They say that writers are sad people. I disagree. I believe that people write when they’re sad. It’s been months since I last spilled my thoughts upon these pages. I believe that that’s a good sign. Being busy with school, activities, and the daily grind for the imperfect in a world of impermanence, my mind wanders less, the river moves without any hitch. However, will resolute yields. We give in sometimes. The steady flow of the river vanishes beneath the tumultuous and cataclysmic events that follow upon its wake. And I find myself talking to myself in public.
I-You. The oldest story in the world. What I want is to be needed. To be indispensable to somebody. To lick each others’ scab, to eat ourselves up, to sing about our scars. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.
You keep telling yourself that it’s love. But basically you’re just using each other up. You say, save me from something that looks like love. Before you laugh. A sick kind of desperate laugh that betrays the world. Sometimes it’s easier not to let the world know what’s wrong while smiling. People smile with that invisible gun to their head. And you laugh.
I think this is the reason why I write. I write in retrospect. I may never have the control when things happened, at least I can control the manner in how I recreate them. All these stories, experiences, anecdotes and past lives have taught us to live in the past. People telling how this one dramatic story has changed their life forever. Now their lives are more about the past than their future.
I-You. She has a mouth like unswept glass – when you least expect it she cuts you. He’ll wear a smile when she slits his throat. He’ll wear a smile when his mouth bubbles crimson gasping for his last breaths. His smile will wear him after he apologizes for bleeding on her dress.