crumbles.

I'd love to cry in your arms again, be warm again and all my pieces gathered; all in one place. I'd want to be where I can soften my emotional calluses, that I'd want to smile again like it is the natural thing in the world and not be paranoid that someone would see.

Manila is a place where being myself is not exactly a good idea.
And for the past weeks bonks has not been a good idea at all. Yes, I hesitate to use being real, as it falls prey to subjectivity.

Its almost pure sadness to miss my lady's embrace and my daughter's smile floating away in the air unaffected by the gravity of living for money.
At times, I will take that back; because it is pure sadness. The word "almost" would not be there at all.

I think I will listen to loud music again. Put the blues and the Counting Crows on the backburner. There is a need to space out, I miss my family too much.

flickers of madness.

running along the peripheries of my heat-addled brain, are not giving me nice thoughts. I am thinking that is the result of going for months without writing at all.

I have to open up the wounds again, I think they are closing up. Internal hemorrhage is a bad way to go. I have to let the blood flow again. Watch it crimson the place up again, then I can play the guitar again. and yes, Write.

Even with the lack of sleep and all, because a decade ago, I got along just fine, and my wounds were raw and bleeding fine then and I slept late and woke up early. and there was this thing called angst; ah, wonderful word that one was.

Things have gotten buried since then and I haven't gotten around to digging up things that I miss more than twice some time or the other these hot days.

Perhaps I should grab my grammar book and hone up the edges a bit, the better to open them wounds again. The funny thing is I'd prefer to watch my daughter hold her toes up her nose than do those things.

I wonder if I can do those things at the same time. Find some balance to it.

guess not.

I can only do one thing in the absence of the other. Oh, yes, this is my life.

hunger and heat.

(AM)

I am off again to hunt the elusive sleep, in this fertile heat. Slumber is rare thing these days, like kisses (the long ones) and yawns (my daughter's). Like enough money even.

(PM)

And I found a poor man's sleep, scraggly and threadbare. Barely there, but I took it anyway. And woke up weak and hungry, scarcely able to push the buttons on the remote, so, I just lay there, imagining you, and Rain.

near enough to bask in your warmth, even in this heat.

and be home again.

more than that.

these are sad times
even sighs are held back
thinking that it may color
the air,
and advertise to the immediate world
that for some reason.
You are sad.

being wired.

Would being up there be a better feeling. And the hundred questions that I would never answer, or would take that a step further.

Its been so long.

I cant even say I miss this, or that I need this. I just have this feeling that I should, not that sort of feeling that obligation gives you. Or responsibility.

Just that feeling that I should, that this is life.

Like that.
I guess I'll only be getting a few things that I want with my life. There never was an assurance that I would anyway, just the dream that this is what should be.

I can only hope that I could say I am complete if I happen to die in the next minute.

What I am is beyond my dreams of 8 years ago.

What I am pales in some parts of what I dreamed of 8 years ago.

The thing is, only the dreams remain. Yes, I would not want to wake up from them.
They are good sources of sustenance.

hear here.

through acoustics again.

Direct access memory, where scents holds reign supreme. Fading lingering traces of desire, and the realization, yes, through acoustics.

And seems like another life, far removed from the current one.

Viewing it up here, and the world gives a little spin, making sure the whatifs and whatmighthavebeens would not have a semblance of life. Or even just the idea of it.

I would just listen and unzip memories, and yes, this is a good life.

Much appreciated and much enjoyed.

what the word means.

Not the dictionary, or whatever the WWW points out.
Perhaps delirious, but I am not getting all the right vibes. Or even the vibes that I am expecting.

Just hunger, plain old hunger.

And when someone's personal bubble is nickel plated, it would be very hard to pierce.

And I can feel my heartbeat when I am lying face down on the floor.

It doesn't only tell me I am alive, I am also vulnerable.