Who are we

Who am I
If I’m unwilling to go all the way
To bear all the risks that may come my way
To fall hard; to feel lost and confused
To lose everything
That I work hard to build, day after day
All coming crumbling down
Like an avalanche with no end

It’s what broken dreams are made of
Broken promises
Unattainable wishes
Things that you did
Unintentionally

It’s a subtle world
That can fragment like shattered glass;
It looks so beautiful from the outside

It’s this deception that hurts
Why isn’t it okay
To be broken

 

fragile

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Deep night with a douchebag

Southeast Asian beaches remind me of him. I was young, the night was wild, the winds were gently blowing over my face,
and there was mystery light blinking from a ship afar. The stars were crystal clear and bright, the breeze was warm. My skin was radiating even in the dark. So warm it all felt; deep in my heart. I was staring at the shoreline while people slept all around. There was silence now
After a wild night at the bar. I didn’t drink, but I loved being around drunk people because I got to be myself… and you can have some really awesome conversations with drunk people. We cry about world poverty, tell each other we love each other and all.

The drunkards and I were walking out of the bar towards the beach. I saw what appeared to be a drunk old man holding onto himself on the stairway railing as he also walked out of the bar. Moments later, that douche was winning an argument against an international audience full of drunk Americans and French at the beach. I didn’t know what his problem was, but he was making some serious hilarious allegations as a Brit in a foreign country. Turns out you become hilarious when you get old, as he did at… thirty-two?

I was quiet the entire time because I didn’t have much to say to that. Or I couldn’t. It was both. Ultimately, it ended up being just the two of us who were consciously awake and talking about vulnerable stuff. He highlighted his age right before he found out that I was nineteen and said that I was too young. He verbally rejected me. I was going to be twenty soon, so what was his problem? Besides, I was a thousand times more mature than he would have guessed. Jerk! Is what I thought.

If it was my choice, I would have climbed onto him, straddled him on the chair, unbuttoned his shirt and had a major smoldering hot make-out session. But that was just a thought. We continued sitting on the beach chairs next to each other as the rest of the drunk people slept around us. It was really attractive to see a loud mouth grow quiet. They become human just then, and you have total access to their hearts. He was really calm when we talked about supposed deep things. It’s like he grew into becoming a different person; not someone so faraway, wild, and loud, but someone who got to know a small part of me, was close to me in that time and space for whatever reason the celestial skies had in store for us. I saw a shooting star for the first time in my life, and it was the only time I never was able to fall asleep on that freezing beach next to a man who I was really able to converse with, no matter how amateur and jacked up it was, for the first time in my life.

My friends and I didn’t have a hotel room that night, but they were able to fall asleep while I stayed awake freezing to death. He said it was time for him to stop; the red blinking light far away across the ocean told him that. My heart sank. I guessed everything had to end at some point.
He said if I needed a place to stay, I could come with him.
But my wise, conscious, decent ass said something like, “Oh no bla bla bla.” Hindsight, it was bullshit. I would have totally gone with him. He got up, kissed his hand, placed it on my forehead, then walked away. I watched him walk away into the dark horizon; his body getting smaller and smaller with the growing distance. I froze still and didn’t say a word, but wished that he would turn around and come back. He’d say something to me… that it wasn’t all a hoax, that it wouldn’t ever end. He didn’t turn around.

Next day no sight of him. On the ferry ride out of the island, no presence of him. Nada, nothing. Nothing mattered for a while, it was like an end to all joy. All I knew was that his name was Terry, thirty-two, British, never married, and that he was going on a trip around the world. I couldn’t ever find him again based on those five facts.

He asked me he rejected me he rejected me he asked me. He walked away, he had asked me. He never came back, he rejected me.

What if I had said yes to his invitation? A feeling of warmth encapsulates my mind.

Scenario one: I would have slept next to him for the sake of having comfort only; for the practical purposes of getting a shelter. I would have apologized if I had accidentally touched him. Maybe we’d exchange contact information the next day, and possibly get in contact in the future.

Scenario two: I would have slept next to him, and within five minutes, we wouldn’t have been able to contain it. We’d have a deep, hot, sexy make-out session that would prolong for hourrssss. In the morning we’d be all wrapped up in each other. We’d have to unwillingly be ripped apart from each other. We’d exchange contact information and promise to get a hold of one another soon, and it would develop into something substantial and magical.

Scenario three: We’d sleep next to each other pragmatically for the sake of me having a shelter, and within five minutes, get it on. The next morning he’d regret it, I’d be sad, we’d end it and lose contact.

Scenario four (what most likely would have happened, positively speaking): We’d sleep next to each other pragmatically for the sake of me having a shelter, then slowly we’d hold hands. We’d look at each other for a while across the bed, and have a gentle, sweet kiss. We’d be in a loving embrace and give each other soft kisses that would slowly escalate upwards as our hearts would beat and souls would resonate in unison. The next morning, we’d exchange contact information and promise to see each other again.
We’d give each other a call in a day or two. Maybe try a few more calls, but it wouldn’t have been the same again, and then we’d eventually lose touch.

Scenario 5 (what most likely would have happened, negatively speaking): He would have fallen fast asleep on a sofa and left me hanging.

We would have lost touch eventually no matter what the scenario would have been. I wouldn’t have been able to endure all his grandeur and pomposity. He wouldn’t have been able to deal with a young impressionable chick who would listen to his every nonsense.

So for forever now, I can keep making abstract what ifs, make-believe theories, and imagine the possibilities.
Maybe I would have been wrong.

2004

Psychos with red hair

I’m not really talking about those who were born with red hair, but I’m talking about those who color their black hair red while going grey with the belief that the red will make grey less obvious while not actually making it black because putting black on black hair would give it away. They’re sort of goofy looking; they can have some remaining grey hairs on the sides that never got dyed, so now they’re left with all three colors of black, grey, and red hairs and look like clowns. They’re also pretty OCD; taking multiple showers a day, shaving constantly, repeating lame jokes, etc. They wear their pants high up, walk around shirtless with a towel hanging off a shoulder, and they’re always chewing on candies. They also love tea, and make it minimum five times a day including one at 10pm promptly. Maybe one at 2am too, who knows, since everyone is asleep by then. Because they’re on antipsychotics, it’s a joy to make tea. They stutter songs out of tune and forget/make up lyrics and grind ginger and other spices on mortar and pestle. It makes them feel like it’s morning and that they’re right on track with life; when they’re busy making tea at 2am. It’s usually a jolly song and there’s loud thumping sounds coming from the mortal and pestle. All weirdos love tea and feel that it’s always tea time, it’s a fact.
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Street dogs and humans

Amid a pack of male dogs who gather around a female and have a hormonal frenzy, there’s also a street dog who walks besides a human that he claimed, or that claimed him, vice versa. They sit on the stairs to the closed store at night outside, and when the human figures that it’s time to head back home to his shitty life, the street dog gets up and walks next to him. They walk slowly at night; the man with both his hands in his pockets, and the dog agilely on his four little legs. They disappear into the dark. There’s packs of dogs in different gangs who cry together at night, who howl by the moon, and little rascals who tip toe cunningly inbetween moving street car lights. They sit by the roads, they walk with the humans. They bark at each other when there’s disputes with other four legged archnemeses. The world flows like a dog that zig zags inbetween cars and moving people. The world chills like the dogs that cuddle next to dirt by the side of the road. There’s humans who walk on four limbs from disabilities, and there’s dogs who walk on three limbs from injuries. Yet they’re just there; chillin like villians. These dogs are so smart and badass; even if they may have a short life span. It’s much better than getting your balls cut off and being put on a leash or cooped up inside containment for the rest of your life. Or get put to sleep by the hands that feeds them. The street dogs always seem a bit rough, but they’re so much wiser and free. Life isn’t easy for them, but that’s what makes them striking.

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