i feel sick thinking about myself

a shot

my mouth lives in a house that is stained by various kinds of scent: the rustic air of woods, the warm vapour of sweetness that can be found in the deepest layer of the earth. the roof smells like tequila, with a hint of salt that has been left for a period of time, which no longer possesses the saltiness of mineral salt and has the bitterness of sea water instead. the roof exudes drops of bitterness to the fertile soil of the ground. the ground, has more texture to it. it has an accent of some scent too, a thin air of diluted whiskey, but overshadowed by its gum-like texture. finally today, the house: the ground and the floor are left scentless, but because a house that does not smell like anything seems lonely and real, we taint the walls and the roof and the ground with even more viscous smell. the smell of menthol, and ashes, solid ashes that have been packed and rolled with paper, burnt to grey ashes again. the house reeks of smoke that is shooting up the roof, raising until the sky is black no longer blue. so a heart is now black no longer blue, a fulfilled emptiness instead of forlorn clues. we burn our heart so that it erases the sky, the ocean, the very clarity of blue that haunts us everyday, each shade of blue represents different kinds of sadness that is often mistaken for calm.

my mouth lives in a house that is stained by various kinds of scent: my mouth lives in yours.

THE DAY I STOP WANTING TO DIE, WILL BE THE DAY I DIE.

to not be able to remember anymore, is my greatest fear. if there is no afterlife, if we turn into worm food when we die, just rot as the world continues living, with each second of ticking clock passing by. our bodies indifferent and cold, warmed only by the air of the ground beneath this yellow earth. someone's father said, being dead is not a good thing or a bad thing. it just is.

how could something that is not bad nor good, stir so much thoughts in my mind, provoke implausible ideas and illusive heartbreaks? is this the cost of doubts at such inappropriate timing? doubts are not a sign of bravery, i'm going against the currents without knowing whom i could hold on to.

i have these memories of you intact, without knowing for sure whether they are for real because, although i am in full charge of my hands, each finger and muscle, i have no power over this collection of datas in my head. i reject any kind of certainties. but at least, i have my own dimension of reality, and i do not care if this is just something preprogrammed, whether this really happened, because really, it all now seems so beautiful. i'd like to remember you and everything in our surrounding not as what they once were, but as what i'd like them to be remembered. and one day i'll have crow's feet under my eyes, wrinkles inhabiting my epidermis and tears no longer as fluid as they are now. memories will fade away, will be taken by those hands of chimerical diseases, seemingly tame because i will have no knowledge of my suffering. i will not know that they once were there, that your shirt i once wore, the path we once walked together, those pages still fresh in memories now, memories that are so fragile, never like a data storage. there is still a point of holding my hands even if i may forget about your touch someday.

but darling, trust me there is nothing more i would like to keep to myself than these memories of your gentle omnipresence. like the frame i had in my mind of those candles in ps cafe, from which we rode a cab and you asked me afterwards, "do you want to make this exclusive?"

my life is plagued with perpetual questioning of consciousness and fundamental emotions; my life always a commotion. and to make it sound better is my job, not necessarily needed by anyone else but myself. and you said to me, comfortingly, of a theory so famous and difficult but satisfying i regretted not having acknowledged it from long ago. you are explanations to everything that ever exists, an encyclopedia, a thing from the past, revolutionary, though sometimes perforated. nevertheless, you always admit those holes decorating your pages, correct them when appropriate, and enclasp me with your two heavy hard covers of emerald green; and i am inside you for the longest of a given lifetime.

do not worry too much,you say. but a thing i never say, but always think about, write about: life has no rehearsal. but if things have so far gone so well with you, this well, this good i feel like i have cheated because i think i never deserve any of these; i wonder how much of an ache there will be when it is time for our hanging garden, our utopia to crumble altogether.

denseweekend

arguments

most advancements, progresses in the world are wheeled by progressive thinking, and because progressive thinking will be nonexistent without its counterarguments, arguments are essential in this world too, if you'd like to see progresses. but how far would you go for an argument, is it really worth debating. is it significant, and even in determining the value of an argument we have to argue because personal/general significance is so relative and prone to subjectivities. is it really important to argue what do you want for dinner? chinese takeaway or hours in a warmly lit coffee shop? is value of arguments too, really worth a debate?

labels

"never label people," you said.

striped shirt

what is the label of the striped shirt that you gave me yesterday? what does a label indicate? honey, tell me what that label says. why this label, not that one? labels make it easier for you to pick which stores to come in and which stores you can pass by, even when its glass windows say boldly SALE-- arial, in white, with one too many exclamation marks and striking palette of red in the background. why you pass that store, you say because they make lousy sweaters, with tangled threads dripping from their hemlines. my love, that is called labelling, but of course it is, because labels are part of business. what is life without labels, or are you just not allowed to label people, because it is rude, because you do not want to be labelled too? if only these shops, these shirts had a soul, they wouldn't like to be labelled too. but if they did not get labelled, you'd have to move in circles, rummage through piles of shirts in various colour schemes and textures and patterns and fabrics for the perfect sweater because you did not know which one would be less likely to have tangled threads dripping from its hemline. absence of labels wouldn't make your life easier. if these shirts had a soul, they would be labelling you too, your lifeless life and your mere existence, they would laugh at you in jovial, pointing their cuffs at your face. life is not unfair to humans only, it is never fair to any of the living, and non-living things.

i said, "i own a similar shirt in my closet, but with bigger stripes, thicker blue alternating with beige, instead of white." i do not know where the beige came from, whether it is really beige or tarnished beige, a progress from white. your eyes locked on its buttons, "no need to unbutton them," you say, so i didn't and i put it through my head, and like all your other clothes, it does not smell like anything.

perfume

because you are the only man i have ever dated who smells like humility, i did not expect to be welcomed by a tiny bottle of perfume on your table. checkered, like the plaid shirt of yours i wore the first time i lay a touch on your pale blue sheet, the surface full of creases. it smelt new, humble still and pleasant, never overpowering. it is like your love, and i will not impose any kind of doubt on its existence because i know, when you put a title "love books" on a memo listing the books i'd like to read next when they are about everything but love. i point at a book, unknown to me, except its cover page that says, "you do not have to say that you love me" as i put my index finger on your moist lips of garnet.

what she meant by waters were--oh my god, should i explain? this is like, worse than making a U-turn or a circular path after a long walk down the road. where words are dry like leaves of trees she passes by; orange everyday because she never believes in seasons.

and waters, what else? they were all her mom could ever ask for: 'please, let us have some of your waters down your cheek. remember when i slapped you for stealing a carton of milk pocky?' and then she looked around. crews were waiting, waiting for a dramatic, nationalistic spirit that was supposed to be brought up, bunch of clueless children set against the warm sunlight, against the wind, singing a song but not allowed of pronouncing it. cameras, all ready, frowns and sadness everywhere. only this child looking as joyful as ever.

how could i remember pain that is not there anymore, i am happy, mom. to be in such a beautiful place with you, she thought. how could i recall something that has ceased to exist? yet she tried. but not a drop of liquid gliding smoothly on her either cheek, each one kept itself very safely, intact far down her eye sockets. and then everything went black. black that was her mom's nightmare.

years later, roads still rough and leaves still dry. smile no longer clean, frowns began unravelling. numbers had become an increasingly important matter, a set of desperate measures, because the world needed something concrete to hold on to. memories, as always, were still fragile. that was what she had learnt before, all the more when she grew up. backed with various researches adorning the corners of each page of her psychology book, which looked promising and bright but were never as evident as what she had experienced those few years down the road. what says the movie always had, had always rung a bell in her head because to her, they were very, very true.

"Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. And memories can be distorted. They're just an interpretation, they're not a record, and they're irrelevant if you have the facts."

"There are things you know for sure. I know what that's going to sound like when I knock on it. I know that's what going to feel like when I pick it up. See? Certainties. It's the kind of memory that you take for granted."

"Look at it out here, it's all falling apart. I'm erasing you and I'm happy!"

if some people were that willing to erase some memories, how lucky they would be had they known what it felt to be me, she thought. but she, too, was no longer what she used to be. she could not now forget some sensations, even those that happened thousands of hours before. even those that had been subconsciously altered, far from what they were actually like, in the beginning of time. because memories do not inhabit the linear space of time we are rushing through every day, memories never get old, only dusty and tattered a little. ready to be retrieved, all the time. we would like to remember things not as how they used to be, but as how we would like them to be remembered. details we wanted our attention to be focused on. whether they elicit pain or a certain kind of high. how could it get more and more difficult to forget?

(answer this only when you get old. when your body is a home to alzheimer's or dementia disorders. not now.)

i do not care if tears turn men off. to me, waters--tears are the purest indicator of your happiness. of your remembrance. could be something that had happened, or had not happened. could be something real or something in your dream. could be happiness or sadness. either way, tears are real blessing. cover your face when you cry and from the sound, from all the writhes, i'd tell you things you'd like to hear the most. tears tell more than words, get more misunderstood than strings of sentences arbitrarily joined together.

i would like myself to understand that, two extremes are sometimes the most similar. pain and high. sadness and blessing. joy and pain, again. numbers are never the accurate measure, i want you to understand. i do not say this to demolish the concrete beliefs you have spent so much energy to cling your fingers to, but this is, the truth as i would like you to remember. statistics are lies, but if you want to get through for once and all with the system, just stick to them. but never dissolve yourself and disbelieve these words. the world is not the same world without waters.

these non fabricated crystals of salty liquid, may they stay with you forever.