. . . . .
Thursday, 16 May 2013 @ 01:13
****
“Why are you into temporariness?”
He didn’t get my question so, I rephrased it,
“Why do you glorify things that
are not permanent such as beauty, per se?” I thought I would offend him a
little with a bit of sarcasm in my query but he remained calm. He then asked
me,
“Tell me, what is ‘permanent’,
anyway? Why do people so obsess about making permanent things or matters, a
priority? Why do people keep on wanting to make things a “Forever” when the
truth is, nothing is forever in this world? If there’s anything permanent, that
will be, ‘bullshit’. Bullshit is forever.”
Then I saw it. When other people
learnt that he is narcissistic, I learnt that he is actually broken. I wondered what made him the person he is
today. I wondered how he got so bitter. Silence grew between us. He stared out
to the streets and I fixed my eyes to the table. For a moment I wished I could
hug him tightly but I offered him my hot beverage instead. He declined it by
saying,
“I don’t drink from the cup of an insensitive bastard.” He referred me as ‘insensitive bastard’. Maybe he was right.
After all, I was pretty judgmental like the others towards him. I guess my
query did offend him a little.
The coffee was still warm. The rain had
stopped. I found that the day was getting late so I excused myself, leaving him
and the coffee behind.
While walking back home, I had
the image of his sad eyes in my head. Suddenly, I noticed that I’ve left my sweater
at the café so, I ran back to get it. My pace stopped as I saw from the glass
windows of the café that he was still there, sitting at the table we sat
before. He had his fingers wrapped around my leftover coffee and his head
rested on his right elbow. For a few seconds, he looked like an abandoned
child. Then, I noticed that my sweater was underneath his right arm.
The night grew darker and colder.
I stared long at him from the glass windows and for the first time I saw
someone who is perfectly safe, in his own world, but safe, at least.
****
You’re like the literature I never
understand. A book that takes thousands of years for me to finish read but still
unable to grasp anything. If so you are to be put in a collection of poems, I shall
not be entertained by your metaphor and rhyme. If so you are a children’s fable
with drawings and such, your characters are inanimate with dead
personifications. If so you are a song, you are played monotonously and I shall
yawn of boredom.
Exhausted I am about to relate
your figurative words with history and the map of the world, I bear no burden
as I refuse to bear such person.
A person
like you is a literature I hate, a literature that tires me, a literature I never
can make.
Labels: expression, negative, past
Sunday, 27 January 2013 @ 13:42
(In the middle of a phone conversation)
“I hate myself sometimes.”
“I don’t think one is capable at feeling so.”
“What? How come? I do hate myself. So?”
“Sometimes. One is incapable of hating something sometimes.”
“Uh…Do elaborate.”
“To me, hatred can occur in split seconds, but take ‘centuries’ to be removed. During the process of removal, hatred will be temporarily permanent. So, your indication of hating yourself sometimes seems unlikely.”
“Well, don’t take it too far. It was just a figure of speech.”
“So, how long do you actually hate yourself then?”
“To be honest, I don’t.”
“That’s a lie.”
“What the..? I actually don’t hate myself in that weird temporarily permanent sense.”
“So, you love yourself, is that it?”
“Uh…I don't really want to put it that way.
"So, you love yourself, right?"
"Err...How do you suggest I answer that without sounding narcissistic?”
“By saying that, you love yourself sometimes.”
“That sounds pretty odd.”
“At least you would sound logical.”
“What?! OK. Whatever. I seriously don’t see the matter of how long one hates or loves or whatever.”
“It actually really matters.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
“Intrinsically.”
“…”
“I sometimes measure the length of it.”
“That’s absurd.”
“If you use the right tools, the right methods, sure you can.”
“Are you high?”
“No. Why?”
“Damn it. Don’t ask me back. I was being sarcastic. What’s the matter with you?”
“Conversations should have questions. If not, how can it last?”
“I beg to differ. Won’t it turn into an interview?”
“With you, I mean. Conversations with you will work if there are a lot of questions.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Our past conversations that contained approximately 90 questions last in an average of one hour and twenty minutes.”
“No kidding! And I suppose, you have been measuring this conversation too? Heh.”
“Until now, it has been precisely three minutes and 16 seconds.”
“What the…”
“Yes. Precisely three minutes and 16 seconds.”
“…”
“And now, three minutes and 18 seconds.”
“…”
“Now, I’m counting your silence.”
“…”
“Why did you say you hate yourself, again?”
“…”
“OK. Now the length of your silence has increased by 1.5 seconds.”
“…”
“Sigh…hello?”
“…”
“Hell-o..?”
“…”
“Your silence now has just increased to 2.5 seconds.”
“You are weird.”
“Your silence is overall, one minute and three seconds.”
“What…?”
“Phew. I thought you’re going to remain quiet.”
“I was about to until I imagine your puppy face turns soppy.”
“Do you still hate yourself?
“Yes, now that I’m talking to you.”
“You can be very mean sometimes.”
“False. I am mean, every time, naturally.”
“Oh, yeah? Give me some numbers.”
“Err…O…kay, I just did. I was being silent for one minute and three seconds.”
“Your calculation is wrong.”
“What? That was your calculation, wasn't it?”
“You were mean, sorry, have been mean for three years, two months, a day, a minute and three seconds.”
“Err… I’m sorry?”
“Apology not accepted.”
“I mean, what did you just said? About the three years thing…?”
“Oh.”
“Uhuh?”
“…”
“Hello?”
“…”
“You are so weird.”
“How do you feel about one being silent at you?”
“Oh! There you are. To be honest? It makes me want to slam the phone down, makes me hate myself. Well, sometimes.”
“It makes me hate myself too, except, more than sometimes. And for some reason, I don’t want to slam the phone down.”
“…”
“It makes me hate myself more and more, for every second of silence.”
“Alright, alright, I get it. How do you suggest I make it up to you?”
“No, don’t. It’s not your fault.”
“Fine. What do you want me to do then?”
“…”
“…”
"..."
"This may sound ambiguous. I just, I want you not to be silent..."
"That's not applicable. I can't promise you that."
"..."
"..."
“And your silence is now…”
(Phone is hung up. A long monotonous tone is heard.)
"1, 2, 3, 4, 5...6...7...
Friday, 30 November 2012 @ 20:24
Labels: misanthropy, negative, nonfiction, rant