Buds bloomed where paintings hung last night, standing out of flooding thank you's and congratulations' and all other genuine pleasantries that come along with them, and there i felt like a ghost.
i made a lousy attempt to help a friend with the program script, which i was not able to hand over anyway because he did not hear me when i said "i'll be at Coffee Dream", and thus started the program without what i've written; which isn't so big a deal, until i vanished and de-materialized into a ghost after that and realized what had just happened.
the only role i played was of spectator for the whole night, yet long after the buzz had died down and everyone had left content, i sat there warring with myself whether i should head straight home where silence waited for me, or if i should head on to school and wait for something memorable to happen that i will keep for the rest of my life, just as i had been doing these past nights; and that made m e cry.
and so last night i bought a grande for Liyo, Russ and me and it made things worse.
i read Veronika decides to die while someone nicknamed "Bughaw" (i recall calling him just by his first name Roel when i met him--just once--in Lumad Nomad when it was still alive in yellow light every night, which it now isn't, and has turned sepia, tucked away in a rotting album in everyone's mind) droned endlessly about preserving a people's memory throughout the morning. i'd like to have that name and turn blue. and something struck me. A character wrote in her suicide note that she was neither happy nor unhappy, which was why she took her life. Funny how you "TAKE your life" and die. and it made me think how i have been having thoughts of dying lately (but no, i do not want to die. i have neither the will nor the skill to do that. these past twenty years i have been a weakling and that has not yet changed). most of the time, i am watching someone else die. she's jumping of a cliff, she's cutting her writsts, she's in a ward on the sixth floor and her parents are talking about her, praying that she'd soon be well and be able to join them for christmas; and she hears this prayer and she joins them on the first floor in two seconds flat; During mindworks, if only i'd prepared for it better,i wanted to show people how i'd felt, generally. i've been writing phrases, stanzas,"Pleiades was a noose in the sky, she bled her wings and shot through the night, she rode on a wind and pretended to fly..." today i will murder the clock on my wall. it will be the last of atrocities i am to commit."
and now i t confuses me why i think of these thoughts, yet have no intention to leave, but then, everything's been reduced to "so what?" lately, to quote Jessica Zafra.
Aha. the answer perhaps...might it be, that deep down i long to follow the footsteps of Houdini? Weakling that i am, perhaps that is the anwer.
The owner took the book and so i had to stop reading and concentrate on the crash course on tracing history that our teacher rattled to us until way past lunchtime.
today i attempted to stay alongside Joan for the rest of the day, desperately trying to remember how it had felt when, during times like these, she was the only person i looked for; and soon found i could not bring back what was once, so on the trip back, i sat far from her feeling dejected and foolish.
the rest of the afternoon went by like zoom and soon i was home feeling alone even in the presence of my sister and her boyfriend, feeling alone like when with everybody else, not exactly happy, and not exactly unhappy. and here i am ranting away like a madman feeling each molecule in my spirit fly off with every button i press.
