I’m now only a part of what still remains - a ghost of our glorious discontent and decadence.
After the break-up, after my spirit broke, I’m reduced to a flesh pulp ready for carnage. I’m nothing but a broken rock now, continuously hammered and pounded by guilt. Now, it’s just me and my painful remembering. Seems like I’m living transiently in this plane of existence - somewhat here but not really here, somewhat absent but not quite also.
Every time I think of you I go deeper and deeper into the abyss, nearer and nearer to the fiery gates of hell. Every passing second, I’m free-falling through nothingness and emptiness, lamenting to a lost love, living in the past, dying in the moment, cursing and cursing and cursing…
Ahh... Quiero morir ahora mismo! a
It appears the drugs don’t work anymore. It can’t ease the hurt. It can’t erase the bitterness. I can’t make myself numb. The pain of longing, like a leech, simply would not go away. It seems these pills - paracetamols, ibuprofens, prozacs, and sleeping pills - scattered in my room, can’t cure a person who is irremediably broken for life.
Perhaps, the hardest part of letting go is holding on.
A friend of mine once told me that every man has to belong to something, even if it’s a toad or a rotten tree. Perhaps, I belong to a fleeting memory now. I’m tied to that one hazy memory which was, all at once, happy, sad, glorious, melancholic, and tragic. But to what and whose memory, I don’t know. And I certainly don’t care anymore.
Perhaps, this painful remembering and this madness are all just illusions or fragments of my wild imagination. But every time I slap my face, I feel hot blood rushing through my veins. So I guess I’m not imagining things. This is for real, the pain and my melancholy. This proves that I’m not living in an absurd world after all, where supermans have no kryptonites.
Nature has its own ways of letting us suckers feel the full brunt of reality. Masochistic it may sound but this is the truth: Nature drowns us always in our worst. And we, while drowning in our own misery, while hanging on to our dear life, are constantly gasping for air, finding a lending hand, asking for help. But it seems no one would dare to go to that lonely ocean of ours and rescue us. And as time goes on, we’ll soon realize that it’s only we who could save ourselves from drowning, that we must help ourselves get out of that ocean, and that we should never trust our lives to others. Nature sure is a merciless bully, but she is one heck of a teacher.
I don’t know when I’ll get out of this. I don’t know if I’ll fall deeper or learn how to claw my way up. After all that have happened, I don’t know whether I’ll come out a better person, forged by the lessons of life, or a man filled with hate, retribution and vengeance. I don’t know what lies ahead of me. I don’t know if I’ll learn to forgive or I’ll seek revenge.
All I could say now is, "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…"
It’s pitiful that I’m reduced to a lonely, sentimental, beat-up being after the break-up; asking what went wrong all day; thinking of all the uncertainties and myriads of possibilities, all those doubts and what-could-have-beens that are still clouding my mind , all these ‘”perhaps” crap.
I’m tired; I’m running on empty; I’m unsure now of what I want, of what I need (I guess I need a shrink or a chiropractor right now. Or perhaps, that asinine love doctor, Joe D’ Mango). I’m unsure of everything within me, around me and near me. But one thing is for sure though: when I reach rock bottom, there is no way but up.
After the break-up, after my spirit broke, I’m reduced to a flesh pulp ready for carnage. I’m nothing but a broken rock now, continuously hammered and pounded by guilt. Now, it’s just me and my painful remembering. Seems like I’m living transiently in this plane of existence - somewhat here but not really here, somewhat absent but not quite also.
Every time I think of you I go deeper and deeper into the abyss, nearer and nearer to the fiery gates of hell. Every passing second, I’m free-falling through nothingness and emptiness, lamenting to a lost love, living in the past, dying in the moment, cursing and cursing and cursing…
Ahh... Quiero morir ahora mismo! a
It appears the drugs don’t work anymore. It can’t ease the hurt. It can’t erase the bitterness. I can’t make myself numb. The pain of longing, like a leech, simply would not go away. It seems these pills - paracetamols, ibuprofens, prozacs, and sleeping pills - scattered in my room, can’t cure a person who is irremediably broken for life.
Perhaps, the hardest part of letting go is holding on.
A friend of mine once told me that every man has to belong to something, even if it’s a toad or a rotten tree. Perhaps, I belong to a fleeting memory now. I’m tied to that one hazy memory which was, all at once, happy, sad, glorious, melancholic, and tragic. But to what and whose memory, I don’t know. And I certainly don’t care anymore.
Perhaps, this painful remembering and this madness are all just illusions or fragments of my wild imagination. But every time I slap my face, I feel hot blood rushing through my veins. So I guess I’m not imagining things. This is for real, the pain and my melancholy. This proves that I’m not living in an absurd world after all, where supermans have no kryptonites.
Nature has its own ways of letting us suckers feel the full brunt of reality. Masochistic it may sound but this is the truth: Nature drowns us always in our worst. And we, while drowning in our own misery, while hanging on to our dear life, are constantly gasping for air, finding a lending hand, asking for help. But it seems no one would dare to go to that lonely ocean of ours and rescue us. And as time goes on, we’ll soon realize that it’s only we who could save ourselves from drowning, that we must help ourselves get out of that ocean, and that we should never trust our lives to others. Nature sure is a merciless bully, but she is one heck of a teacher.
I don’t know when I’ll get out of this. I don’t know if I’ll fall deeper or learn how to claw my way up. After all that have happened, I don’t know whether I’ll come out a better person, forged by the lessons of life, or a man filled with hate, retribution and vengeance. I don’t know what lies ahead of me. I don’t know if I’ll learn to forgive or I’ll seek revenge.
All I could say now is, "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…"
It’s pitiful that I’m reduced to a lonely, sentimental, beat-up being after the break-up; asking what went wrong all day; thinking of all the uncertainties and myriads of possibilities, all those doubts and what-could-have-beens that are still clouding my mind , all these ‘”perhaps” crap.
I’m tired; I’m running on empty; I’m unsure now of what I want, of what I need (I guess I need a shrink or a chiropractor right now. Or perhaps, that asinine love doctor, Joe D’ Mango). I’m unsure of everything within me, around me and near me. But one thing is for sure though: when I reach rock bottom, there is no way but up.
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