cinders.

Like it has always been and I still don't fit in this world, even after more than a dozen world views later. except that it's not even a priority in this sadness, in this burning. nothing takes precedence after your chest caves in and continues to crumble away, only stopping when there's nothing there anymore.

There is still light, but slowly that will fade as I inch inside the very walls that have hidden me. A little over ten years and there is no one left to remind me, of how the stories go, and how the characters went. 

I can finally acknowledge that it is there;
that seeming mental impossibility 

and the stories are all true, after all.

(020424)

sharp.

This path has never been friendly. I have a feeling that it doesn't even care about you in the end. Not one bit. The punishing climb and jagged rocks that serve as handholds and footholds seem to support this. 

We are ghosts still. Hungering to touch and be touched.

It will be another world once we start to bleed. with scenes familiar and strange; all beautiful at the same time. Would we choose to bleed. 

And we keep on climbing while we take the time to decide. Strange purgatorial anticipation.
Will ghosts die if they fall.

days go by.

it's been years, lifetimes, lives of standing still. a safe and a way to live, a way to go on and ignore everything else. even myself, in order to breathe, sleep, move, and walk. then the feeling came; familiar, warm, and reassuring. promises, warm embraces, and perhaps a right way to feel. 

It should begin here. Let my cup runneth over. Let the waves run me under. Let the rain wash over me. 

and still be scared shitless of the ghosts and ghouls of the past ten years lying in wait.

curtain falls.

 Now there's another reason how movies can break your heart, and this time, this time it's not the movie itself, not the characters, not the story, not the intricate turn of events, montage or end credits. This time it's about time. 

The time when that particular movie started to exist and roll through our monitor screen or theater canvas. Whether watched together or separate, the memories are there, during or post-watching. 

Watching reruns are equally devastating. Then the sequels come, and a character moves on. Somehow, I relive your passing and the separateness gets stronger as I watch alone. Only my memories are there.

I die along with these movies and regenerate like Sisyphus, waiting for the world to turn and the next film to watch and an old one to rewatch.  

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