odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
is a good song. When will Kingdom Hearts 3 come out? Who knows? I digress.
Someone told me to use simple words. I can prove to you that I am a simple person. Please burn the dictionary in your hands—it has no meaning. We can restrict the English language to two hundred words instead. The rest is too heavy for me to carry. We are neither too late nor too early, only walking in circles: a slow Fibonacci. I can tell you my life story in simple words too. Long ago, there was a sea. And then there wasn’t. Ah, a tragedy. Let me try again. There is a contradiction between what is natural and what is not. The euphemism for that is human. But it is so sad to think that androids cannot make flowers bloom. No one remembers the time capsule from some uneventful summer’s day. The rust on the small machine understands. It waits for no one. Three is cliché. I make friends easily. I share my secrets easily. Yes, the fourth wall is broken. But that does not make you special. Who cares if you believe in special relativity. I am like a snail—I lose myself in the places I choose to bury. Snails do not have spinal cords nor brains. They forget easily. The afterword. Dear internet stranger: thank you for liking my smile. It is like inflating a helium balloon: bright red exterior, invisible traces of blood, a word caught somewhere down your esophagus. Aspiration is a possibility, so you down it with herbal remedies and end up with a sore throat instead. Desire is also biology. But I did not fear because I thought myself immune to the embellishments of memory.
And fear is a strong word, something only carelessly exchanged for currency by people who watch horror movies on rainy days. It is not the fear of diving into a deep ocean—they call that kind of hypothermia curiosity. This is a cold more akin to dry ice burns: when you chase away the smoky wisps under the tap, there remains a thin layer of unease. Like a filter over the camera lens, it lingers and obscures. Cinematographers call that beauty. A psychoanalysis: when staring into the mirror without corrective lenses, the blemishes on your face are concealed from view, so you like to observe the world with blurry vision as well. A convenience that developed into habit. You only want to cry when there is a pillow to catch the tears. I can water your flowers for you, but that does not prevent me from killing them. Maybe they are better than me at handling saline. This is not out of spite, as you are a kind person who can both envy Hamlet and hate Shakespeare—all the world’s not a stage if people are more sincere to one another. But I am a better actor now. We both grew up that day.
Sometimes, I complain of neighbors who blast IDM past midnight. But I am always in the mood to make friends. A drunkard—or is he high?—outside speaks to his old chum about an opportunity foiled by conspiracy theories. About a long distance lover and a sibling he used to take long walks with. I guess I am also enamored with nostalgia. And the remnant smell of isoflurane reminds me of words from childhood. The way I was selfishly taught not to be selfish. The way my father tells me that love is obligation and I do not like to owe people.
A cheap passing musing. I used to believe that I was good at reading others. Fakedeep. I can’t tell what you’re thinking, so please let me listen: i. his presence is comforting, akin to pi pa gao. Makes me feel at ease and a bit like singing. Here is the rest stop I choose to get off at whenever the train ride makes me queasy. The interlude being too consoling, I often doze off. But sleep is negligence and I too am guilty of egotism. I was so happy when he told me rest stops needed care and maintenance as well. Here, a memory of the Orbis theme, accompanied by some arbitrary arrangement of stars we insisted were constellations, is set on perpetual replay. A memory of a conversation about alcohol and water. ii. your sporadicity is my sweet addiction. But it is all a meticulously calculated algorithm: pray to rngesus and pretend that luck is classical conditioning. Thank you for some days. No thank you for all the others. I make excuses, try to superimpose ideologies and complexes onto you. iii. this is the story of a friend of a friend. Where chill became an euphemism for coping mechanism. Truly unfortunate (and not in the sarcastic way). The Mamas & The Papas’ California Dreamin’ is now playing outside, so I am a little less inclined to raise a noise complaint. There are miniature green winged creatures crawling next to me, their tiny cries increasingly drowned out by the music. |
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July 2019
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