let the cycles propel you into a new form of blogging

My life goes in cycles:

I do a period of withdrawing from people and abstaining from chatting, maintaining only email communications (as if they're some level above chats, holier? more individual?), before winding up with a night like tonight where I'm juggling six or seven conversations at once. This time, three mediums: Pidgin, Skype, and Livestream. It's nice to hear people's voices and see their faces sometimes - this is the reality brought to you, the personality that is more than just text and smiley faces.

But I have turned smiley faces into an art form. Do not question my ability to communicate by emoticons alone - especially now that L's linked me to full breadth of the onionhead gifs. They excite me when so little else in life does. How can you not love their exaggerated emotions? I may be overcompensating for my current lack of strong emotional feeling, but let's not throw sticks at that beehive for now. (Am I mixing metaphors? Or just creating my own?)

So recently (by which I mean starting two days ago, but that's recent, right?) I've started listening to Yiruma. I only have his first album right now but it's been on repeat for a while. There's a part of me that longs to pretend I have a soul, what with this whole delving into instrumentals (I am also in love with Acoustic Caf&eaccute;'s Long Long Ago and Last Carnival) and poetry. Neruda, I am going to memorize Soneto VI. So far I've gotten only "En los bosques, perdido..." My Spanish may be a tad rusty. It's like saying my emotional health may be a tad shaky.

Another cycle:

Weeks go without emails in Chinese and today I get two, both of which require me to break out my elite Chinese-typing skills. Thank god for pinyin-input programs like Sogou - what would I do without you? My reading skills are pronouncedly better than my actual writing skills now thanks to the joys of technology. Never let it be said technology does nothing for us!

So I've responded to one and the second will be summarily dealt with tomorrow.

(OT: Why do we accept "dealt" over "dealed" and "slept" over "sleeped" but not "dreamt" over "dreamed" and "leapt" over "leaped"? Freaking American English, why did you need to take an already inconsistent and irregular language and fuck it up some more?)

One last cycle:

Writing. But it always comes to me in cycles. Periods of writing too much and complaining about being tired of it followed by periods of being unable to write and complaining about needing it. Complaining is always a part of the cycle; an integral part, even.

Also, I have rediscovered the Joys of Skype now that my webcam and mic are both in working order. Let's have it! I will make some real time emoticons at you.

trust is a gift i've rescinded from you

I wish I could put to words the way you make me feel. It's a swirl of emotions that starts in my chest, tight and aching, and creeps to my stomach in a malignant spread of nausea. You hurt me in ways I shouldn't allow you to, because time after time I tell myself I won't leave myself open to you; I will shield my wounds and close my doors, raise up my guard and lose my vulnerability. It never happens and here I am (again) aching and fearful and angry and confused.

You never know because you never look. I wonder if you suspect sometimes, if you brush it off and dismiss it as me losing myself to emotions the way I do. It's all in my head, it's not a real problem, it's me pulling away and hurting myself: it's never you. I wonder if that's what you think or if you think about it at all.

The problem is that you never tried. Or that you at least try no longer. When you are there, it is only a matter of convenience. When it is no longer convenient, you are out of my reach. If I don't try to build the bridge over the gap between us, there would be no us. There is no us, not anymore, because I can't bear the weight of this bridge by myself. I'm tired. I'm tired and I'm angry, I'm sick and I'm hurt. I don't understand why you can't see (are you willfully blind?) or why you don't care or why you won't try.

I'm sorry I'm not perfect. I'm sorry I can't be patient and understanding and kind and proactive. I'm sorry I can't be in a friendship that is falling apart because I'm tired, so tired, of the way life is going. I'm not strong enough to pull through alone (was I ever?) and I wish that I were. Just once, I wish you would reach out to me and offer me support and show me that you're still there, that your presence is not contingent on my initiative, my efforts. That your friendship is not conditional on the fact that I make the overtures.

I've tried, I swear I have, but I don't think I can anymore because you - life - has worn me down. All I want to do is lie down instead of fight, and I am selfishly waiting for a hand to reach down to take mine, to lift me up.

I'm so afraid it won't be yours.

It probably won't be yours.

And I'm sorry (I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry) because it might not be fair, but if it's not you, then I can't be yours. This fraying friendship is no more. The ache and the unease and the bitter hope will fade. I will learn not to be disappointed anymore, because you stopped trying somewhere along the way - and now I will too.

Was I ever worth it?



The thing that hurts the most, the deepest, is that I see you try for others. But not for me.

you waited by the window, i waited by the door

Soneto VI
--Pablo Neruda

En los bosques, perdido, corté una rama oscura
y a los labios, sediento, levanté su susurro:
era tal vez la voz de la lluvia llorando,
una campana rota o un corazón cortado.

Algo que desde tan lejos me parecía
oculto gravemente, cubierto por la tierra,
un grito ensordecido por inmensos otoños,
por la entreabierta y húmeda tiniebla de las hojas.

Pero allí, despertando de los sueños del bosque,
la rama de avellano cantó bajo mi boca
y su errabundo olor trepó por mi criterio

como si me buscaran de pronto las raíces
que abandoné, la tierra perdida con mi infancia,
y me detuve herido por el aroma errante.

memories are like bullets, cracking my armor

You have questions, I have some answers:

01. No.
02. I've lost the point. Everything seems surreal lately, like I'm watching someone else fuck up her life.
03. I'm not interested.
04. I hope so but I really doubt it.
05. You never cared and I stopped trying. Or is it you never tried and I stopped caring?
06. Green.
07. Yes, like crazy.
08. Alienating all my friendships, yeah baby.
09. I could not begin to give a fuck.
10. Forty-two.


When I look back at what I write and how I write "love", it's easy to see what my version of true love is: friendship set on fire. As cheesy as it is, it's true. It's all laughter and dependency, understanding even without knowing everything, trusting the one who makes you laugh and smile and is always there, through good times and bad. The one who notices the little things (how important the little things are), the one you've grown so accustomed to in your life that you (in a way) take them for granted, as a given, like the air you breathe.


Apropos of nothing: Jensen Ackles is a gorgeous thing. It irritates me to no end when people don't understand how to use the word "nonplussed" (hint: it is not a synonym for "nonchalant") or confuse homey vs. homely, nauseous vs. nauseated, and faze vs. phase And if I ever did trust people, I no longer do. It wasn't even a conscious decision, merely defensive.


the whole world is watching - you haven't come this far just to fall off the earth