So you wake up and realize there’s this bottomless pit inside you that’s eating your morning, or perhaps your entire life, away. Something you cannot fill. Something you cannot touch. But it’s there. Burrowing. Hurting. Gripping you. Plus, it doesn’t help when you have Iron and Wine strumming about stoned hearts and other inevitable sorrows of the human soul, at such a nostalgia-infested moment.
You’re missing everything. Everyone. You miss the past. You miss the future. And you’re even missing the present.
Two nights ago, you learned that you have a new ticket to deathville. And god, this little thing right here, it’s not even about that (ticket). It’s not even about anything. Or that’s what you’re telling yourself.
Haidee’s gramps died yesterday. Kuya Vince is trapped in Bangkok. There’s this guy you can’t get enough of. Your abdomen has gone ecstaticly in haywire. Fought with your mom because you were both scared and pressured over the ticket (which could be nothing big a deal, really). Watched Gael Garcia Bernal in one of your recently seen weird films (The Science of Sleep) and cried for some outrageously weird reason. Your grades are depressingly disappointing. You’ve gone distant to a close friend because you’re an occasional asshole.
What else is there? Something else is there. And you can’t really just decide to tell everything about your recent life.
But right now, all you want to say is that people should be allowed to mourn over unnamed things. And that you don’t have to kill them asking for reasons why. Because life can simply be a semi-bitch just like that.
Current Mood: Nostalgic
