#prosenfs

Dear Faces in A Dream, Faces in a dream, faces in the sand. You came to me as furious vexation, a mirage of a nearby star in a wasteland. Now, I do not know if I appreciate or loathe your intrusion, but I know it marred my perfectly lacquered veneer. I guess that's how it is sometimes -- we are the demarcations we give ourselves. I imagine myself often, lying supine in a rail roadtrack between two stations; between risking the ephemeral, coming and leaving. I am my own demarcations. For the third time this week, I woke up crying, gasping for air, abruptly as the fervent rippling of a perturbed water. I wonder how often you need to penetrate my sanctum and why? This is the transition of sleep, if in case, it is different for you and me - the dark waters slowly fill the room, debilitate,  and strip me off of my subterfuges. Somnolence enthuse for peace, for quietude, for submission. Stop resisiting. Break for once, it begs with a genial caress. Pinned on a crucifix, the water takes me to it bosom. They play with my malleability and frangibility, my hapless mortality. I am human, full of demarcations. They break down the bastions and make me confront the stark and unrelenting verity in the hopeful haze that only dreams allow. Then I drink from it too much, inebriated with beauty - with beautiful faces in a dream; and wake myself up. The faces gone. Faces in the sand. Crying, filled to the brim of hollow, gasping for air, fearful of sleeping again. Could it be the humid summer night? Or the new medications I have begun taking? Could it be the allure of pain from beautiful people? Could it be the five nights of stretched silences between a pair of beer bottles, no breather for brevity, always contesting against sadness and existence? Could it be that I do not move too much when awake that I grapple in the blind, unfettered freedom of sleep? In this freedom, awakens the people I have been before, and they surround me like a nebulous afterthought along with blue rues and blue guilt, and I do not want them anymore. Incarceration, sometimes, is more auspicious than freedom. In this freedom, I sing apologies like a canticle for the divine hope I find in me instilled by perilous people molted of hope itself; immolate myself before the temporal sense of belongingness and bliss, then return, awaken, as ashes. Waking up in a place full of people vying for a dream against the utter squalor of verity is a nightmare. Dear Faces in A Dream, will you visit me tonight and stay with me until I weep? Crying alone doesn't make sense. So I often tear up like a water dam, whelmed, but the bulwark remains the same. My sullen weight begging to splinter in your gentle coax. Yours, Inexorably.

I wish I had taken a pill last night. Probably, it wouldn’t be as soggy and bland in my memory. It should have been a good night, but I am a little obfuscated with the idea of good. Last night, without any nights before it, I met two of probably the best people I know. Old friends. I met them separately, in high school and in college. I got to introduce them to each other at one point, and now they’re closer to each other than they have been to me. Like brothers, they said. It’s nice to see that. The good thing about them, is that they do not identify with each other, but their devices reciprocates well. One is more rational, the other emotional. One is more engaging, the other contesting. One likes to set himself in fire, the other to burn things with an arson delight. They both like to talk a lot and to talk smart. They have their way with words. They like beer. They like women. They like wallowing in shallow vagaries, finding slivers of meaning. At one point, I started talking. I guess, I wanted to see how I fit in their game. But I am not at their pace and I criticize a lot, I shove off any possible connection. I do not like people in general. People trying to be people with purpose and meaning, to be specific. They are the ones who would try to change you. So I started talking, and pretty much, the blurred lines started showing. Then blurred lines became an inside joke. It’s funny. I’m funny. I'm a joke. Fuck you, I'm a joke. I wanted to see, to affirm, in a good vantage point, that I shouldn’t be here or that I should be watching instead of engaging; amuse myself with some sick fuck’s voyeuristic pleasure. I got more than what I asked for. Then they decided to prey on little flowers, the other trampling on their delicate carnal stems, the other dizzy in the foolish scent. The only thing worse than this is the use of flower as a figure of speech. We are talking about women. Women with cunts. Cunts that makes one feel good when nothing else can. Makes you mad sometimes. Flowers. An inside joke. I was at the back seat, further and further, watching them requite each other’s chutzpa, sucking on each other’s darknesses, pouring more inebriation to their idea of good (maybe). It makes me sick. It makes me sick that I am unlike them and yet I am there, watching them stroke each other’s cock. The other one asking for ignition, the other throwing flames. I feel the burns of the past singe. It makes me sick. Something in me was wired differently after all the flames. Unfettered. Unfettered. I haven’t used this word for a while. They reminded me of it, how I often I used to describe myself, them, and things around me – unfettered. They also called me stoic. They like big labels. They like romanticism. Adjectives are not intellectual enough. They want to don a whole spectrum on you as soon as you start showing colors. They’d try to give you a name, pique you, question you, change you, drag you in their cock game. I’ll pass on that. I like stroking my own cock. They’re good people. They’re alive. Or drunk in the idea at least. They’d say their dead and talk about the allure of death often, but that’s only after the beer, the jeer, the women. All drunk in the juice of life drivels of death. But three is a damned crowd. I'm not cut for the same gears. I'm different person from these persons who were, are, fragments of my person. I rolled away, like a coin dropping from a drunken pocket, swiftly into the sewers and was dismissed. Now I like myself more. I like my own destructions. I’m the sickest fuck amongst the three of us. By sick, I mean the saddest fuck of the night. I shouldn’t have been there. That’s what I think anyway. I like myself this way. I'd sooner or later, understand the blurred lines. I'll like it someday. I'll even draw more someday. Unfettered.

Today, I asked a question to myself. It didn't form words, but like a pair of leering eyes full of inquisitiveness and fulmination, I cannot avert it. I've been trying to think, first of a question, second for answers. I've been trying to exhume the parts of me that fell asleep to the stupor of life's tangent complexities; been trying to unfold the corners that I have elaborately pleated; been trying to get off of the subterfuge of my own making. The realization of the self is an ardous task. But I understood, whilst trying to unspool scatterd thoughts left in my capacity, that it is not as difficultto ruminate as it is to care. I am no longer trying to think. I am trying to feel. I am trying to care. What is the construct of the self? Who am I? Who am I trying to be? I am no one - the self is nothing but a constant displacement of another simulacrum of the self. Do I want change? Where am I? Where do I want to be? The self is a reality that believes in another and tries to achieve it, rendering the self in its reality an unwanted illussion. Do I want to leave this state of self that I am at now? The self is the last person to jump off the cliff, because it desires conformation by non conformation. Are my decisions and philosophies, conformist or non conformist to the society? What am I? What do I want to be? The self is a unsustainable definition that we vaguely use to give meaning to numerous irrelevancies that we value more than we should. Why am I trying to be relevant? The self is nothing, is of no value, as all the things it dispenses of its possession, as the self is the collective and entire breadth of everything that questions, that supplements, that revolves, that attracts, and that repels it. Why do I want to be important? The self, is a thing detached from a person, like a shredded skin a hollowed man muses as a mirror that looks both ways of the past and future. It is hard to think when you're a nihilist. It is hard to reason when you're a conformist. It is hard feel when you're apathetic. It is hard to be a self, after building a stone-faced city made of failed endeavors around my solitary musing. But it's actually not so hard. It is the easy way. This is both the denial of the questions of existence and at the same time, a passive-aggresive riposte. Outside, two lances of traffic lane move in a slow, mechanical, and dizzy mirage. I decided to leave Makati and my solitude, and stay at Bulacan with a family that makes me feel foreign, to drown in the impassive silence of tangible distance far worse than my solitary life in Makati. In Bulacan, I can be alone even from myself. To pass time, I read a book in the poorly ventilated coaches of a Del Carmen bus, surrounded by loud and squalid faces, mosquitoes, roaches, uncertainties geared for unknown transitions. The world is the thing that prevents the self. Or does it hold it together? Am I my choice to read a book in an absurd place? Is that non conformation? Or am I the absurdity in the place I dwell? Is not giving a damn about it conformation? Perhaps, we are what we choose to be apart from what the world demands of us. This is, perhaps, why I always reserve a place for loathing in the world despite my blind conformation and apathy, that almost always lead to self hate. I can look back to the times when I give myself and the things around me more importance. I can still look back, as easy as closing my eyes and letting my eyes roll at the back of my head, musing on the culverts of the past hollowed inside me. But I can only look back. I cannot go back. My freedom is limited. Am I my freedom, or what my freedom dictates of me? I'm trying to find my centrifuge. Everyday, I wake up from four to six hours of constantly interrupted sleep. I check my calendar studded with client meetings, with immovable tasks, with Marooner's rocks in the rocky sea of eternal drudgery. Are these my tethers? Or my moor? Because outside of this calendar, whenever I am not a slave to the machinations of the corporate prison, is the real strife that I try to avoid. I call my job, the people around me, the expectations and the manifold of life constructs around me, distractions. They distract me from feeling too much, from not feeling too much, from poetry, from getting neck deep in the mire of exiatential questions, of sadness, of pure verve. Then I wonder at the farce of how the things that kills what I thought was essential are the same things that keeps me alive. Aren't these things the same pillar that holds me together everyday? Aren't the things it distracts me from the real splinters that topples me down and the real distractions? What is living? What is existence? Do we subsist on meaning? On human connection? On self appreciation? On faith and beliefs? On a personal whetstone for all the mundane hours of the day? On all these fatal, detrimental play things? Then why does it hurt? Then why is it sad? Why does it feel like exact opposite of life? Of growth? Of change? I am an entropic by product of all these and yet I fluster msyself over and over to come to the light on why I wish to think, to feel, and get off of my subterfuges? Why would I desire to molt out of the cocoon of safety I have ardently knitted from years of experience and inexperience? Why do I keep on trying to write? I have no reason. I have no faith. I have no hope. I have no goal. I have no one to appease. I have no value for value. I have no importance. I have no faith. I have no answers. I have nothing. And it does not hurt. Now I'm trying to think again, to feel again, and the turnstile keeps on spinning but I am always led to a cul de sac. I have become my liminilaties too. Is this the end of it? A blank page, just as how it have started. When I start to question, I begin to wander, and that is how losing begins. It is hard to believe that the self and its existence is finite, and fleeting, and unsustainable if the self has infinite ways of questioning and hoping for answers. I let the torrent take me, it's a complete surrender, but eventually the torrent morphs into me. I guess my idea of the self has come to a point where the self is a question of existence and the acceptance that these questions do not have answers. And so I live like this - detached and hopeless sans hope itself, wearing the verisimilitude of satiation. And so I live like this.