quiet

I had an unspoken truce with myself that when I picked up the metaphorical pen again I would be going somewhere dark and familiar, that the correct choice would be not to pick up the pen. 

For the past week, memories have been blindsiding me, without any triggers at all. 

For the longest time, I took care not to play certain songs, watch certain movies, or pick up the camera. Even pick up a book.

I have succeeded until now, in a fit of temporary desperation, I pressed play on an Incubus video. It was a song in a playlist I have forgotten I had on YouTube. 

So here we are.

yes (or this involves more than recollection or the promise of temporary salvation from seeming mediocrity or apparent stagnation of my current life.)

during this late afternoon when the shadows shifted and danced, revealing and veiling some parts of your face, in some innocent play of light and sleeping desire, I had moments of missing those parts that I had seen an instant before...now in muted gloom; then they bare themselves again after some indeterminate time and I was happy, contented even for those seconds of forever. I miss that afternoon and all those afternoons, more when February nears its end, and there is that subtle change in the way my eyes see light.

The late afternoon sunlight never looked so good attached to you.

shift + delete.

I guess it was still there inside of me. Not lying in wait, biding its time or just fading away; more like neglected, but still there nonetheless. I have observed it for a long time now and just realized it; that apparently even the mere deletion of files in our hard drives elicit an emotional response, that there is an apparent reason why we only hit the Delete button not Shift + Delete because we will not really be very sure if we want to permanently delete things from our lives or hard drives. The Recycle Bin quietly holds our hopes up for us, the virtual container for an ideal that most often is the root of despair and blogs.

It is extremely difficult for reason to explain why some things are the focus of so much emotion that it goes beyond the physicality of that very thing and from time to time you still find yourself trying to explain it to yourself; logically, you most often fail. Reason tells you that it is just an object, except that we have associated it with an emotion from a memory so much that it isn't about the object or its function anymore.  Is it still about the object then? Or is it about the emotion? Or do they go hand in hand, like somewhere in those words irony and paradox are holding hands.

The sentimentality of things goes beyond physicality now; it involves a lot of zeroes and ones, and involves more than simple computing power for them to manifest virtually, and that sentimentality still manages to tear our hearts. And I think this is the one unspoken truth about the surge of sales in consumer hard drives even as the race for the next big data compression algorithm still goes on:

The sentimentality of memory.

"...because it was the only thing I had left of you."  - Will Hayes

again.

this is not like imagining a ghost. as i know you're there. silent and watching. quietly breathing. with those eyes that remind me of moths and the cause of their demise. and there is the anxiety of seeing you again after these black days of not. the thought suddenly bringing the weight of those days of not touching. no ghost at all, just warmth and reality. only the sooness separates us.

because people are changing.

Finally I cave in. to the confluence of the things that have the tendency to break me down with startling consistency. It's hardly a coincidence that it is the start. of the monsoon season. It rained early this morning and it will be some mercy if the sun sleeps today. I hear stories that the second storm for this month is coming in to port and looking at the sky, perhaps they are true. It would be nice to put on some music after I get home and not think at all but as it is I still have to get this work day over.

There is this surprising calmness now like the moments when you are crossing a major eight lane highway when you can see a car hurtling towards you and you are not really sure if you will reach the other side in time. Then you run, and those moments are. zen.  The sound of your heartbeat will cut in later when you reach the other side. That is the calmness I feel right now, but still without that heartbeat thudding in my ears.

I finally get to watch the rain again and there's nothing like it.

Just to hear it falling on rooftops and concrete walkways and watch it scatter and converge and then get lost as it flows to somewhere, then the wind comes through the window bringing with it the coolness that no air conditioning can ever hope to achieve, that coolness of cool.

And as the rain continues to flow and be scattered by the wind, I know that they are not the only ones falling, flowing, scattering and then gathering again like magic colorless mercury. I finally can embrace myself again, and it is both comforting and something needed.

something long wished for and something long longed for.

who you gonna call?

Your face is still like a ghost these days, it haunts me; and the only predictable thing that I find myself doing is replay scenes when we both weren't ghosts to each other.  My dreams as of late verge on the supernatural, situations that wouldn't happen normally, or perhaps I should say verge on the impossibility. But I guess that is what makes them dreams. It's just that these isn't really healthy for me. Or that this situation is really not making me live. I will be a ghost soon myself if this goes on, with a big difference: I don't get to haunt anyone, not even your dog. That kind of thing doesn't really cut it out for a ghost, it isn't a way to live. It's not really living. No purpose.  You at the very least get to haunt me and also have a life at the same time. That's living the life.

Egon Spengler better be good on his word