Trying to be the cowboy

Kin

And it burns in the presence of solitude.

A letter to another lover I guess. I never would have expected how easily I would be lulled to your celestial trance, have me slumbering about peacefully as you swaddled me in your luminous embrace. To think that by this time last year, I was promising friends that I would focus more on myself and leave room only for a passing stranger; only for strength, independence, personal growth, that’s what I promised myself, but I was probably never a man of my word to begin with. Who could blame me? If they knew you the way I did, or at least in the ways I think I do, they would have casted aside any semblance of hesitance to leave ample room for you. Yes, you, in all your entirety.  I can’t pinpoint the actual source, but whenever I’m with you there’s this indescribable calmness that you exude in every gesture you do; a simple smile, with your cheeks brimmed with a cheeriness ripe enough to bite; a momentary glance, short but abundant with emotions enough to tell a story for children yet to know what love ought to be; a shift in your stance, that beckons me to come closer, not merely by flesh, but in all the ways possible that goes beyond our mundane notions of intimacy — closer it says to me. And to come near I do. There, so comfortably close to you that each breath of yours becomes my very air, my atmosphere. It is here where everything is clear. Love and all the other things I hold dear. Thus, in this liminal space of ours, while I am conscious enough, I do declare: I love you, my moon. And though I know you won’t be here for long, my love will remain.  When they tell you love makes you blind, I argue that it does the opposite, it’s an expansion of perspective, or at least that’s what you taught me. In my rusted gaze, love was something to be sought after from people, to be picked apart from the inseams of each interaction. But you taught me how easy it is to find, and how invigorating it is. For love isn’t this mere intangible abstraction, rather it is simply me, you, my friends, and all other things that are refracted by one another. Thus, the act of loving is the pursuit of places, people, pets, objects to put all your love in, one that hopefully amplifies it exponentially, until there is nothing but love. Fortunately, I am able to place some bits of my love in you, regardless if you did the same to me. Loving you is enough, and it always will be.    For, in many ways, you have allowed me to remember my name, not from the echoes that waltz through the mouths of others, but through my actual undistilled utterance. I have learned to heal from my scars and to finally breathe and live! I was wrong to assume that there is no strength, no independence, no growth in loving others, because for the past months of getting to know you, that’s all I’ve been doing: getting stronger, becoming  more independent, and finally growing. I really hope I did the same for you. I can’t wait for all the moments we have yet to share my beloved space oddity. Living in your moon-age daydream, Kin

I know people mean well when they go on to explain how healing is not a linear but a necessary process in living,  but I just can’t help but feel so daunted by it . I don’t know if it’s because of the looming fear of uncertainty, that there is a possibility for things to get worse,  or just because the mere fact of tending to the wounds you’ve long ignored sounds so exhausting and excruciatingly painful. It’s like barely evading the cunning hands of the beasts in the woods, reaching sanctuary, but ending up risking all that security by returning to the very same hell — just to make peace with the beasts. I’ve suffered enough and to demand from me that I return to the very same place, to the very same person that bore their wanton claws in my flesh, is nothing but cruel; because why the fuck would I want to make peace with that? Healing is so scary because it entails just as much pain from the actual trauma, if not magnified. And for a long time, I’ve chosen to opt out of that process, for it was all too risky for me. It just didn’t make sense why I needed to gamble all my hard earned stability just to properly heal. So in its stead, I repressed all the negative shit in my life and simply moved onward, and oh how that turned out to be a fucking mistake. 

 For most of my high school life, all I did was repressed anything bad that had happened in my life, whether it be family trauma or stress from burgeoning relationships. And for a moment, I found some peace in that. The peace it offered glistened like a bubble kissed by the sun in a bucolic field, but despite the comfort and joy it offered, it didn’t last long enough. Eventually the beasts caught up with me. Rather than contain these painful memories, all  that my repressing did was allowed for the torment laced in those moments to fester into my very core until it manifested into very concerning and negative desires. And all these accrued desires culminated into an all-consuming urge to disappear, which reached its crest during one Holy Thursday. Those were really dark times and if it weren’t for my friends, I don’t really know what I would’ve done that day. 

That encounter made every Holy Week such a turbulent time for me, because this particular week reminded me how frightening it was to have your whole mind be decimated by that sinister urge. It changed all the things I knew about what I feared. Now, returning to those forsaken woods didn’t seem as daunting, for nothing was able to surpass the fear of having to relive the crushing feelings and thoughts I endured that day.  Although I hate that it had to come to such extreme circumstances, that encounter compelled me to actually deal with my neglected pain and allow myself to actually heal from it and not settle for an imitation of growth. Unsurprisingly, the process is as exhausting and as painful as I imagined it to be. There are days where I feel so numb that I grasp at anything just to incite some semblance of feeling; while there are days where I desperately cry out for respite from feeling everything. It’s a messy pursuit of happiness, but it’s one that will surely lead you to it regardless of the chaos. And though I have yet to fully make peace with all of my beasts, I am getting there, slowly, day by day. It’s been almost two years since I’ve been clean from that unhealthy coping mechanism, which I fortunately do not even think about doing anymore regardless of the situation. I am learning to treat all my emotions with respect, and to have more compassion towards myself and others.  I am learning to love myself more, and to love other people even more; which is kind of ironic given the many constraints this pandemic has placed in expressing our love to people. Nonetheless, it’s really surreal to look back and have that definite realization that I truly have grown so much from that confused and naive little boy who was so easily hurt by the slightest feeling of abandonment. And hopefully I continue growing to the point where I no longer have revisit the anxiety and other unnameable feelings I attached to every Holy Week.

Yes, I am recycling my old letters — that never got sent — as a reminder. A reminder of where I’ve been and where I need to go. ------ Dear you, It was today when I found out that I can never love you the way other people did, or perhaps will. How others braved the pencil thin crosswalks, blindfolded, to reach you. You reached the end insofar as the black sea of stars. While I still struggle to move past our pedestal. I'm happy that I got to taste a bit of your world, maybe this time you will choose to let him kiss your head with unwavering passion. We both got scars from all the time we spent playing with knives. That is to say, almost every day. But it's amusing how we maneuver each strike as if it were nonexistent. A dance of swords of sorts (double entendre intended). How swiftly we struck each other. Although   you had the courage to take the hilt and wake it from its slumber in your flesh. You cried, not for the absence of the pain that bound us, but for the liberation from it. How you'll be able to wade through rivers unrelentingly, and fly through the heavy storms without the fear of blood. Nary a fuck to the scab it formed on your skin. But i pulled mine too late, and I'm still healing, so bare with my silence, for I'm fearful of the mess if one word slips. Now that I know you bear not one scent of me, I wished I pulled it out sooner. For I still bleed, and I make my best effort to veil it with luxurious lexemes and sonorous lamentations of loss. You were the first. I hope you knew how much it meant. That night I mean. When the visions of allure slowly seeped out, you pulled me in along with it in one swift movement. And we kissed. But that moment has withered into something undesirable, a single look leaves us sick at the stomach. I made a poem for you, when I was "presumably" over my feelings. I intended it  to pour it together when the waves calmed down between us. I always knew of this perforced fate, how the love seemed to decay as moons passed. Though I was waiting till we were whole enough to embrace not as lovers, but as companions.  I imagined us sitting in bed, heads no more than inches away. You would listen to it as we palliated each other with our tears and hopeful mantras. Sadly, that never happened. The words have now grown flowers on its tips, a reminder of that idyllic fantasy of mine. But I'm happy that we didn't do it, I don't think I would be ready.  I could have cemented my fingers around you, but I didn't because I knew  the pain you felt. It was that or I would have bitten your extended hand in the sky out of spite and hurt. But again, I didn't, your touch is too warm for that. You took me and peeled every layer, enough to permeate me with love. Hopefully, he does the same for you.  I'm happy by myself,  I am. I'm learning to see a reflection that I can adore, or manage to glance at everyday. To love myself the way you did. I made a party for myself,  with Fireworks weeping in the background. All of this, as I learn all the things I did before, sans you of course. I see it now, thanks to you.  From the wise words of boygenius, I can't love you how you want me to, maybe i'll never will. But I'm happy for you, I am. You deserve to be thrown into the sky with wings to bring you to the abode of the angels. And not those of which emaciate every distinct hope as you fall into the mouth of the beast. I really do hope you’re happy, and that you’re doing well. I may never love you in the ways that matter to you, but it's liberating to know someone can. Rising from the depths, Kin

This was an answer I wrote for an exercise in my Linguistic class, and I didn’t expect it to be this emotionally potent, so am posting this to remind myself that I can still write. I can still be myself in writing.  P.S. There are some technical terms mixed in here since we had to integrate some concepts in semantic in our answer. ----------------------------------- It’s hard to sow faith in something as fickle and elusive as love, and if you were to ask me back then if I can believe in a love that could span a lifetime, I would have probably said no; but like love, opinions change.  My innocence tainted how I understood love , for I always perceived it as a formidable and brazen force of emotion reserved for the lovers--- as an act of devouring. If love didn’t swallow you whole then it wasn’t love, at least for me. But age has offered me the wisdom, or at least some fresh insight,  that to fetter love to such chains bereaves love of its breath, and this ultimately bereaves oneself of the cathartic feeling of loving. For love isn’t just a mere act of blissfully surrendering to your lover, it’s an amalgam of all emotions distilled  in an experience that greatly varies between individuals.  And in linguistics this phenomenon of vagueness and dynamism in concepts is related to semantics, in terms of ambiguity and fuzzy concepts. In this linguistic lens, there are certain things in life that are quite difficult to confine into one accurate definition. So rather than run the risk of being reductive by oversimplifying such concepts --- which could make one miss out on some pertinent insights in life --- it chooses to embrace it. It accepts the variations of love and in a way the humanity of such concepts, for these concepts are based on the diverse human experience after all. This perception applies to love.              Love can be considered as a fuzzy concept for love can be expressed or comprehended in a multitude of ways. It can be seen in the prototypical soulmates who find solace and wholeness with each other’s presence. It can be seen in friends who spare enough time and space for one another to call and revive some sense of joy in existing. It manifests in family members who spend all night to help their sibling finish a difficult requirement. It can be found in strangers and passing figures, who offer a timely respite and aid in trying times. It is also present in people who chose to untether your relationship, so that both may grow into better people. Simply put, love is however we want it to be.            With this in mind, I now think that love can last forever, but maybe not in the ways you would expect For again, we all love differently and in accepting one’s love, we accept it for all its forms. Another thing is that love doesn’t always have to stay in one constant form. Romantic love can evolve to familial love, and familial love can blossom into a friendly kind, and many other forms. Regardless of what shape it takes, love is love, as long as we choose it to be; and love can last, as long as we still feel that it is love.

Dear Taurus,  It's almost 3AM here, and I can't help but remember. How we sifted through the streets declaring our presence in this world with laughter and ruthless ramblings on life. The night where the cashier in the languid 7- eleven actually believed I was legal enough to be buying alcohol (it was just T-ice so no biggie). The same night we skinned our traumas on the rooftop of a condominium, lamenting on what our lives could've been whilst chugging soju. I even recall spilling my drink on your sheets and the feeling of shame still lingers, along with other feelings I choose not to name. We made promises that night; one's we thought we'd keep or at least remember. Sadly, it's all I've been doing these days ---remembering. Thereafter, always after, reminiscing then dims into regret, which then unfurls into guilt and loathing. These memories I play, all with you as the star, are so heavy ,but one's I choose to bear. I'd rather remember and feel my bones break infinitesimally by each second than deny it ever existed.  For so long, you were my rock. I would like think I was yours for some time, a brief time. We can't deny how important we were to one another, or at least that's what we said back then. Our bond withstood the burdens of distance to some extent depending on the year. We met in grade school and labelled each other as a guest filling in a moment of our childhood. We then drifted for some years before tangling once more into a whole mess of a relationship. It took us many months to unravel that, but we eventually got to a place of sanity, of composure. But then you left and I felt the first taste of regret. It was bitter but manageable. For there were worse things to come.  Sans a trace nor a message, I felt I meant nothing but a blemish that you needed to hide during that time. This I always knew. But you suddenly returned, straddling admonition so casually. For a moment, what I knew as fact was then blurred by the hope of rekindling a dead friendship. We both were unaware that we would end up in the same exact spot, just with a more fitting end. But we did revive our friendship. It was easier, quicker, than imagined. After so many months of changing, we found respite, stability, in each other. We grounded each other amid the vicious waves of reality. It was nice. We were now honest, more genuine to each other. What once was a rough figure of an amiable bond s now a fleshed out form of comfort and belonging. Regardless of how it ended, it was nice to have each other as anchors. But only for so long.  It turned out our chains were stretched out too far as the days passed. It became too weighted for me to hold on , for there were scabs in my grip that needed healing. So did you. Our time spent together didn't heal those, but rather delayed the pain that it entailed. The first instance of our wounds reopening was messy, as it is with firsts. The mess we made was so severe, I could barely distinguish which pools of red were mine and which scarlet streaks were yours. We were appalled and the shock of the scene left us with ire.  With blood stained hands, we wrestled for some sanity from each other. We almost ended it there. We should have ended it there. But we fooled ourselves that it was an isolated incident of us crumbling simultaneously. So we sopped up the red stained tiles. And continued with our charade of longing. We never talked so vulnerably after that incident. I guess for fear of making a mess again. Fitting, since I feel that room had endured enough of our pointed ramblings.  For the months that followed, the void that once consumed us didn't feel quite more than forthcoming. It was easily filled in with something else--- a gentler, kinder way of the truth: we replaced one another. Just like that, the distance that once begotten sanity , is now just a lifeless reminder of that sanctuary. It's crazy how fast things, and its even more absurd how we have little control of it once it sets sail.  I have many regrets to how things ended. Of not keeping tabs. Of simply pushing you aside. You're still a name that brushes off my breath with concerted effort. I wish things didn't have to end this way, because i still care about you more than anyone. But I guess its kind of pointless at this point. All that's left for us to do is to hopefully clean up the mess we made -- this time for good.  But as much shit we caused, there were surely moments in our tainted past worth clinging unto. Hopefully it help us get through shit, to reach a better place with better people.  Hoping from a distance,  Kin

There lies a story in my silence. It hesitates to take form. It remains unassuming, figureless to my vision Yet to be exhumed, but to claim it as false is farce. Abstractions remain incomprehensible, yet to be tactile It resides there, in the spaces between my breaths.  For to exist, is to declare space, in sight, in negatives.

It’s not like I didn’t knew that this would happen. I just didn’t expect it to be this bad. My last entry for this digital “journal” was like last April, and here I am. Doing my best to get through October. Yes, October. Almost half a year has passed, and I did nothing but wallow in my own existence. Okay, maybe not totally nothing, but I did wish I used it more wisely. For time is such a tedious little thing ain’t it? We all had our fair shares of crimson duels with time, especially amid the pandemic. I thought I would at least learn to be more present; quite slow, but getting there. Hopefully I get there.  For you see, I was never the type to be consistent in my endeavors, and writing a “journal” was never an exception. I just thought that my boredom would transpire into productivity or at least resemble it. But who was I fooling, even in writing I fumble at the closing. It has always been easier to start things. All it took was a simple nudge, an impulse, and you find yourself spending most of the night thinking, thinking of how to get there. A simple prompt for a well of ideas to gush forth; like a geyser on the brink of bursting. I’m fortunate to have experienced some of those A-ha moments, very rare, but still fortunate. But, the thing with me is that, I never do follow through. Whenever I do find moments of clarity, which is frankly quite difficult to come by, I reflect for a bit, and carry on. Like having an epiphany for a few moments, right before my lobotomy procedure. Pointless, is what it is. I hope to find some sort of anchor, permanence amidst all of this. It’s quite exhausting to consistently “go with the flow”, not really as fun as they make it out to be. ‘Cause they’re somewhat grounded on something, faith, a precept, a maxim, a philosophy. But for vagabonds like us (why do I sound so pretentious?, ew) , we’re not afforded that luxury. But, I genuinely hope we do find something to sow our faith on. Maybe then I’ll be able to actually finish things, in the ways I want, or maybe in the ways I need.   

I come with a hunger, all-consuming. Like a feral shadow, clinging to any flesh. In the woods I lurk, in the moonshine I revel. Fleeting is my stance, dare no one to gaze. Ire is my blood, fear is my feast. Peace is the prelude of my voracity. The scent of an innocent, with a name of Kin; lashes through the drapery of the abhorrent wild. Here shall he lay, here shall he die. His skin is supple, with life unbound. Though not just yet, I linger in his trails, waiting, always waiting, for a moment to strike. It is in their delusion of serenity, do I season my meal; It is in the blood of reality, do I crave in my meal. Let us wait, a bit more, For when the eye comes, then shall I devour.

It’s funny how staying at home for more than a week blurs the frames that separate each day. I honestly was shocked to learn that it was already a Saturday, and that a week has passed. I remembered visualizing all the things I would do for the week, which, to much disappointment, half was left a mere thought. I feel like I could’ve accomplished more, made wiser choices in what to do than simply laying down and finding someone to talk to. But, I don’t regret it that much, it seems that time is no rush these days, who knew that time was afraid of a virus huh?  Looking back, some parts of the week were a bit too fleshed out for my taste, but bits of felt a bit rushed too.Like I would do away with another moment of just staring at a wall, hoping for some bit of introspection.  I often find myself spacing out these days, unable to preoccupy myself, to fill out this blank space in this chapter of my life. Is this boredom getting to me? That even the mere act of thinking, of distracting myself becomes too... dull?I would gladly trade those for another hour or two to talk with my friends though, or even with him.  Lately, I find it easier to lose myself to a conversation, especially with him. It’s as if life is making up for all the dried up conversations I had to endure by giving me him ahah. One moment we’re talking about what we ate for dinner, until it eventually goes back to a movie or a show we watched. The next thing you know, it’s 2 am and we’re talking about some past hurt or how we made playlists for exes. I usually hate winding conversations, how there is no reassurance of a dialogue, how a single word or typo could leave you on read, or how a certain opinion could trigger a snowball of petty comebacks. But with him, I can let go of that hesitance to be vulnerable, not fully, but slowly.   I wish we could meet soon.I remember listening to the song Interstate Vision by Lomelda, and hearing the line “still I sit with you in parking lots, acting like I’m not falling for you,” and IMMEDIATELY visualizing me leaning on your shoulder,in a parking lot, while you say your two cents on this movie you watched, and I would just listen. And with each word that you form, the more I become endeared, like with the many others that came before. I would like to think of it actually happening, but this time, he actually likes me back,hopefully.   But, I’m not expecting it to happen anytime soon, with the virus still ravaging the world and exposing how shitty our leaders are. And if there’s anything I learned from my bouts with Time, is that it never concedes to your desires. It’s a beast of its own volition, no matter how hard we try to bound it with our mortal will, it always finds a way to be free. Like with this fucking researched that is wayyy overdue. I thought I would be able to finish the journal in half a day, but damn, it took me two days to actually finish the thing. It’s not because I’m lazy or anything but  it’s just really really taxing and irritating for me, having to do something you have no interest of whatsoever, and Time is cruel enough to prolong that suffering by making Time move so fuckingg slow. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that,  Time will never be our slave, never. It does what it fucking wants! Some are lucky to be given enough it, while others have to scavenge for an extra second.  At times it even appears that we are the bounded ones, and not it, and that may have always been the case.  

I always wanted to start a journal, but due to my lack of time, energy, and interest to start and continue this, it delayed this endeavor. But who would ever guess that it would take a pandemic and 5 days being quarantined in my house to bring my lazy ass to actually CONSIDER writing a journal. It will be taxing, I know, and I probably won’t be able to update it regularly, but hey- it’s a start. Plus, I’m pretty sure that as soon as my first year in college starts, I will be flooded with school shit and eventually forget that I ever did this. But let’s save that discussion when we get there.  Anyway, not much has happened today, except me waking up at 11 am as per usual, and finally helping out my parents fix some stuff in the garden. We carried 4?5? sacks of rocks and fuck, I would never do that again, hopefully. My back still aches just thinking of it eurgh... But the virus is still keen on sticking around, especially in my country. The government is as stupid as they’ll ever be. God, I hate them so much, every word that they utter is better off being a random thought in the early hours. But alas, the government of my country are a bunch of petty fuckers who are really proving that they don’t deserve shit. I really hope this will be a wake up call for all us, to vote for ACTUAL leaders next time. Though, can’t fully blame the people, they were tricked, or rather brainwashed, during campaigning so... partly their fault. On a more personal side, I met someone who I really click with. So far, it’s been really nice talking to him, really refreshing to be frank. We like the same things, and so far we haven’t found anything that we disliked with one another. I never felt this comfortable with a person that I met through the apps, truly. And I have a feeling this will actually be different and lead to something? Not like the others, I hope so. But I’m wary with each step I take, after last time, I can’t be that gullible to the bare minimum. Hopefully this pandemic will somehow calm down, and we actually get to meet, or go on one of the many dates we mentioned. That’s all for now, I guess. Til’ the next moment of clarity.     

Disclaimer: this was written on December 31,2019, but posting this as a reminder to myself. Venturing a year is difficult. No one leaves it unscathed. Some are lucky, with bruises and scars; others must have tasted the Styx, and flown away with their corpses, to a land unknown. How abhorrent, I know, yet beauty resides in the metamorphosis. The journey is akin to wading through waves of a plethora of green, the stench of pines, and gelid breaths—all to reach its peak and bathe in the blue scenery for a few. Then, like magic, one proceeds to make his home for the year out of it. As it ends, so does your stay, and onward you go to the next forest, to the next hill, to next peak, to the next home. And instantaneously, the present turns to ruins. The journey then begins, again. For the past years, I always opted to make these grand and commanding dwellings, fitted for balls and lovers to come by, shifting with each moon to a new guest. In retrospect, “imbecile” would be too merciful of a calling for me back then. How quick was I to squeeze myself into every space? I always felt this need to cuddle in between places where I am unwelcomed. It’s all my doing, I know this. Nonetheless, it always left me exhausted by the end of the year. Specifically, tired and alone, for they leave so sudden. Nary a fuck, a “thanks”, even a simple nod would suffice, yet it seems they resided here, in me, to fill a blank moment. And to that, I say “fuck that shit”.  Looking back at all the homes I’ve built, they were all too big, not for the flurries of men that came, but for me. If anything, this venture has taught me that the world is ruthless enough for me to be baring my throbbing and supple home for more arrows to be aimed at it. That strangers sometimes remain as such, to much despair. For too long I have wasted and emptied the woods, just for a home for blurry figures in my vision. No more. To hell with vacancies and winding conversations! Too much have I bled. I barely see the seams that keep me in, all of it torn open. I find it opportune, for me to sop the spill as quickly, as much as I can, at the end of this wild, wild year. No worries for recurrence, I plan to keep it all in this time. I, with all of it, resting by the warm hearth in my little cottage, though small, sturdier. Just perfect for my diminutive stature. With more air for me to breathe, more food for me to ingest, more time for my body to explore the love I have for it. Maybe a room for a guest, a friend, a lover? But nothing more than a room. How peaceful it will be, how happy I will be. I can’t fucking wait! I’ll learn to live once more. Take all the moments for me to learn how to breathe, how to stand, how to fly. This time, sans the boisterous hands that beckon me to stray off a nail. Fuck them. I owe this to myself.How much pain have I already endured? How cruel have I been? I always known this, but never to what extent. I always come back crying, blaming myself for the knives thrown at me. Maybe so, but it was also they who held the hilt, I simply stood for an easier aim. Despite such atrocities, I’ve grown into something stronger because of it. I’ve carried giants, angels, the world, on my shoulders. Though I shuddered, I remained, and to remain I shall continue to do. I wish I knew a painless route, I’m sure there is, but for now, I’m glad I was able to make it through. Now, I am unbound.    This time last year, the heavens cried, and I longed to break free from my rusted clamps; which compel me to build such glowing, yet demanding, homes, all alone, and sad. Now even a single dew is absent, and finally I am free!  No longer am I decaying within iron, and oh what I plan to do with this much awaited liberation. I enter the decade, with a guy I like, with a new sense of worth, and a new blueprint towards bliss. I come forward once again with hope, now with vigor. And finally, after all the hills climbed, I am ready, to begin again.