Haven’t been here for a while. I hate this place…

I still don’t feel like expressing… so I’ll skip a page or two, pretend that I did it all, said it all, and roll over to the next chapter. The truth is… even though I can’t express, I am only here to satisfy my urges to write. I know I lost it; I’ve already said that before. I dig in with my bare hands and I can’t find anything. It’s like a deep bucket of black paint; and the more I dig my hand in, the blacker it gets and all I am left with is a black arm that I fail to see in this dark abysmal shroud that I’ve rolled myself with to cover me from the gleaming eyes. It almost feels like walking under water; pure silence with bubbles pressing against my eardrums, creating a beat of chill-out silence to procreate my gratification.

I am living in my very own fish tank; personal, deep, secluded, private, with air bubbles to keep me alive.

I don’t want to write. I have repeated myself way too much during the past few months. But I figured that maybe if I keep repeating myself I would stop making sense and then at the end it’ll all sound the same, all gibberish and soothing to the listening ear. It’s like watching a good movie over and over. At first you don’t get it but you find yourself enjoying the hot chicks; the second time things make sense and you begin to appreciate the dialogue, the cinematography, the amazing acting of a nobody’s debut performance; by the fourth sitting you know the picture word for word. By the fifth time, you fast forward through the film and find yourself stopping only to watch the scenes where there’s a hot chick involved.
During the sixth sitting, when you’ve already jerked your juices off, you hate it, every word, every scene. Nothing makes sense anymore and you wonder why there was a time when you actually liked it. You’ve already found flaws. By that time, you know for sure that if it were up to you, you would have certainly written a better picture, that you deserve better.

It’s all about time and repetition, kills the appreciation, genetically re-engineers the valuing system that we tend to hold as our religion, our true identity, our self-definition. Same thing goes for work, for family, for love, for books, for school, for war and for death. Once you’ve been there more than once, you’re better off jerking off to the same old 50’s grind house movie Betty who once gave you an erection.

Perhaps life is overrated after all.

Like that flower bouquet that brides through at weddings like we’re some sort of monkey clan performing a ritual to please the gods of marriage. The lucky one who gets the bouquet drowns herself in her five minutes of fame as all eyes focus on her soon to be engaged fingers that are holding that round shaped petal assortment that’ll make it happen for her, finally. The truth of the matter is that… she goes home, throws her 14^th wedding bouquet in the trash, and marks the new one as number 15.

Exhibit A.

Blow the birthday candles all you want…

I went to a wedding last night. I usually hate weddings for I happen to be an anti-social animal; sit back, observe, make little jokes in my head about the lovely couple, about their choice of music, about their guests, about all the single guests scoping the room for love, and O the DJ… he usually gets the biggest jokes portion. If someone took a picture of my brain at a wedding, all they’d see is me posing as a refugee in my very self-created genocide concentration camp. Let them all be victims of my merciless thoughts. If only I could steal the guest book on my way out just to know their names.

But then again, names don’t really matter, do they? They’re just letters to which you answer when you hear them being pronounced. If it were up to me, I’d say go numbers.
Let me have infinity please…

But then again that’s not a number, is it? It’s merely a hope that something better would come your way. A lucky number that makes it all come true for you to tattoo on your shoulder or shape into a lucky charm to wear as a pendant that protects you from the evil orcs out there, judging you in return.

Eventually… I hate that word.

Part of the truth remains… the bouquet, the aquarium, good ol’ Betty, and time… they’re all mathematical equation factors that you can just replace with the letter X.

Like names, X should be a number as well… and if it is, problem solved and everybody’ll live happily ever after.

Oh well,

For now I’ll just stash all my Xs in my pockets, throw a big ass smile on my face, and inject myself with pure caffeine to get my juices pumping.

It has been a long, winding ride.