weary:incomprehensible output.

Listening with lumps in my throat amazes me. It makes me close my eyes as if an unknown movie would replay (not play) because I’ve seen it, I’ve felt it. Softness as if strumming the guitar. Happy like the crushed ice of the red tea. Touching when you never want to be touched. A hammock, the breeze and a book. A flower, a kiss and a chocolate cake. The parts of it, the minute details. They conveniently contrive to fill up the violet edges, the semi-carved flesh and the half-empty rosebud. The completion of the thinking heart.


It may seem like a parallel universe to savor a being of a trance-like existence. When you see a tree not as green but a gingham print fresh from the west, when the breeze felt as if you were brought back to the nineties because it smelled a lot like big boy and those red cherry colored ball gums, and maybe because you tend to incorporate a wishful touch of not just breathing the past but inhaling the future you want so badly void of the in-betweens. I never thought I’d feel this vague because I hate the word vague, I prefer the “uhn” of the word vulnerable. Susceptive to succumb into my pixie world with my hues and my taste buds. I curl in my sheets and dream of never waking up but to feel warm, cared and pink.


I believe that to escape is absurd. But sometimes I don’t believe in it too. I believe in my flowing tears. When I’m tired, they run into my ears, sometimes fast and sometimes they’re hot. The hotness matches the cold rain inside the pump. Nevertheless I celebrate the abundance of my melancholy. Maybe because I am a natural masochist. I prefer the punch than the pinch because the latter seems trivial and deceiving and limited. The hard punch is real and painful and it happens. I’ve seen it happen not once and I don’t bother to count.


Today, I feel what I feel everyday. I am a motivation. I am motivated to cleanse the dirty tones inside and flaunt the happy ones. The happy outlook, the happy feet, the happy table, the happy water and the happy letter A are all outside savoring my motivation. Night comes and I’m back to my own dimension, my parallel universe. The cycle goes on and it never stops as far as I know, because by then to stop would mean to end my beloved absurdity.