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"Is this a joke?," he asked. A pinch of pain in my chest. Anger and disappointment and insane longing folded into a swirling ball. I tried keeping the tears down, pulling my mouth into a smile. All I managed before bursting into tears was, probably, a constipated or pukeface look. I stormed off as fast as I could. His voice resonated across the corridor, but my mind couldn't figure out the words anymore. Afraid he would chase after me, I locked myself in one of the storage rooms, slid down onto the floor, and dug my nails into my dress.
I'm always searching for you. In every train station as I look out the window. In every store as I buy my cigar. In every corner, as I let my eyes simply wander.
I don't know where you are.
I don't know who you are.
I don't know when you are.
But I know you are.
It's not a matter of filtering out your face from the hundreds I see each day. It's more of me making sure I send you the signal when our glances connect for that ephemeral link. Because I will know when it's you.
It's one thing everybody seems bent on chasing, yet it flees at a speed faster than light. Whatever remnant it leaves, though, is enough to deceive - a deception that creates this mistaken impression that Love was caught.
I have never joined the chase, but I would never admit it to this raucous crowd who would gladly stamp-out any sign of deviance. Perhaps he saw in me the lack of love's binding chains as he lay on the verge of unconsciousness. "Hold my hand," he said in a breaking voice. "Take my love and use it as your own."
It was the first party she had ever gone to. She didn't like crowded places at all, but for the sake of her friends who insisted on her company, she decided to tag along.
A beautiful moon over a not-so-beautiful-anymore beach. The solemnity, away from the heart-shaking music and possessed dancers, called out to her. Marissa and Genevieve were busy making out somewhere on the soft white sand, anyway. They wouldn't miss her if she slipped off now.
Crescent moon. Memories of a kiss three summers ago resurfaced, placing a bittersweet smile on her tender lips.
You know Dique from Two Broke Girls? I've got bushy (afro?) hair just like him. And like Gretchen from Mean Girls, it was full (to the brim) of secrets.
A lot of people think that only women, not men, hold a box of confessions in their hair, but they're terribly wrong. I have this huge stash of dirty, dusty confidences in my head. The only difference between me and Tamara of Awkward is the size of our stashes. While hers is tiny and easily leaks, mine is gargantuan.
I couldn't keep my one treasured secret, though: that I love you.
Pain shot through my right temple as his fist connected. I slumped onto the floor, fairly resigned to another session of beating. I had to fake a cry of agony, though. While I barely feel anything (can't remember the last time I really felt physically hurt), he gets turned on when he causes pain onto others. I moaned some more, and even managed to shed a few tears. All for him.
Elena doesn't get why I do this; neither did I at the start. He loves me, he really does, but why must he hurt me?
Because I love him?
The morning light wasn't welcome as it hit my face through the thin curtains. I was too sleepy to want any stimulus to wake me up. It was hard enough falling asleep in a bus; now the sun was making it harder.
I should've taken a seat on the right of the bus. That way, I'd be looking out to the west. I usually don't, because I take this bus in the afternoons, when the sun starts setting and painting a picture of red and orange and pink. And Lavender.
Oh Lavender. Do you still love me? I still do.
I drown in my dreams. I fight the undercurrent as it pulls me down, but a surrealistic ambiance envelops me and I inevitably yield to the persistence. Surrendering always has a calm quality in these visions, because here, no one can see (and expect from) me. Everyone loves to see me defeat overwhelming odds, but I have always wondered how it is (even wanted) to be like the rest, with their vulnerable disposition. Sometimes, being delicate is a gift - everyone is bent on protecting you. In it is a kind of love I've always dreamed of but never had.
They were migrating.
I felt numb. We had started quarrying for the stones to build our castle called love, but all those rocks now crumbled to dust. I didn't want to give up on us, but she told me she had to. A future where we loved one another without living with each other was a future she could not afford.
A vial's worth of sympathy - that's what we got. High school love didn't matter to most grown-ups. It's something I couldn't understand, when they must have invested just as much time and thought when they were this young.
Hopelessly bound, that's what you are. I have questions, too. How long does it take to move on? How long does it take to forget? How long before a familiar emotion transitions into a ruthless fact?
I can't really help you. The ghosts are all in your head, and from what I know, they reign supreme over any and all advice you'll be getting from me. I do tire of this charade of repeating the same spells on you over and over, without visible effect.
But I understand, I do. Love is irrational, and in its grip, so are you.
He hadn't truly "looked" at girls for years, but this one had a particular appeal. Beautiful, yes, but many other beautiful girls had come and gone. It was more of overflowing an beauty encapsulated by a simple disposition, detached demeanor, and empowered solitude. Love never comes at first sight, he believed; so for this one, he decided to settle with drinking in her sexy existence, thanking the universe for spawning such a being on this forsaken planet. Interestingly, in the span of ten minutes, they intersected not twice, but thrice. Destiny, though, was foreign to him. It must be coincidence.
Rock. You are a rock. Not because of your stone heart or rocky abs, but because of your inability to say what you think. Or anything else other than standard replies.
Rock. You are a rock. You can beat scissors ten out of ten times, but paper always wins over you. Paper. With the scribbles of a love confession all over it. You couldn't make words out of sounds, so you just made them with your silent hands.
Rock. You are a rock. Not a rock on her finger. Just a stone in her kidney. A thorn of a memory.
Flower vendors flock to the gates, to the streets. Tons of roses - pink, white, red. And other flowers. Tulips. Bouquets. Balloons in the shape of hearts.
An eyesore, she thinks to herself.
A blaring reminder of the day after today.
A mocking whisper in her ears, of how unattractive she was. Of how less loved she was compared to the rest of these girls who will tomorrow squeal out in glee as their cardiac muscles work double time to bless their cheeks with a rosy red blush.
More than anything, it was a sickening anniversary that should've been their seventh.
He squeezed the seeds out of himself, and was soon left with an empty sense of satisfaction. She was here last year, and the year before that, her calloused hands doing most of the work. This year, she was probably in another victim's bed, sucking the love and money out of him, until he was dry.
The break-up was terrible. She had let me build my love on lies, and when the high wind came, the castle crumbled to PM10 particulates. At these times, I envy that friend - his free-spirited, unrestrained singleness that brought him and others happiness.
An empty smile amidst the contagious laughter. Revelle aced the required charade like a master courtesan as her eyes subtly combed the crowd for a sign of Lens. She still wanted to place her eyes on him, at least for a moment.
"Stubborn heart," she chided herself. It was over long before it began, but the mind can barely rein rampaging hormones. Just one glance, she pleaded with the rational voice in her head. Just one glance, and it'll be over. One glance, and I will never let love fool me again.
And it came, just one glance her way.
Hot. He was simply that. HOT.
Like a steam engine on overdrive. I could probably drench him in cold water, and it'd all flash to vapor in seconds. I wanted him. I wanted him to bring me to the sun's core through his hotness. Fusion. That's what happens in the core, they say. And that's what we'll do. Fuse like there's no future.
But we just can't, because he won't. I hate that about him, the way he's a glass of ice-cold lemonade that isn't for sale on a sweltering hot summer day. Incapable of love my foot. Really??
A girl. That's what I need.
Someone to lie beside me, gaze at the stars above us, and seek a shooting star.
Someone to race against as I climb up an inclined wall.
Someone to tag along as I cross rivers and trek paths, in search of adventure.
A woman. That's what I need.
Someone to lean on my shoulder as she laments her misfortunes.
Someone to receive my embrace and warmth and assurance.
Someone to protect, to care for, to love more than myself.
She. She's who I need.
Someone who'll unveil my vulnerability and turn it into invincibility.
He came at me like a hurricane, dressed in a blue dri-FIT and matching shorts. On his left hand, he carried an eco-bag that seemed to have something heavy in it. His strides were all filled with purpose, brown eyes burning with a determination that would incinerate me in seconds.
Yes, he was definitely going to crush me. This guy - my newfound crush - would crush me moments from now. He was looking at me; or at least in my direction.
Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Racing Heartbeat.
I was forced to stop in my tracks, frozen by what felt like love.
My arms and legs were itching, because I had lain on the grass for too long. A small price to pay for the opportunity to watch the beautiful, cottony clouds fly above me as gentle winds tickle my face. We used to do this together - lie down on this field, far from the city, away from its noises and rush. Sometimes, we came here at night and took in the fact that we are much less than dust specks compared to the universe.
Cassiopeia. She sad that was her favorite. Her namesake.
I still love you, Cassiopeia. I really do.
She stole my atheism away from me. I prefer phrasing it that way, instead of "she introduced me to the lord." One, because I met the Lord way back, so it wasn't her who introduced me to Him/Her/It. Two, because atheism used to be a core characteristic of mine - a treasure - and she took it away. Now she's the atheist, and I'm suspended between agnosticism and belief.
It must be a paradox, for me to have met the Lord, but to be an atheist and not believe in Him/Her/It.
Paradox. Just like my love for her.
Are we talking - with our knees, arms, eyes, and lips? These touches - are they equally deliberate as they are accidental? When you breathe my scent, does the blood rush through your veins like a sea facing the perfect storm?
My aura is around me, in a shade of bright crimson of a bloody lips. Mine, my bloody lips. Which you couldn't help biting in your ecstasy. It's the color of a passionate love. The embodiment of a being at the interface of lust and sacrifice. It roars as the pressure is released, it's core throbbing in manic rhythms beyond reason.
They tell me it's a sickness, but to tell you the truth, I was sick of love. We've tried making it work, over and over, but time and again, we claw and chain at the other like beasts in cages. She'd be an angel with fangs. I'd be a demon without eyes.
Our love was too young - this is the ultimate conclusion. It bred in us children of envy and jealousy, setting us in this sick cycle with no escape except separation. How I could live without her was beyond me, but it was the only way I'll save her.
He scared me. Or should I say, what he wanted scared me. It's not like love was waiting at the other end of the tunnel. He only wanted friendship. Unfortunately for me, it was a deep one he asked for, which I wasn't sure I could give to someone who was practically a stranger to me. I know people like him; I understand where he's coming from - I've been friendship-hungry at various points of my life. But I also know it's a potentially risky thing, to clutch onto people like a lifeline and slowly, unknowingly let them take over.
You try to understand - that is always the first step. Where is this person coming from?
You slowly see his or her ego, seeping out like the sap of the oak.
You try to distract yourself away from his or her riches and privileged upbringing.
But you just can't.
Not even if you love him or her.
There were just too many differences between rich and poor. Here in this sad country that's popular for it's happiness.
There's always a gap. A blindness they can never acknowledge. They were never at the short end. They don't really "know", can't really.
Depression. It's difficult to deal with depressed people.
Particularly when they're in love with you.
It's an unfortunate dance. Step forward and show consideration, and you feed the fires. Adding motivation to the behavior. Concrete reinforcement.
Step back and sway away. You feed the ice. The depression deepens, and you start to sink with the ship. Sooner or later, you'll be as cold as the Titanic.
I'm not a good dancer - not with my feet or my words. I try to learn the steps and the hand movements, but grace does not possess me. One of us stumbles and falls.
Charisma. Once upon a time, I longed to be like Alexander the Great, whose perspiration was said to have pheromones in them. I'd charm nations to my side and make their Kings and Queens love me. The world would be mine and bow before me.
But I hate the world.
But I hate the mindless hive-mind of the world.
But I hate the men and women who prostrate before me.
But I hate the gifts of emeralds and blood they rain upon my feet.
But I hate the.
The love they give me.
Go away, go away, I hate.
Beauty. It comes in all shapes and sizes. It has no form in reality, because it is such a virtual concept. The eye of a man can see but a tiny spectrum of colors, yet sees beauty in the sunset. How different would it be for the eye of a bee? Would it see beauty in the sunset, or something far more ugly? Like an ultraviolet madness in the face of the sun.
We often mistake love for beauty. She is beautiful, you thought. But that was love. Her rough palms grace your cheeks, and you think it is beauty.
I guess the creative juices came out.
So much frustration breaks the rind.
And out flows the tears and sweat down south.
Swirling thoughts released from the mind
As Christina beckons with her awkward arms
Ivory skin and longing eyes
I look back days and clutch the charms
Six clocks tick by as Angel sighs
Adun will rise when Zeratul says
So be it, it will be done
And love will come with halcyon days
Irivika cries as Kalis run
If we believe that tomorrow is dead
Shallow grave is for the living
Andahlia comes with hand in dread
Sith Jaeden dance, you are deceiving
Alas, dos, troisieme
I know the secret is M
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