I am back to the word pad. My shortcut’s back on. I spent the day finding new things to do, old things to do. But then again… I do find my pleasure in the weirdest things after all.

I tend to deal with matters that hurt alone. I do not like the pat on the shoulder ordeal. I am not a fan of its going to be alright. Be it with voices in my head or with absolute silence, with age, I’ve found unorthodoxed ways to deal with myself. I know when the bell tolls for the next chapter to begin. I know when it’s time to move on; but like books that I’ve half read and enjoyed, I find my book rather stunning, too stunning that it has to end. I never travelling for personal pleasure, I never sang out loud in public, never kissed a girl, never got a public applause. Not to say that I’m against any of those, but I do tend to substitute what brings life to my joy buds with other things. No… masturbation is not on the list.

Here and now, sitting in my room, realizing that the only thing that has not changed about me is the font that I prefer using as I liquidize my heart and pour it out on a digital pad.

Stop whining and move on, you tiny little fuck.

I met some friends last night; friends whom I haven’t seen in months. We went for a ride in the city past midnight. I was not prepared for it. In the midst of the ride, I realized that everything hit a button. That bridge with its wrong turn when I went to buy that train ticket, that train ticket stand that was closed for maintenance, the photo place, the mall map, the concert hall, the road, the lake, the jazz bar. I never saw it coming. I never thought it would end. My list of surprises still stands unseen like a concert playing behind closed curtains in a theater. Like my blog, it plays for its very own pleasure, mine, and no one else’s. Story of my life.

I rolled down the car window and embraced the wind as it hit my face. It hit hard I felt merged with the air for a few minutes as I closed my eyes and pretended that I was flying as I mentally witnessed all the headlights in the world reflecting over my shut eyelids.

Dear one, it’ll get better. Life will roll your dice again and have you forget. You will find your perfect someone. You will find someone whom being in love with makes you happy. It will get better. I wouldn’t tell my soul differently.

My jigsaw pieces don’t fit each other anymore. I’ve made sure they don’t with my continuous self criticism. And even though I have become one with all but myself, all I feel is seclusion. Nauseating beats of a random pulse run through me and all I’m left to do now is to pull out my drawers and open my closets doors wide to let my imaginary friends back out so they can talk to me about revenge, about rage, about screaming, about throwing out things that once mattered. But I’m not weak anymore. I won’t be angry. I won’t give into the short term gratification.

All I do is smile as I feel them crawl back into me… and listen closely to the deafening tolling bells, waiting for them to stop ringing in my ever good-listener ears.

Too much closet space to fill now. If only I was five again so I could crawl in there and hide from the ghosts that visit my dreams still.