeless chihuahua because you don't need them. Being empty doesn't mean you're nothing, so you can be and are really better off with yourself. And anyway, it will all come down to betrayal, rejection, abandonment and goodbyes in the end because everything ends badly, doesn't it?

Schmuck, n.:

It's fucking funny that when you start fucking up your fucking life, you'd keep on fucking everything up. Even though you want to fucking stop, you fucking can't because you'd fucking grasp the fucking thought that the only fucking thing you're good at is to fuck things and your fucking life up.

Sometimes you'd think it's fucking cool to be such a fucked up creature on this fucking planet called Earth, being fucking wasted with some fucking spliff hanging on your fucking mouth and swigging some fucking beer or vodka, or some fucking tequila, but most of the fucking time you'd realize that you're a total fucking mess that does no fucking good all through your fucking existence. You'd think you're fucking worthless, fucking pathetic, and what-fucking-ever else to add up to that fuck, because everything you fucking touch turns to fucking shit. Everything you're involved at transforms into a fucking pile of fucked up moments. And to stay away from fucking whatever else is fucking left, you'd fucking isolate yourself. You'd prefer to be fucking alone than to fuck up more things and more people's lives, because you'd not want others to fucking stare at you like you're a fucking waste that keeps on ruining the fuck out of every-fucking-thing. You'd even put up a fucking act that you don't fucking care about anyone at all and that they should fuck off all the time because you don't fucking need the fuck of them. But nobody would ever know that deep inside your fucking vulnerability, you fucking need somebody to fucking understand you and fix the fucked up soul you'd always have.

But, on the other fucking hand, you wouldn't want to be a fucking burden to anyone that's why you wouldn't ask for any fucking help even though you really want someone to fucking offer you a hand to lift you up from the holy fucking ground of fuckedupness. Because albeit everyone knows you wouldn't fucking accept it, you would still feel rather fucking better for the gesture, for the fucking thought that someone cares--someone loves. You just fucking need a fucking love without asking the fuck for it, that's all.

Reflect, v.:

Do you ever feel like you're wasting time thinking so hard about something you can't even remember? Or just thinking about something you're not really sure of? Well, hello there! Welcome to the company. We should bond sometimes and have a seat in a coffee shop and think in peace. And just to let you know, I'm dead serious. Anyway, thinking is something we do every single day. Without it, we wouldn’t survive a dreadful day in this frightening world. But in this case, remembering—or should I say reminiscing someone or something beyond the capacity of our tiny fragile minds, is there anything else to do than to keep giving our heads a painful crack?

Most of our memories lie in the darkest road of our past. And some of them are those we want to forget. But no matter how deep we bury them, they could still haunt us in silence. For example, you are lying on the comfort of your bed when suddenly a few snapshots strike your mind. It is fast as lightning. And then the next thing you’d know is you're bugged and couldn't do anything except to think about the miseries that came out of nowhere. And it would stay in you from day to night—and even all night. There’s this uncanny feeling that you want to forget it, but at the same time you crave to remember it and to keep thinking about it, unraveling every detail and hoping you could have it back and change some parts of it. That’s what I’m in right now. These memories are flying like butterflies in my head all over again. I’m trying so hard to wave them away, but my brain acid seems to taste like nectar. They wouldn’t leave it alone. They are all here to keep me up for the rest of the night. And the only escape available is for me to jump on my own patiently waiting grave. I’m scared. This isn’t the memory lane I plan to go down, especially tonight.

Think. Think. Think. It's not bad to think. But to think too much is kind of weird, isn't it? Especially when we start to skip our lives. One book I've read said, "Sometimes people use thoughts to not participate in life." And if we want to drown our minds in a pool of puzzle pieces, it's fine as long as we make sure that we still participate. It's hard to live in a life full of decoding-thoughts-from-the-past stuff. We need to put our minds ahead of the road, and to not let our past define us as well. We must define our future, and cage our minds in freedom from the tentacles of the memories from the past. But what if no matter how hard and fast we run away from these dreadful thoughts, they still could chase us, what would we do? Again, is there anything else to do than to keep our heads a painful crack?

Chameleon, n.:

Sometimes I do things that are not on my bucket list but are on others’. And there’s an analytical and rational way of elucidating that obtuse madness. However, I’m not going to lay it on your filthy table because I, for once, do not owe you an explanation.  But, maybe you’d get it as you keep on reading this inaudible-yet-visible lament. Or maybe not. But either way, honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m just going to tell a pretty boring story―in which, if you’re a guy like me, your balls would apologetically shrink in approval to my gibberish―where my quite unacceptable acts are involved and will be mentioned a lot according to what really did happen that one hell of a night. Actually, I am not quite sure to what the point of me-saying-this is, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with giving and getting a little help (if that’s what this is). So, anyway, maybe your mind’s starting to throttle itself with some eager WH- questions like ‘What happened?’ and ‘Why did it happen?’ Well, maybe it’d be a little less repugnant to start off with ‘Who are you,’ wouldn’t it?

I was a simple teenager with some simple dreams and— fuck it! I’m not going to tell you who I am. It’s the story that matters, not the writer. Frankly, if I would ever have my own published book, I would not be one of those authors who have their shit-faces stamped on the whole back cover or elsewhere of their works, i.e. Paulo Coelho. His photo in Like a Flowing River is hilarious. But to clear this up, I love him. He’s a damn great writer. I just really can’t seem to make a sense out of it. I mean, nobody buys his books to see his face, right? Because it’s his words that matter, not his teeth saying ‘Howdy’ to the world. So why bother putting it albeit it’s clear no one needs it? Anyway, that one was true, for the record: I was a simple teenager. WAS. And what used to be a present turned out to be buried in the past now because I got fed up with the anonymity of my entirety. Of course, in this society, if you’re simple, you’re nothing. So, yes. I was a Nobody before. To be honest, if I were Ronald McDonald, you’d never know me the way you know him now as the stupid clown with red just-fucked hair and infuriating grin, standing in front of every outlet, even though you always eat my quarter pounder… or my fries, if you’re broke like that. No one really recognized me before. And if there’s something worse than being a total stranger to everybody, that’d be having AIDS. What I’m saying is no one wants to laugh alone behind a huge pack of morons throwing baloney Yo Mama jokes at each other’s face, you know what I mean? It’s really worse than having AIDS or some shit like that, because people don’t come to you for no apparent reason. You’re perfectly fine and healthy, but still they’re making you feel like you’re carrying some kind of deadly virus. Everybody needs someone to laugh with. To live with. And the sad part is in order to get that, however, you need to be a chameleon. You need to blend in depending on the backdrop—no matter how uncomfortable that could be.

My parents raised me as holy as possible. They indefatigably shoved God’s name down to my throat just fine. I even used to pray and talk to Him every moment of my life. Like when I reached my destination after a long walk, I thanked Him. When I got the proper side of my mind working for my Algebra exam, I praised Him. And when I flushed the toilet and the water went up instead of down, I asked for His help. He was everywhere. But that terrible night of the beginning of my fucked-up life, He wasn’t. He was absent. Maybe He was just late and I shut him out of the door because “Late comers, no entry,” like what my grade-school devil teachers said. Anyway, it all started with a tall bottle filled with red-orangey liquid and intoxicating scent prickling my nostrils. When my “friends” and I had enough skateboarding that night, we drank the magical thing down and then everything spun like God was Zac Efron in 17 Again, twirling the Earth with His mighty finger. And eventually, my fingers got something to work out too. But this moment, it needed my mouth and my lungs. My poor little lungs. So, as I hit and blew this white piece of stick, I didn’t know I was puking out some portions of my life, too, some years of my existence. I was slowly killing myself. Just to look cool. To be accepted.

what a waste.

It went on and on for quite some time, and it was because I needed to have friends. I needed to be a part of some wolfpack, not minding whether it was a good one or the contrary. A half of me says I was compelled by the society to do it; to be a chameleon and blend in with the wrong kinds of trees, but the better half of me says I liked it as well. Because if one has greater convictions that he is as complete as a capsule of Centrum, nothing would force him to be somebody else he’s not. If only I was able to see that I have a loving family and a few nice-arsed friends who complete me, then I wouldn’t be in this kind of misery. I should’ve been the same simple teenager with simple dreams―and with no ‘fuck it.’ Now all I could say is sorry because I ruined my parents’ trust to me and my old friends’ love for me and my once perfect life. I think this just concludes that a life full of Sorry is a life full of Fuck it.