Hero

I am told (most likely a conviction of my own, however) that pain is only illusionary, much like everything else. Yet, this infestation of my mind grows horrible and everything is laid out in gradations of hurt. Since when did these words become the line of command, as though I can replace words with the people I have loved and regrettably lost, possibly forever. I had so much more to say, but when I seek you out it disappears completely. Like the disintegration of my thinning spirit. It will destroy you and me both, whatever I resolve in holding on still

to miss you without being so damn cold all the time

It is so cold now even when it isn't, I cannot imagine a brand new life (without you, of course) you are a broken man who doesn't care and I am sad- I can't decide which is worst; you held every limb of mine almost too tightly but there is always a time to let go.

i always want to touch you to make sure you are still there- under the sheets with the snow falling, when I was dancing on your feet, up until the last moment where I lost all my words and had nothing left and still nothing mattered enough

I want you to kiss my knees and all the soft bones my body contains and this horrible curse of my softness, this amorous weakness which haunts me and thoroughly ruins me more each day. I don't like you-i don't like the soft kisses, because there is a time for ending and it has already passed and gone and i am left like i am robbed of the only thing i am capable of: my storytelling and your wayward arms.

when characters in book say they have waited all their lives just for one day; now I know how it feels

to question: what have I done wrong to feel this way, or how much more selfish I am than you (definitely less) -then what?

everyone of you, the same! use those words goddamn it is it that hard to let me have even my share that i deserve, even after you have taken the only thing i have

most people feel: why are you leaving me again

godspeed my love

I don't want to end up like Joanna so I painted ridges on the tips of my fingers so that you can navigate your way to me even when you're lost. Not all hope is lost not all hope is lost then I realise I have lost all hope and my hands are shaking and I see lighting in the corner of my eyes

don't even know what I'll say when I get to you-maybe I never will

I didn't want you to know that when I was sixteen, I was fascinated with the idea of a lover across the oceans bounded only by the power of our words and indelible ink, traveling nautical miles that someday will end up in continental Europe or Russia

time is not enough, I don't know what else, I look across the river and imagine you there with me under the lights during winter

When I imagine you as a child, I imagine your infinite selves, and one that could not have met me but you did and here, here the destruction of the purpose and fate culminate into pain for me and freedom of you-often it is unfair, and perhaps I am the only one to blame because I make it so. Sometimes you wonder if I ever forgave you, I told you there was nothing to forgive except for you to apologize for having met me in the first place

I keep finding things that don't belong to me because you gave them to me- I cannot look at it and I feel like all I can do is cry

all in days to come, my love-godspeed

a moment: it was a wednesday last november, and the leaves barely turned crimson orange, cringing from embarrassment

Three Sisters (II)

Three years ago, we watched this brilliant (and I mean it, I just didn't know it then) adaption of Three Sisters by Chekhov in an old abandoned meat market which looked like this on the exterior

So the adaption was based on the film Taxi Driver which also starred Jodie Foster so the whole premise was this bloodshed nudity and violence that I, with my eagerness, could not understand. I was frightened by the whole grandeur, elapsing between shock and the modern calm where some scenes were acted out.

And now three years later, three years of nothing's changed- something's change and I understood or I pretend to understand the avant-garde theater tricks that had failed to get to me before. Its pessimism infected me like wildfire and when my final paper came, and all literature beckons- I crippled before the face of it, only understanding it meant the hopelessness after the murders of the Tsars, the fallen Empire.... everything, life.

There is nothing in life for the sisters, but that doesn't mean there isn't anything in ours. To think otherwise is too depressing.

But that's a hard thing to understand, even now- especially when you're leaving, telling me about your dentist, there is always a sentence that never completes itself

Here are variations of stories to be told

1) What use is it if you can't remember? I left one week after you did (time is not important, presence is) and here it was foolish of me to think it was possible to drown in glasses after glasses of wine and sultry air of ruins.

Before summer ends and before every last line I will forget; we didn't simply chance upon this plaza in our sandals - we'd like to believe we are part of history- and preferably yours

2) I can no longer read you I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel then my voice will only be the mist of your breath in the morning when you wake up in PDT

3) Mojitos make things appear underwater-like with a semi-sonorous spell, only I can tell you how magic feels like before winter and not after- it's ridiculous if you ask me; you need me

4) Better luck next time

are you what you eat

Photos from MART 130 where we dined for brunch, it was an absolute yum for a winter morning in the Southern hemisphere where I foolishly went during my summer break, nonetheless with yum food:

CLICK FOR ADDRESS JUST GO THERE IF YOU LIVE THERE OK

Breakfast with poached egg topped with hollandaise sauce, bacon-pieces baked beans and avocado dip~

Smoked salmon with poached eggs and sausages

This is what we made for lunch one day, just thought it looked good

Vegetarian pizza topped with olives and salad

Making Pimm's