Friday, July 27, 2012

The finger

the finger

 

It’s raining again. The sky is dark; the wind seems to be dragging the rain away and then back again. Back over our house, that is. For some still unknown reason, I’d like to spend the remainder of the day with my fingers harassing the keyboard.

 

My computer mouse stopped working last night. It had been acting up for weeks, and finally it met its end. If you ask me, it might actually be happy that it’s no longer at my service. I can be a careless tool when it comes to gadgets with wires; wires in general, really. Not having a computer mouse is inconvenient; I’m not used to it, and somehow I feel punished and deprived for having to use the pointing pad on my laptop. And the heels of my hands seem to always find its way over the pad, bringing the cursor to unwanted parts of the screen. It’s a nuisance, especially when I’m typing. If my aging memory doesn’t live up to its reputation, I’ll buy a cordless mouse when I’m at the mall. Bluetooth, bitch. Cordless!

 

I cut my middle finger while I was slicing carrots at lunch. I could be such a klutz, too, when it comes to sharp objects. Imagine the horror when blood started pouring out of the wound like water coming out of the tap. My arm felt numb for a few moments, and I thought I would need stitches. That was an extreme thought, yes. But the blood just kept oozing out that I thought for a second I was really going to die, that somehow I’ll be drained of all the blood in my body. Now that I’m typing, it appears as if I’m giving the monitor a dirty finger as the wounded part is raised at an angle. Speaking of dirty fingers—I haven’t really given anyone a dirty finger in a really, really long time. I think, unconsciously, it occurred to me that dirty fingers had lost their vigour.

 

Some eons ago, giving someone a dirty finger meant that you are enraged beyond your senses, or that you seriously meant to shove that finger of yours down the other person’s throat so as to keep him from breathing, or bawl his eyes out with a swift scooping move of the offensive finger. Before, giving some a dirty finger actually meant giving someone the dirty finger; it basically meant, “fuck you!” But then suddenly it all changed.

 

I forgot when it started, but someone is given the dirty finger and he smiles like it was a greeting instead of a sign of disrespect. Dirty fingers started losing their fundamental purpose—to inform someone that you had been offended and that you wanted to get back in the fastest, most convenient way you know; or to warn someone that hell was about to break lose—and hell did almost always break lose when dirty fingers were given.

 

Then some prepubescent pseudo-rock stars and their equally questionable fans started giving dirty fingers at concerts, to no one in particular. They’d raise their dirty fingers up in the air, as if to replace the lighters you’d normally see on big, legitimate concerts. Then some other prepubescent tools started greeting each other with dirty fingers. And some other breed of tools started posing in pictures with the once-infamous offensive symbol.

 

I don’t think any man with half a brain still gives the dirty finger. Because it’s laughable, ineffective, silly, and simply useless. Nowadays, when people are offended or enraged (or simply not in the mood for anything), they just say it out loud and spare their fingers the extra work. And I personally like it that way; I express my anger and frustrations and childish tantrums through the power of profanity.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

No louder than heartbeats

no louder than hearbeats

 

I would think
when stars collide in midnight sky and my fingers
smell of dead cigarettes and my mouth tastes
of folded coffee blankets
that you are curled up in bed thinking how
wonderful it would be if a sigh could build
bridges over seas and mend the distance.

When a breeze blows past and whispers explicit
in my ears, when I stand so tall yet feeble in beliefs
and I'd wither like leaves fallen off branches
you are somewhere holding a torch, hoping I don’t
lose myself as I lose hope.

When friends lose their touch and family loses its security
at times when silence cuts not sharper than wild grass
and bees buzz no louder than heartbeats
there is you at the end of the tunnel, waiting
until I've crossed the darkness and reached your side.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

28 none the wiser

There was an uneasy feeling in my stomach last night. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to read, which used to put me to sleep in half an hour tops, but that didn’t help. Turned on my laptop and watched episodes of Nigella Bites, which also used to help me sleep, but that didn’t help either. Since smoking past midnight sans liquor always had its somnolent effect, I searched beneath the pile of unmentionables in my cabinet but not one fag was willing to meet its untimely demise between my lips.

 

Why sleep, it seemed, was so elusive—why my mind was too restless to allow my tired body to get some rest didn’t sink in until around four in the morning, when I realized it was already July 19th and I was already a year older. I was born at around two-thirty in the afternoon so I dismissed the thought. I was still 27. Damn it, you’re still 27. Get some fucking sleep—I told myself.

 

28. Twenty-eight. Holy fucking myth gods! Existential crisis was once again knocking at my door, sadly without any alcoholic beverage in hand. Having admitted the fact that I was indeed two years shy off reaching the milestone age of 30 should have put my to sleep, but no. Instead, questions started popping like corn in the microwave. Pop, pop, pop! But there was no smell of butter or cheese.

 

What am I living for, really? Am I living for something at all? Is there a reason I’m alive? There are no answers yet. I don’t know if there are answers. You know, some people go through life with questions unanswered until they die. I’ve turned a year older, but definitely not wiser. I will probably commit the same mistakes, because I’m a stubborn son of a bitch who refuses to learn. I will trust the same kind of people and will most probably end up fucking up the same things. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what my twenty-eighth year has to offer.

 

I remember what my one of my workmates from eons ago said about certain people who experience a not so productive life when they reach the age of 21 until 27. It made sense. When I turned twenty-one, a lot of things didn’t go my way. And since 21, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to find the path that would make me feel like I was worth something. I think I wanted to believe that it made sense. You’d probably think it is bullshit. And it probably is. I know it’s silly to believe in things like that. Well, if it’s indeed true, then my life will probably change for the better now that I’ve turned twenty-eight. If it’s not true, then there’s only one word to describe that hour-or-so long discussion between eating pancit and kimbap and chugging down tequila—bullshit.

 

I’m twenty-eight, and I’m taking on the world—yet again.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Closed doors, I'm gone: A letter to friends

Some of my friends have this attitude where when they're having some sort of personal crisis (otherwise known as 'I-need-to-find-myself' bullshit), they shut people out of their lives. Who doesn't have that kind of bullshit, right? I, too, have that kind of bullshit, except that it's more like 'I-fucking-need-to-find-my-fucking-self'. But when I'm in that kind of bullshit zone, I don't shut people out. I may become a grand bitch to them, but I don't ever shut them out. Each of us has his way of dealing with things, I know. But, fuck it, shutting people out just because you feel lost or really despondent is such a self-centred, immature thing to do.

 

I was once told that the reason these so-called friends feel like they can simply shut me out of their lives when they're having issues is because they know that I'd be waiting at the door until it opens and I am let back in; that, in the same manner, people walk out of my life any time they feel like it because they know too well that I'd take them back in a heartbeat.

 

Suffice it to say that people do change. Pain changes people. I used to bend over backwards so people would stay, but those days are gone now. Because what on earth do they take me for, really—a doormat? What in Merriam’s name is their definition of a 'friend'? I don't want to only be there for them when they're OK. I want to be there, too, even when they're going through hell. Godfuckingdammit. I want us to share bullshit just as much as we share laughter.

 

Yet again I realize that life is too short to want people to be a part of your life when they really couldn't care any less. Love is too precious to give to someone who doesn't really want it.

And so, dear friends, I say: Go ahead, if you must "find" yourself alone; but I’m not going to sit and wait for you. Leave if you want to leave, but don't, even for a second, expect you can come back any time you want; that's if I even want you back in the first place.

 

You either allow me to be there with—and for—you through thick and thin, or you stay out of my life for good.