Tag Archives: rant

Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from my own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most time repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combo my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, but invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

Jouska (pointless monologue)

Closed doors, locked in, no keys
Keeping my feelings hidden
There is no ease, I need it to stop
And I want to be able to open up but
My feelings are fatal…

~*~

This much, I know, we will never be alone together.

I couldn’t ever bring myself to attempt to catch up

With you; quietly fearing this trembling uncertainty of

Completely tiring myself down with the futile chase

Only to find out that I arrived in dead-set last place,

So I’ll just allow you to leave me behind instead, as it is.

It just feels like the more happiness you’re getting,

The less of you I could have for myself—and though

I can’t and won’t deprive you of the things you’ve fully

Well deserved for a long time, I also can’t stop

Myself from being such a selfish machine, stupidly

Begging for something far beyond my taut reach,

Inadvertently trapping myself and wailing in anguish

When I have to chew at my own leg just to get out of it—

I just can’t stop myself from giving a damn about you.

But I guess that’s fine. You will never find me out anyway, and

Even if short-lived and shortsighted, I still dearly cherish

What little euphoric glimpses I had of your attention, even

If it meant nothing, I only wish nothing but the very best for you,

And I could only hope that this teaches me a final lesson;

One last acrid pill to swallow, hope I don’t choke this time,

No more. I could only ever endure too much. Please. Not anymore.

The more you feel alive, the more I slowly wither away inside,

But I couldn’t hate you for that. I could never hate you at all…

It’s not your fault I keep fucking losing control of myself.

~*~

How many times must I keep it inside
I need to let go and I swear that I’ve tried
But opening up means trusting others
And that’s just too much, I don’t want to bother
So I’ll keep it inside and bury it deep
I know it’s not healthy, but you won’t hear a peep…

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Call me a sweet tropical fruit smoothie, ’cause I wanna put my thick head through a fucking blender (and other neurotic diatribes)


ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴺᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵃ ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ
ᴶᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃˡˡ ᵐʸ ᵐᵒᵛᶦᵉˢ
ˢᵗᵃᵇᵇᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ˢᶜᵉⁿᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵘⁿᵗᶦˡ ʸᵒᵘ
ᴿᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ʰᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ˢʷᵉᵃʳ ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵃᵘˡᵗ
ᴬᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ·


The very first time I talked about not talking about things, I hypothesised regarding my sheer inability to open up more and stupidly concluded that perhaps it was one of my greatest weaknesses (yeah, disgustingly yucky, I know). But after a couple years, several hundred other pretentious, maundering posts, and far too much obnoxious, exhausting drama with the wrong people later, I’ve come back with a better understanding of my overbearing privacy and to refute my initial statement. Because oh boy, was I ever right and wrong. Right in the sense that I was right to keep most things to myself, and wrong in ever thinking that that was inherently going to be a bad thing for me.

But before anything else, I would like to go on record and say that this is not targeted at anyone or anything specific. It’s just a crude pastiche of all the incredibly-minor annoyances that’s been silently digging into my brain these past few years, thoroughly compiled into another off-the-rails rant that no one really cares about. It’s therapeutic for me because my broke, third-world, lower middle-class arse can’t afford actual therapy, so y’all have to cut me some kind of slack for that, right? Pretty pretty please with a xanax on top? And really, this is just what happens to the degraded brain of someone who hasn’t interacted with anyone (and I do literally mean any other human being, this is not another piss-poor attempt at severe exaggeration) besides their damned, suffering cat for almost a month now. Long story short (but it’s only ironically about to get longer), there is no personal vitriol intended in this for anyone except myself, and getting affected by it is beyond my liability at this point. And please for the love of Zaphod Beeblebrox’s second head, do take everything I write down with half a grain of salt because these are just my personal angry, self-sabotaging, misanthropic opinions and it should never have to apply to everyone else. Alright, moving on.

Here’s the thing, then. Attempting to make connections in *that* extreme personal way, i.e. talking about literally everything to someone no matter how trivial or private the topic, is a very dangerous minefield to tread. And it’s not as if you could even tell if the person on the other side is completely willing to reciprocate it. Most of the time, you’ll come out of it barely alive with your intestines casually hanging out your bloody camos and wanting of a few limbs here and there, and all the exhausting effort you undertook will simply feel unnecessarily pyrrhic. Risking a thousand detonating devices for maybe possibly not really just one or two fake diamond bullets to shoot yourself in the foot with??? Wow, sounds like a fucking steal to me! And believe me when I say I’ve been there far too often than I’m proud to admit, otherwise I’d still be out there, blindly trying to convince myself to get my entire spinal column blown off to high heavens like forbidden enamel popcorn, just one last time for the sweet hell of it. Advice: save yourself and the other man and keep some defunct minefields in your pocket all for yourself, please. And make sure it doesn’t accidentally jostle or fall out and make you another fool’s casualty. Or if all else fails, just chuck it back to their smug sneers and take cover. Effective, and at least you won’t get hurt.

Here’s how the grueling cycle usually goes: slowly open up about deeper things, some people suddenly arrive, it’s all mac and cheese and good Kraft-brand bliss for a while, but they start overstaying their welcome, cause a lot more petty tantrums and inane misunderstandings as they end up tracking dirt and mud all over your already-messy mind, all before ungraciously storming away from you and never showing their face ever again outside of sleepless nights and cringeworthy memories—but not before knocking down every vase and window and fragile ornament in the house, just for good measure. All you’re going to be left with is more unresolved issues to clean up after and a stranger’s pile of secrets that you don’t have a use for anymore. And worst case scenario, some stranger out there now has your secrets that they might just intend to use to their own means. Not in every case of course, when these things come to a colliding head with a thermonuclear meltdown, it should be for the best for both parties to simply leave things behind and move on. But there’s just far too many entitled, patronising, self-pitying, victim card-holding, choosing beggars out there who would burn the entire solar system to offer their utmost trust and concern to you, just to do a complete 180° as soon as they start to sweat when the climate feels awry, and finally twist your head off and dance on your cremated remains. The sad part of this is, there’s sometimes a strange, lingering, irritating urge to crawl back and have a second go on the classic human burn machine for old times sake, just to fuck things over colossally again ad nauseum. I’d soon as well rather fend off for myself and get well hammered in an Applebee’s carpark at 3 AM on Sunday and throw up in someone’s drive-through meal and get beaten up to a fleshy pulp just to entirely avoid all that nonsense, ta very much. And several well-intended shots of tonic and Robitussin to wash off the terrible hangover aftertaste would also be such a fine treat. Bottoms up, lads.

Also notice that most (keyword is most here folks, I swear I’m not that entirely heartless. yet.) of the longest-standing friends I currently have are the ones that are more so cheery fun and mucking around with each other, and little to no excess baggage dumping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, I do love that rather silly, affectionate, no-strings-attached sort of tango about them, and I highly appreciate my friends for still putting up with me even when I’m an insufferable prick. I’m always there for them even if that sounds terribly subversive, all that sappy yet genuine stuff and so forth. But even then, I’m already beginning to lose grasp of them as I start to think that I’m irredeemably unworthy for them, as they grow up to find newer people and lead better lives and my crummy puzzle piece falls away from their bigger picture, as I realise just how much I never really knew them at all. Back to professional-level sterile kind of friendship, almost. Soon enough it’ll all just be mass-produced cheesy Hallmark greeting cards every birthdays and Christmas and the occasional awkward water cooler small talk about Chad and Stacey and paramour Davie from the next street maybe having their fifteenth baby whenever we run into each other. Welcome to adulthood, bellend. Everyone’s too busy to care.

Even my oh-so kindhearted family’s been doing their very best recently to try to blatantly alienate me and stay out of my way. I say blatant, and I mean every time someone even tries to reluctantly approach my room, they have a twisted grimace poised on their pious faces like they have their own bleached arsehole hairs stuck in between their fingernails and couldn’t wash it out because I greedily took all the soap in the house and shoved it down my filthy trachea. Not to mention my doting mother’s Oscar-worthy pantomime of her third child’s pure nonexistence since two weeks ago for no particular discernible reason, not to use a dead meme but bitch I got Thanos-snapped out of her dense spacy braincells innit. Maybe because of my shallow, repressive, self-absorbed problems, maybe because they just can’t be bothered anymore after 19 years of being forced to put up with my emo angsty horseshite, maybe because more and more they’re resenting the festering fact that I’ve really done nothing good for them ever since I was forcibly carved out of my mum’s belly like a sentient tumour. Yeah, thanks, ’cause I fucking begged to be here guys, I totally wouldn’t want to be aborted off into Satan’s left armpit if I had the choice. Alright, distasteful tangents aside, the point is that there is simply no solace in talking to anyone anymore. Everyone’s got their own worries and difficulties they’re trying to work through, so what makes your pathetic fucking trauma any more special than theirs? Don’t be a whinging pussy about it. Be like the rest. Suck it up and deal.

If there’s one thing I’m finally starting to learn about life after years and years of idiotically bumbling about contrived people and repeating the same embarrassing mistakes, it’s to just shut it the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Complain quietly. Cry where no one can see you. Indulge in a hundred distractions and vices and coping mechanisms if it would give you some form of relief. Scream at a wall, at a black void, on the internet towards apathetic, faceless pixels who won’t give half a washed-up mermaid’s fishy twat if you killed yourself with some cheap petrol and a blowtorch immediately the next day, before deleting it forever. Hide your abrasive goddamn scars behind a million layers of whatever because who honestly wants to see that grotesque attention-seeking slut (slut is me I guess), and put on a grand show of your useless life if you really need to. There’s absolutely no use in broadcasting emotions and airing out your dirty laundry—except perhaps beyond an occasional societally-acceptable grumble about some trivial matters—anymore. Unless of course, if you’re paying someone thousands of dollars per session for it. Ohhh, what a fucking fantasy.

I do get that it’s nice to have an occasional deep conversation with someone every now and then and I will never mind that sort of refreshing discussion with the right company, but hey, just don’t expect to teeter close to the edge and walk out bone dry, is all. And don’t even think for a second that you could always just dip a tentative toe in whenever you so blithely wish, without one day accidentally slipping and drowning on your own blatant folly; and all before stupidly dragging in the other person with you because your untied shoelaces are so incredibly entangled up with each other. So for both your benefit and for the others, deception and suppression is an acquired skill that might feel rather counterproductive at first, but soon becomes a normalised, familiar, welcoming change all in due time. I don’t know about you, but permanent numbness is better than perpetually-constant sensory overload. That, to me, is the definition of engineered paradise. Call it jaded, cynical, poisonous thinking, grab your violently-optimistic torches and pitchforks and scream hellfire while shivving it straight into my shrieking throat for being overtly negative, but damn, that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s more realistic than simply tossing a rusty bottlecap in an old empty well and wishing for the opposite until your fingers bleed out and your jaws seize up from tetanus. If you’re irreversibly tired of existence anyway, might as well just use that to your highest advantage.

So please, just no more flimsy, annoying, uncomfortable support systems gingerly patting each other on the back like fragile little prissy snowflakes for being ‘oh-so brave’. No more “please go find someone to talk to!” bullshit and other sickeningly banal reassurances. No more actively seeking out extremely toxic codependent relationships in hopes of finding temporary comfort and false redemption, and being dumbly surprised when it all starts to inevitably fall apart. It might work for some people in very certain situations and good on them for seeking help in the proper places, I’m not going to condescendingly lambast them for that, but I just personally find that it’s simply always easier to deal with everything alone. And if you can’t do even that much, then well…at least no one’s going to miss you.


ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᶦᵍⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵗᵗᵉᵈ ˡᶦⁿᵉ
ᴰᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉˀ
ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵃᵘᵍʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ
ᵂᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᶦˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ
ᴵᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ
ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ ⁿᵒʷ·


Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

a cold slice of toast (with pb&j)

Hullo. It’s about 1 AM as I drink my room-temperature coffee and jot this down on my notes app, and I’m in that usual Schrödinger’s midnight state of being simultaneously tired and hyperactive (while also procrastinating on another ugly painting. again.), so it’s due time for a bit of a lengthy reprised overpersonal contemplation once more. Heed this warning and turn away now if you don’t want to get bored with all my bullshit once more, nonexistent reader.

So. 2019. And another decade come and gone. 10 year-old me was still innocently bumbling around with their elementary best friends without much ado of a care in the planet, but then high school happened and college happened (barely but yea yk) and shit went down hard when reality put a .44 Magnum to my head and forcefully led me to the kerb to kick my teeth in; and here we are now, bordering on the verge of adulthood and ready to grow out another set of molars for merciless reality to painfully crush it all under its heel once more, just so it could watch me bleed out. Fun times. Reality is a filthy mob boss and y’all know it. But hey now, let’s not talk about that. Because if I spent my time whining about the past ten years of my life (and trust me, there’s a lot to complain about), this post will probably never cease and it’s already fucking long enough as it is. Shut the hell up @ me.

I digress. Let’s just have a little chit-chat about 2019, shall we? It feels like that past year was somewhat more of a year of unexpected discovery for me, I think. In the sense that I finally got to do some of the things I’ve only been desperately raring to accomplish for the past eight years or so. Taking the time off to focus my energies on what I actually enjoy doing, which was honestly a breath of fresh air. I’ve only spent two semesters in college, and it felt to me like every single day I was there alone and haplessly lost, I mostly loathed it with a burning passion (friendly reminder kids: stupid and lazy and antisocial put together does not make for a good academic career, take this from personal experience). And this sounds pretentiously cheesy to the point of stomach ulcer cliché, but I think maybe I’ve also grown a little more, even if just a bit more, this year??? At learning new things. Getting better at them. Wanting to get better at them more. When I read back on the previous new year’s journal entry that I wrote, I feel pleasantly surprised at how much of it I’ve actually accomplished and then some—well, maybe sans a few things here and there, but not much big losses to me. It’s not like I even held myself to it in any way. On the contrary, I was already classically jaded and hopeless from the get-go, as the final lines blatantly suggest. But things just happen if they do and if I let them, I suppose. And if they always happen like this, then I can’t really say that I mind it at all.

But just like any other year, this one wasn’t without its downs. And when I say I hit rock bottom, I mean that I hit it so hard that I got charged for several counts of battery and assault, no bail. E.g. the whole disappointing failed college fiasco that gave my entire family a relentless migraine and left me very literally nearly dead on my dorm room floor. The obnoxious dramatic three-way fallout with someone who I once used to respect a lot but just had to go and fuck everything up to an unfixable extent. The uncontrollable, exhausting, emotional torture that my stupid arse accidentally fell victim to and am still somehow irrationally putting myself through for almost a year now(!!!). The opportunities I willingly missed out on because I didn’t think I was worth all the trouble. Starting to slowly drift away from people I care about a lot. The incredibly destructive sense of feeling worse and worse about the way I look. The deadbeat, desolated, pointless kind of hellscape living for endless months at an end that probably helped build up an irrefutable case of spite and ingratitude against me. The usual (if not higher) doses of anxiety and depression and mania and crippling insecurities and whatnot that constantly loves dropping anvils down my skull without remorse whenever they feel like it. Growing older in general. The ever-present thought of not really wanting to live anymore. Why fucking bother, eh?

But even if I hate to admit it, there were also good things. Spread thin, far and few in between, but still there somehow. Getting back on this site and writing some more. Making bad drawings and paintings and hoarding art supplies I barely use. Slowly but surely getting back to reading books again. Music; learning it, playing it, listening to it, loving it with all of my heart and soul, bands and band boys and band fics and band blog shenanigans, oh my! Having better friends who made me laugh the misery away and haven’t completely scissor-kicked me out of their life even if my socially-inept self hasn’t been the best to them. Actually getting noticed by the very people I look up to the most (?!??!! this one still horrifies me to this day, it feels like a fucking fever dream to me sndhdk). Hanging with the fam. Getting a dumb but cute pet cat out of the blue. Exercising for some extra happy chemicals and penny-boarding, despite all the bruises and scars I get from it. Getting into trouble after a few impulsive drinks and other random misadventures. Wearing the stupidest outfits, probably looking like an underpaid hoe in the process. Laying on the soft grass alone every night after a long exhausting day and watching the stars flicker beyond the skylines, as Los Baños breathes easy around me. Daydreaming childishly with them. Feeling a little more okay, at the rarest moments of tranquility. Cautiously hopeful. Starting to accept life, despite how insanely out-of-character that sounds. I mean, I am writing this on an off-day, so I’m bound to change my my mind about it in probably…ehhh, I’d say five minutes, allow the spiteful inborn cynic in me to fully kick in and spit in my pathetic face. Ah shit, I just ruined the entire thing, didn’t I. Whoops. Rewind. Where were we? Oh yeah, the whole “starting to accept life” conundrum. That one. Gross. Whatever.

I fully well know that I just can’t stay stuck in this strange limbo, though. The pressure’s boiling to a painfully-scalding degree and it’s high time for me to get back on my atrophied feet now. Take tentative dips into the things that terrify me out of my wit’s end. Stop holding myself back too much and take the plunge, even if I know all too well that I’ll inevitably drown. I have to take risks. I have to do things. I have to be useful. I need to, I guess. It’s a fucking capitalistic travesty, but that’s the unfortunate way things work around here and I can’t do jack about shit. I’ve had my quiet repose, seven gracious months of it, and by god if people have been extensively patient with me. I really don’t want to test their breaking point as they did mine. It’s rather silly now, because despite all the free time I had to think (and mostly overthink) about it, I honestly still don’t know what to do with myself. I have the vaguest idea of it, but I’m at a total loss with how I’m supposed to arrive there. Hell. I just don’t know anymore. But I’m turning 20 soon for fuck’s sake, and if I really want things to change, I know that I just can’t sleep away all my problems forever.

It’s time to wake up, Allen.

(or not at all)

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

a cold slice of toast (01.03.19)

It’s 2019.

Maybe I could improve on my writing skills

I know I write shitty poetry a dime a dozen

But my dumb fanfictions and short stories

Are still no good to me—no, no good at all

Or perhaps I could do a little better with chord

Changes and strumming and barre chords

On my strawberry-red guitar and ukulele

And buy a violin I’ll probably never use just

To get a laugh out of my poor bleeding ears

Or I could make a hundred more watercolour

Paintings and spend a million quid on buying

Art materials I don’t even know how to use

Just to make a mess out of my dorm room desk

And I didn’t do so well on my first semester

But perhaps it will be better the next time around

In the meantime, I could tire myself out and travel

I could improve my bad ollies, try out new hobbies

Finally get a kickflip in, paint my hair to a rainbow

Stop ignoring my friends like I don’t give a damn

And stop being frustrated with the way I am—

Or I could spend an entire year coming up

With better ways to say “fuck it all, who cares anyway?”

…I think I like that last one a lot.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Cathexis

It’s really nice, to simply throw myself into a pastime I enjoy and completely forget what it’s like to be worryingly unproductive and incompetent, and be someone else somewhere else, even for just a few hours. To do stuff a little more flawlessly without even realising how much I’ve already learned from past experiences, and how much I still have yet to learn. To finally apply everything I’ve been constantly struggling with for a good several weeks and months and years altogether and somehow have it all make sense in the end. Or some semblance of sense, at the very least. Anything counts for something.

That last part especially, it greatly baffles me—how much of it makes fucking sense. When it finally does. Even when it doesn’t. When I’m engrossingly locked and loaded on the various compositions, as I’m fully losing myself in head-spinning analysation and connecting odder theorems together, when I put bits and pieces of the faintest memories and deeper information into something more coherently vivid, and pick apart a familiar, creative medium that I have dearly cherished for years to its very rivets for my own personal means and interpretation, it just feels like everything makes sense to me—and that applies not only to the thing I’m meticulously looking into, mind you.

Fuck the meaning of life. Fuck irrational anxieties and peer pressures and growing up. Fuck the grander scheme of the universe and all that cosmic existential bullshit. That doesn’t matter to me. This does. This matters. I might not, but this thing in front of me and my mind right now, does. And it’s all that ever will, until I inevitably exhaust it. When I do, I’ll save it away for another rainy day and find something else of its kin to indulge in; optimistic afterthoughts fluttering a little higher than piqued daydreams, determined pastel eyes set focused as clever words and neon motions burn incandescently behind it, dizzying exhilaration steadily pulsing through my veins and making my buzzed skin quietly shiver at the very thought of finally being able to explore different labyrinthine alleyways and discover strange new worlds behind closed doors with the skeleton key in my hand—and doing everything all over again and again without ever getting sick of the whole process. On to find better sights, a better place, a better time, perhaps.

This certain ardent feeling, rather specifically inexplicable and a million times more potent than falling in love and vicious depression and shallow, fleeting aftertastes of superficial happiness, I sure do hope to high hell that I never run out of it for as long as I’m breathing (if you may pardon the utter mawkishness of such a statement). Being myself. Being content. Being actually excited to live. Is that what passion is like?

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Misadventures in Sheet Music

Pardon this little ramble. But I have been attempting to figure out the part highlighted in red via sight reading alone (and with the help of my ever-resilient theory notes ofc, because I’m that incredibly thick and need some sort of handicap, otherwise I’ll just straight-out die) for the last eight or so minutes; and I’ve just figured out the key and barely gotten through the first three notes (or first chord, whatever the hell it even is) in the treble staff section, and already a monstrous headache is flaring up beneath my temples oh god my stupid brain cells are starting to break out with hives dear gracious spirit of brett and eddy save me from this consonant perdition pls ;-;

I don’t really know why I’m doing this when I don’t even have a piano to play it on anyway, ahahah. Matter of fact, acquiring said instrument might just actually help in easing my mind’s incessant troubles as I embark in such a futile quest. But I’m too poor for that shit and this is what happens when the internet’s being a dysfunctional fuckass (much like the person typing this, get roasted bitch) and I have nothing else better to waste my time on. But I just—I desperately need this skill. Somehow. For reasons. Not really for any useful nor productive reasons, but for reasons nonetheless. Alright. I can do this. I can do this. I have five and a half more pages of this. Christ wearing tights, someone stab me in the jugular with a violin bow to the beat of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. I can do this.

Leave a comment

Filed under Other stuff

Note to self

(just a bit of gormless self-indulgent whinging, nvm)

Continue reading

Leave a comment

Filed under Other stuff

Doubt Is Failure By Design

We’re born to fuck everything up, I guess.

No one asked for this. I’m like a festering scar on the dysfunctional mind of a starving shark who mercilessly shoved me overboard, and my flailing limbs are weighed down with rocks and paralysed with guilt, with shameful culpability, with the handed-down heirloom of a cursed name—a mere letter and punctuation away from completely unpronounceable—come now, black sheep, where’s your fucking wool?

Absolutely deplorable. Every success-story sycophant resolutely cringes away as if touched by the devil’s acid itself, their gold-plated stomachs turning at the mere mention of us, rolling diamond eyes watering viciously at the sight of our squalid hands reaching out to extinct stars and begging for a shred of respite, if any at all, overfed jesters laughing like relentless hyenas at the classic repertoire of victimised beggars choosing to be losers. No change. No mercy. Miserable. We asked for it, didn’t we?

I take a single step into the path I meticulously measured before finally deeming to be correct, and end up breaking somebody’s weak spine instead; clumsy foot easily slicing through vertebrae like a sharpened sword through snowfall. Another mistake. Another cautionary tale. I hear my dead ancestors wail a steady plangent caterwaul, as they eternally scream and admonish me from beyond the depths of inferno and then perhaps some—from where I shall soon be sharing their fate as I join in with their ever-familiar sickly cries. Another generation. Another bad blood. It’s almost comforting, now.

Oh, well. We fucking saw it coming and let it happen anyway, didn’t we?

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

It’s a freshly brewed coffee, sweater weather, malevolent existential crisis kinda day today uwu

It’s strange. Sometimes I want to lay back on the migraine-inducing metaphors and write straightforward things about my prosaic life, but so often I find that there’s really nothing much happening in it. My continued existence is dull and uninteresting, which in turn renders me a dull and uninteresting person, and it’s honestly no wonder why I haven’t interacted with anyone outside my family and cat (who do as much as begrudgingly tolerate my presence and nothing more) for quite some time, now.

It’s all the same from here. Be alone, do things to stay busy, get burnt out from it and get sad, resent myself for being sad, be alone, do things to stay busy, bug the hell out of Artemis to distract myself, stupidly obsess over my current hyperfixations, throw some caffeine and metal music and a fuckload of manic anxiety into the mix, and rinse and repeat. Everything feels dry and weightless and my mouth is starting to fill up with revolting sand—but somehow I’m still talking, so maybe there’s some things left to be said. Not that anyone would care to listen to my incessant maundering, but just.

First off, I’m trying to write a slice of life novel (ah yes, the dreaded n-word for lazy writers such as I) for a specific important function and there’s an impending deadline, but I’m completely zeroed out and I honestly have no idea what direction to even take it in. Which is kinda dumb, considering that a great portion of the one-shot fics I tend to write are usually in that realm of genre more often than not, but an entire full-length book about it??? Nah, fam. How do you even begin. I must make a mental note to do my research which basically means binge-watching a lot of slice of life animes ooft. But I’m also going through another one of those inevitable upticks where everything that flows out of my pen is absolute horseshit and I’m starting to greatly doubt my writing skills once more and I hate myself all the more for it. The only fanciful hobby of mine that ever comes close to being even halfway considered a talent, and yet I’m still absolutely terrible at it. Ah.

The most exciting thing that’s really happening for me right now is me egregiously having a go at Inktober for the first time ever, when my art skills are still totally wack. And all that’s ever really done is stress my uncreative brain out and fuck up my sleep schedule entirely and make my entire back and right wrist hurt like a bitch for days at an end. But it’s alright, I suppose. I did get into this whole shebang without meaning to take it too seriously. And my works are nothing all too pretty nor remarkable, but I try to have my fun with creating them and that’s really the best I could do. Maybe when I finally get through the entire thing *crosses fingers*, I’ll put them somewhere on here for posterity’s sake. Or maybe I’ll do everyone a solid and spare their poor eyeballs that torture instead. Yeah.

On the subject of books (which I swear I’m getting back into and even ransacked my dusty luggage containing all my hidden books at 4 AM just to find some good ones to peruse), I’m finally reading Omerta by Mario Puzo. Well, reading is putting it lightly because son, I’m absolutely hooked and relentlessly devouring every page like it’s my last fucking meal. I’ve been a longtime chaser of his works ever since I got my hands on The Godfather (which I can’t ever stress enough is an amazing book, and the three-hour film is a world of its own entirely), and this is no exception to the case. I don’t quite know why, but there’s something so mystifying about reading fictional stories about old-time mafias and mob bosses and Italian gangsters that enamours me to just keep on reading. Hm, must all the engrossing upheld honour and vividly grotesque murders and pure bloodthirsty revenge. Seriously, every chapter or so is chock-full of many creative ways of dispatching filthy traitors. It’s always nice to get an idea or two.

(Not really fun but kind-of-related fact: my youngest brother is actually named after the main character in The Sicilian; Salvatore Guiliano, who was basically an exiled bandit. Well, more like a noble, steal-from-rich-give-to-poor, Robin Hood-type bandit, but still. It’s fun to occasionally bring up just to chide my mother, seeing as how so drawn into all sorts of antics the eponymous brother is)

Since I’m already halfway through the book (this plot is going at a breakneck speed and I could barely keep up smh), I’m planning to read some fascinating award-winning novels written by Filipino authors next, courtesy of my older brother (who’s admittedly a whole lot more patriotic in these endeavours than I am ahah). Should be fun, that. Might learn a thing or two from my own culture. I’ve been meaning to get more into Filipino literature, anyhow, and this should be a start.

(Update: I actually finished Omerta before I got to post this and it got really satisfyingly gory and also wholesome at the end 10/10 would read again 👍)

As for music, no surprises here when I say it’s been a painfully slow burn, but I’m trying to lean more into divulging towards chromaticism and chord harmonisation. Perhaps the wildass guitar solos can come later, eh? (Some exhaustive indie riffs are finna fun asf to learn in the meantime, though) Progressional structure first. These are bordering more on what I consider the jazzier side of theory (e.g. kinda hella fucking weird and chaotically complex) but I’m just about desperate to break out of my impulsive mould of using the same basic, boring set of pop chords over and over and over again and actually learn how to build on notes, and this seems to be a good way to go about it. Or, at least, I hope so. My skull’s still too pathetically thick to fully comprehend most of it. But I’ve got sad words that need some sick tunes and I don’t know how else to do it. When will music ever love me back 🙃

Also I may or may not have practiced my false chord in like a month but hey let’s not talk about that shit 👀

But that’s pretty much it??? I do these dumb rants every now and again for catharses’ sake, and it’s always pretty much just the same old shit, with some minor adjustments and fiddled changes here and there. My life right now is nothing flashy, or spectacularly special, or anything out of the blue. It’s about as yawningly mundane as it gets. But I’m trying to make do.

Maybe that’s all I’ll ever really get to do.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose