Mood: lazy
Now Playing: jaaaaaaa's august
This is a letter addressed to someone in the future, 20, 30 or so years from now.
Woke up at around midnight today. I tumbled off my bed and somehow, i had this overwhelming urge to write. I managed to scribble a few lines, but alas, sleep gripped me again, and i fell back unto my pillows.
4:10 a.m. At 4:20, i crept downstairs and made myself breakfast; a simple sandwich and coffee combo.
What's odd is that the whole time i was making the sandwich and heating up the coffee machine, i kept thinking of how unfair your current self is. You're bitchy. You're greedy. You're resentful and frankly, you're not that good of a person at all. But the biggest bitch-fact of them all is how near-sighted you are. You talk of beautiful things, of graceful things, of grandiose things. But i count the days when you'd finally see that the world is not always made of any of those beautiful things, and we're all just sticks in the mud. I'm sorry, but we were just not built that way. Asshole.
We're human. We defecate, we vomit, we cuss. But our biggest beauty lies in the realization that we can do all of those things, and more. Is this so hard a concept that you cannot even grasp a tiny fraction of it? In behalf of all the male creatures in the world, i beg your forgiveness. We're sorry we're not beautiful or grandiose or graceful enough. Ito na yun.
I take a bite off my sandwich, and i take a sip of my coffee. It's been years since we last met, and a good chunk of those years were spent with both of us stewing in our pots. I'm a mess. This isn't even a shadow of what i used to be. No, seriously. I'm better than this, cooler than this, manlier than this. It's like i addressed so many crap to you already that now my hand goes on automatic mode. It's always the same shit. I hate it. This is going to sound so emotional, but I hate how every word, how every letter reminds me of you and your scent. I hate it i hate it i hate i hate it. It always circles back to you, y;know? I won't lie to you, it hurts every single time. It's irritating, even. I want to write about something new, about someone new, about someplace new. But why does it always circle back to you, you asshole?
I kind of miss some stuff right now, and i kind of don't. It's that time of the year, after all, yeah? I doubt that you'd still remember what happened then, but i don't know. How can you be so dense? How can you be so oblivious? How come you have the license to dance around people and i don't? How come you can shrug off days of whatever-it-was in just a second? This is unfair, and i doubt that you'd ever realize this. I doubt that you'd realize you've become this thing i can't get rid of. Will you? I don't think so.
I don't hate you, despite the empirical evidence. I just want to get back the things i gave. But i know that it's impossible, and i think i really wouldn't want that anyway. Keep it, you sick son of a bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. I hope you find a good use for it. It's not your fault anyway, i guess. It's my fault entirely for staying rooted in the past, for being grounded on something imaginary.
And another thing. Here you go, I'm giving you the first of the final words i spun that night. Remember? just like what i've said before, the night i stayed outside. You don't remember this, as you were fast asleep by then.
Fly so hard you wouldn't have to run. Love so hard you wouldn't have to hurt.
I hope it serves you well. It's all good. It's all good.
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This is, i think, my 17th attempt at writing a letter, 18th if you count that one time i took the bus. This is my 16th letter to you, and the 2nd one to get published in one of my blogs. This took 3 drafts to complete, and roughly 3 hours to finish, This probably contains a lifetime's worth of unconcealed and concealed thoughts.
