The pointlessness of life, although abysmal and utterly crippling, is still a beautiful concept.. but that’s what life is in a whole isn’t it? Ambivalence, muddled together in a universe of apathy. Still, it’s magnificent.
AboutMy entire life was inside my iPod. Every day. Every year. Every sweet memory. Was.
The pointlessness of life, although abysmal and utterly crippling, is still a beautiful concept.. but that’s what life is in a whole isn’t it? Ambivalence, muddled together in a universe of apathy. Still, it’s magnificent.
My name is Alex. I am roughly one hundred and eighty thousand hours of recording and my life is ruled by numbers. More specifically, the clock. It’s the controlling factor, a force so concrete and adamant that one could only hope to wield it. Manipulate it, maybe, in some odd future where science catches up with our imaginations, but, in this era, time has been, is, and will forever be the god among men.
Time. The deciding factor of life. It binds us by schedule, deadline, due date, and appointment. It imprisons our memories, our actions, our words, life, death in the simplicity of days, months, and years.. seconds, minutes, hours. I mean, sure, we can try to forget it, naturally. Time flies fast with fun. We can let it slip past our fingers as easily as sand, but no matter the effort, no matter the distractions that we create for ourselves, or the mental blocks we build to defend against it’s monotonous tick tock tick tock, we always find ourselves back to counting. If we did find a way out, find some type of loop hole in this reality where we managed to shake away our fascination, we’re forever reminded of our servitude by simply looking at a mirror. Change. Aging. Dying. Each second that ticks is one that we’ll never gain back, a countdown to the black void that’s awaiting all of us. Or at least me anyhow. Was never really the religious type.
Timing is everything. To fast forward it.. to stop it.. better yet, to reverse it. Reverse it.. and fix any relationship, any wrong, and any pit fall. Shitty luck? It can fix that too. Erase every single failure that can pile up as easily as the expectations that reinforce them. Perfection.
Just in the nick of time. Time wasn’t that good to you. Take some time to figure things out. Don’t let time pass you by. It’s just not the right time. That’s what I said to her, a girl I set roughly seventeen thousand, five hundred and twenty hours for. Two years. Shit had been piling up, and with it, stress that managed to morph into self-resentment and a frustration, irritation, and restlessness so dark that I lit the fuse to my self-destruction.
She was the closest one to me, the one I stuck around with longer than anyone, and, because of it, she was the main target and I was all for shooting her point blank. A full-auto of slugs engrained with petty annoyances, disappointments, and a looming fear of commitment. It’s just not the right time was a perfect phrase to capture the snapshot of us at that moment. What better way to celebrate than with a final executioner’s shot?
She didn’t see it that way, and the break up went right to shit. Time was gracious enough to be a dick throughout the ordeal and worked with my mind to make sure that I saw every single detail of the beauty that was her breakdown in cinematic slow-mo. I saw each and every tear burn branches down her cheeks. I marveled at the bittersweet sculpting of each grimace and drowned in the pain painted in her eyes. When her sadness turned to anger, it was a train wreck in stereoscopic image with one frame replacing the other in the slow tick of the clock. A flip book from hell. I saw the curves of her face contort as she yelled at my apparent coldness. Don’t get me wrong, it fucking killed me to see her like this. I cared. I still care. I guess I was just raised with the notion that bottling it was the cool thing to do. It probably hurt her more.
So now I’m here. Three in the morning and all I can do is sit in bed and stare at my ceiling, just thinking of her. Her and the only damn regret I managed to gain out of our relationship. Four hundred and forty-two hours, twenty-seven minutes, and fifty-four seconds seconds later.. fifty-seven.. fifty-eight.. fifty-nine.. Four hundred and forty-two hours and twenty-eight minutes later. Roughly two and a half weeks of sleep deprivation, loneliness, depression, and an all consuming need to crawl back to her. Well why don’t you? Because she’s the type that rebounds quickly, and frankly, I’m sure even hearing me would open healing wounds. Technically, she’s moved on. Me? Nope. And in this lovely, lovely time of self loathing, a single, mocking phrase blinks in pink neon lighting across my brain. It’s just a matter of fucking time.
So I’ve lost the will to do things. Writer’s block. Drawing block. Study procrastination. Mental gap. General apathy.
I need inspiration.
I wonder if I have clinical depression. Technical term, isn’t it? Having it determined by a psychologic professional gives it that much more impact. Sounds way worse than depression. Certainly quality assurance when you’ve taken it upon yourself to determine your own mental instabilities. Question is, do I really have depression or have I managed to convince my own mind that I’m depressed to fit into my little niche of life?
And I wonder.. did I create a facade of who I really am in order to believe that I’ve fully understood myself? That’d show some hint of psychosis wouldn’t it? The fact that I’ve created an other, assimilated that other into my world and cast away who I really was in order to deal with a life that I couldn’t comprehend.
That’s a pretty fearful thought. Then again, fear is a product of insanity too. Acceptable mental instability. So am I crazy for being depressed? Or crazy for becoming paranoid of my own mentality? Or am I sane for questioning it? Am I even making any sense?
I need someone as flawed as I am. Maybe I’ll gain some insight. It’ll certainly keep me from being lonely. And I get to talk without feeling foolish. Sometimes watching words gets really tedious.
Sometimes I scream for no reason. Sometimes I scream without sound when people are around. Sometimes I just like letting go of normalcy. Jump up and down. Regress. Get violent. Destroy.
A past time of mine is to create conversations in my head in which my mouth is a different entity from my mind. Yeah, I talk to myself. Sometimes it’s me speaking to someone I know.. a self-constructed someone I know. I like trying to figure out how they would respond to me. Most of all, I like the possibility of being able to change who they are or how they represent themselves.
I like imagining situations too. Moving pictures of what I could be, what I could accomplish if the world didn’t impede my life with pages upon pages of rules deeming what I believe to be beautiful, intricate, and all the more fun as impossible.
When I was a kid I used to retreat into my mind in order to provide myself entertainment. It also shielded me from all the shitty emotions.. loneliness, boredom, melancholy, pain.. I’m sure I still do it. Not as well, nor as frequently. Granted, I have distractions now.
When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of death. I cried a lot in the face of knowing that one day my parents or I would die. I cried because I found out about the fragility of what I deemed to be the center of my universe. It would be random too.. lying in bed, listening to music, and then a flood of thoughts about my mother’s lifeless body. Now? No tears are shed. I’ve seen 7 people die right in front of me. Two of which I helped in trying to resuscitate. Two terminal. Three I helped take off life support. Up front and center. I felt nothing except for a sigh or a deep breath. Now that’s a scary thought. I like to think that I felt a rush of sympathetic emotion when I heard the family cry out when they finally got to see our failures. To be honest, when I look back at it, maybe I just wanted to feel. I saw a dead newborn. It was more morbid curiosity than sadness. How do you even normally react to that? Or any of this for that matter? Do I genuinely feel nothing or bottle my emotions?
Why am I even letting you people read this deeply into my head?
Way too many questions. Too many thoughts. Blah blah blah..
So.. I.. might like you. Maybe it’s a crush - or it could be a legitimate infatuation. Obsessive interest. Head over heels. Borderline psychotic? Could be. Not particularly introspective when hormones get ahead of me.
I might want you simply because you’re ridiculously attractive.. sexually appealing.. blue-ball inducing.
I might want you because your mind is like an ocean and it interests me enough to dive in. You know: the joy of discovery, sate of curiosity, sensual intellectually stimulating personality. Or because I’m lonely, depressed, tired of one sided conversation, on-my-knees-begging-for-someone-to-LOVE-ME! ..or at least, just.. care? I might want you because I want to give you.. have you singing.. feel your lips on mine. Both pairs. Yeah, I went there. I might want you because you’re the girl I can’t have.. the girl two steps above me.
It’s a compliment not an insult.. as in, you’re better than me in either intelligence, personality, wealth, or looks and most likely can have better.
Seriously, you can do better.
It could be the fact that I don’t fit into the predetermined mold of what it means to you to be a man. Your man. Tall. Handsome. Muscled. Full beard. Stubble. Shit, that’s not me. All-the-time sweet, deep, and interesting? Cool, calm and collected? Funny, insane, and spontaneous? Romantic, sensitive, and smooth? At least, not always. I have my moments.
Maybe I want you because when your world goes to shit, I want to be the person that turns it around and makes you happy. That singular special someone that, regardless of how gone you are, can resuscitate you with a single breath.
It’s a fantasy, but it’s a nice one.
All I understand about the pretense of why I like you is that I happen to adore a portion of my day with you. A daydream, a real dream, a conversation, back-and-forth text, a silent phone, loud laughter, loud everything.. bitching, ranting, stress or pain, overwhelming, melancholic solemnity, melodramatic anything. Doesn’t matter. I enjoy spending it with you. And maybe you might not realize why but it’s because you interest me. Simply because.
Look, I’m not looking to woo you with this letter. In fact, it’s the sole reason why I’m keeping it anonymous. And if any of you girls reading this right now think it’s you, hell, it might be. And to the girls that want it to be (slim to none?), shit, it might be you too. I might not have even met you yet. [Added for dramatic affect]
Truthfully, the real reason I wrote this is because I just don’t have the balls to ruin a possible friendship by forcefully drowning it in awkwardness. I’d rather not slaughter (or continue to keep slaughtering) a good thing.. at least, not yet. And believe me, outside of any of the reasons why I may like you, I’ve most likely, positively, genuinely grown to care about you. So whatever we may be.. friends: best, close, acquaintance.. boyfriend/girlfriend.. lovers? I’ll see you through.. with your problems or your hopes. Stand by you. Learn from and about you. Laugh, cry, and overall yell out with a resounding ‘Fuck. The. World!’ with you. I’ll see you through.
That is, if you let me.
His heart was hers.
They were together in his dimly lit room with curtains barring the light as best they could in the height of an afternoon. The sun shone through though, with white light lines painting themselves on painted walls, tunneling through the greenish blue darkness that was held inside by a single door. Behind it were orange hues and shadowed hallways. They were propped up at the head of the bed, her right shoulder to his left, with covers messily drawn over their legs and frozen yogurt placed on a portable prop-up table beside them.
They talked, their words seeping, pooling much like the imminent darkness that began to drown and engulf them as the sun descended. The words they spoke tenderly constructed the monuments of their lives, molded by their week-long memories and detailed by the melancholy, the detachment, the slight pangs of depression, of utter displacement in affection.. of parents and friends, stresses and burdens that encumbered their shoulders. Sparks of laughter and slow starting smiles occasionally broke through the hand carved solemnity.
In a world where life seemed to move faster than they could grasp, this was their pause button. This was where time froze to a standstill; where they could finally breath and enjoy the utter bliss of platonic love in peace.
She stared at the wall across from her blankly, her thoughts focused solely on the words she spoke. It was intricate, and he appreciated every part of it, from the soft, unhindered breaths she took, to the air-touched chords that sung to him and only him, edited by the litheness of her tongue and the gentle curls of her lips. His adoration wasn’t from the simplicity of feminine grace, but the strength of her convictions and beauty she couldn’t see. He loved her for her mind - a mind that took to his with understanding and compassion, with an unearthly connection relatively unexplainable to them both. They got each other and because of it, they found solace.
He looked at her in the dark, a silhouette marked by black curves against the street light illuminated curtains. It was a marvel to him the way her hair flowed downward and met her forehead, cascading and becoming the static wired mesh of her eyebrows. He analyzed her intricacy and with his mind, drew her, following the outline of her eyes, dipped and rounded, with her eyelashes sharply protruding from them. He followed the way her nose sloped and circled. It was simplistic beauty in how her lips curved and moved as she spoke. He burned the image in his mind, seared it across his cortex, hoping to remember and enjoy it in her absence.
He basked in the heat of her diction, the words melted by the forge of her heart while music fueled the hearth. She spoke in depths he knew others had rarely ever touched and he embraced it, entitling himself selfishly to her.
They synced, enjoying each other until the blip in time had righted itself. And when she was gone and they both returned to the train-wreck of their modern, first-world lives, he trudged on with the hope of seeing her again and somehow, just maybe, take comfort in the merciful weight of the world.. if only for a moment.
Her fingers trace lines on the cold glass, an ephemeral trail of mist following intently like a entranced lover. She thinks. Contemplates. Calculates with clarity in machine-like efficiency backed with feminine grace like a mind shaped in Athena’s light. Her blonde hair is a wedding veil, softly caressing and all the more hiding her from hopeful eyes.
Her face is near the glass, head tipped forward while she stands, the ends of her fingers fueled by the thoughts that haunt; the same thoughts that wander and dance across her mind.. lovers and rivals, enemies, torturers to her alike. Every breath she takes is slow and paced without any heavy sighs pushed by the stresses of deep thought - or so she articulates, the scene of solace hinting gently at facade. I gain her attention. She smiles at the familiar and greets me with mouthed words, a Siren singing her heavenly chords in a cold and stoic silence. I reply to her kindly in the same monotone, our eyes catching every curve and twitch of our moving lips. Our conversations are always like these: a void of sound, avoiding sounds. We talk in the modern language, openly accepted and dutifully burned into the hide of our routines.
I wish it could be different. I wish for the warmth of her soft voice, air flowing through the fragile strings, vibrating soft chords that seep out the tongue and wind around me - a daydream of her music gently pulsing, beating on the skin of my drums. She falters at my wishes, a line drawn that holds glass intact. My desire is selfish, though, driven by curiosity always driven and although my impatience escapes at times, I always try to hold my tongue. Our words exist in blackened curves and lines, punctuated by thoughts and touched by intentions that risk drifting into thin air. We talk like this with moments where our minds cascade a mist-filled waterfall of ideas and philosophies brimming with the depth of an all engulfing intellectual adoration - and moments where we mime sluggishly, our audience distracted, entertained by another world. It always ends the same though: a staunch and adamant love, formed by stone. We both wonder, of course, whether weather would cause it’s cold carved edges to chip; to have it’s solid frame covered in cracked webbing until a sudden shatter. It’s all just speculation, but an anathema nonetheless. More so if our care died long before.
We continue our conversation, separated but together in a vast world, populated by minute lives, hour relationships, monthly updates. She stares at me with her ocean filled eyes soft to my presence. I stare back with no attention to my surroundings - mostly, partly - and marvel. She’s beautiful to me. Just to me, she says and I play with those words, appalled at any whose eyes could skip past the blue depths of her mind, housing a million living thoughts; the surface a calm, rippled sapphire touched softly by solemn winds - a serenity that could easily turn into churning whirlpools of pain and tidal waves of flooding anger.
A smile. A press of a hand to me, stopped by the wall of glass between us that spans by the thousands across and above. I hold my hand to hers, the combined warmth imprinting itself on the crystalline surface. We freeze ourselves there, aware of our own isolation in the shadow of the clear, pristine giant. Oh how I long to break it; to traverse it in the fury of my desire and have it shattered. I want to take her hand in mine and pull her to me, hold her, hear her, love her outside of the voyeuristic prison that keeps us apart. But we stay helpless. We stay in the limitations set by the world around us and hope that we don’t lose the conviction, hope that the mechanical heart that we built so carefully doesn’t lose pulse.
She walks away from me, from the crystal barrier, as her thoughts sluggishly wander to a dream filled sleep and another day of forced societal routine. I stand there as she leaves, accompanied by the ghosts of her fingerprint trails and drifting, quiet words. I stare at her as she fades away, left to myself while I drown in the mere second memories of us. The doubts. The fears. I drown under the weight of a million scattered thoughts as a listless, blasé time trudges on.
You lived in the crux of the second world war, beginning your active duty on December 8th, 1941 during the Pacific’s invasion by the Japanese. You fought, you were captured, you were marched 25 miles with barely any water and not a scrap of food. Beatings, executions, death; you endured. You endured, through malaria, and escaped the temporary concentration camp left to fend for yourself. You recovered by the aid of a rich baron and became a guerrilla fighter within the Kelly 3rd Infantry Regiment, Nacar Division with the rank of Sgt and while being sent as a messenger with a Private Felix Hernandez, you watched as he died. Again you were alone and again you were targeted, hit by two bullets from a Japanese sniper. One went into your upper right arm and the other went into your chest and exited through, to your left arm as well. You survived the war, and left with it the injuries dealt to you, physically and mentally. You died before I could even remember your face; before I could sear it into my mind. I never loved you.. granted only because I never knew you, but as I learned about you, I came to respect you.
All I know about you fits in one Manila envelope, and all I can say is, I wish for more. This day is for you, Alejandro C. Tarona. May your memories thrive.
So as it is, I’ve degraded myself to reblogging interesting pictures, minuscule quotations, and random music posts from my library. It’s sad really, not having the time or the creative drive to write or draw like I did when I was horrendously bored and had nothing else but that. Of course it might not have to do with me working at a hospital (interning, really) more so than the fact that I’m just temporarily losing my touch with art. It’s quite depressing.. (Apologies.) Apart from that, life is doing a well enough job dragging me around which leads me to question what I want out of my future. So, in any case, as this is my personal blog, I may as well share my plans with all of you. Ain’t that quality content.
So I’m currently in school for Respiratory Therapy at 19 years old. If you didn’t know that I was 19, it says so in my ‘Who Am I’ shtick (19 trips around the sun, 1 trip around the sun is a year, I digress.) If everything goes right, which it won’t, and I don’t fail horribly, I’ll be graduating a month after I hit 20. This means that 2012 will be the year I try to land a job. If I do happen to get a full time job, I’ll probably take up another one equaling up to 72 hours per week of working. Hell, if I was good, I’d pick up a Per Diem or a part time. I want to work myself in a fury for 1 or 2 years. I’m still living with my parents so this is the opportune time to chug out and save up cash for upfront cash buys (like a car, and helping pay the bills and mortgage as a thank you to my parents.) Of course, this is a damn long shot. I’m a 20 year old looking for career level jobs with no work experience at a failed economy. It screams failure.
Alright, so if this were to ever happen. I’ll be working my ass off and not giving myself the right to relaxation and an active social life. I really don’t give a shit if I can amass myself an amount that will keep me well rested. I’ll still be living at home until about 24 or so. In my opinion, that’s the point where it starts getting creepy. Till then, I’m going to (hopefully) buy minuscule items that I’ve been wanting. I really yearn to buy a good book case and fill it with new copies of books I adore.. like Ender’s Game or The World to Come. I want a new Tempur-pedic mattress. Or at least something other than FUCKING SPRINGS DIGGING INTO MY BACK. I have not had a good night’s sleep in 4 effing years. I want to replace my phone and my iPod nano with an iPhone, and start paying for my phone bill to relieve some stress off my mom. Maybe even pick up a fiber-optic internet connection at that. I need to build a new computer, buy a better computer desk, snatch up 2 LED monitors, and tweak my room’s sound system. Then, I need to set myself up with a beginner’s banjo and a bass clarinet. I also need a new car. After that, I should be content enough to put whole paychecks into my savings and pay off some of my mom’s bills with my own.
I want to get my baccalaureate in SOMETHING in my 20s and aim for a PhD in my 40s for the sole reason of having the title ‘Dr.’ This means that I have to take my GEs over again because my accelerated GE credits from private college aren’t worth shit in other colleges. Yay. If I have enough time with my life to even go for a higher degree, I’d love to pick up an art class for the first time in my life, along with fixing my nonexistent workout schedule, and I NEED to learn how to cook. Hell, pick up Spanish too for the practicality towards working in hospitals in Southern California. Maybe I’ll even enlist into the military for the med unit.
If this all works out, well damn, I’ll be well off in my late 20s. And so will my friends, because I like to shower the people I love with gifts. And hey, maybe I’ll even have a girlfriend I can make happy. And I’ll finally be able to donate to charity. And maybe I’ll even become a foster parent to a daughter, if I manage to land myself an acceptable house and they allow lower-than-middle-aged men access to teenage girls. The problem is, I’m riding on if.
I’ve titled this ‘Plans for an Improbable Future,’ because in truth, my plans never seem to go through the way as expected. They’re always changing, thus improbable. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m just really realistic/pessimistic/negative about my future. In any case, plans tend to not go through. It’s usually why I plan less delicately, marking my life’s schedule with broad platforms for less fall-through. I think it’s better that way.. I’m less disappointed at myself if I fail to conform with my own expectations. Failure scares the shit out of me, more so when the lives of others are weighted on my shoulders. Responsibility is the bane of my existence, I swear. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure if I’m making sense. I hope these plans work, though. It would save me the trouble of having to do something extraordinary. Or notable.
I’d be very surprised if any of you managed to read all the way down to here.
A photograph. She stares back at me with those eyes. Those eyes, so foreign and unnatural in my world, so soft and seemingly innocent, are hidden from me - kept away from my visual hunger. It’s that need, the all-consuming need to see them, sun-touched and delicately lit with life behind her black rimmed glasses. The need to look at her irises bursting at the seams, pushed by her soul wanting to escape and set the world ablaze. She has me absolutely, unknowingly, just from the forms of dull, multicolored pixels. That’s all she is in my life, now. And yet, I stay captivated, intoxicated by the way she tilts her head to one side so gently, her hair staying clear, almost cautious to ripple through the calm surface of her beauty. I’m captured. My heart drowns in the weight of my own desire to simply stare at the way her soft lips form the curvature of a smile - to feel that calm wash over me in the shower of her own solace. My eyes are locked. My mind morphs this shameless voyeur into machinations of her and I together, in purity, innocence - pleasure exploding from the simplicity of her company, her shoulder close to my own, her voice dancing with mine. A flicker of thought and she’s gone. How fragile we are in the depths of the mind when all this - the laughter, the warmth, the peace - just slips away. The imprisonment, the adoration.. love. It all vanishes into air. That desire, the image…her image. All of it is nothing but blocks of color. Nothing but pixel, she is, nothing but pixel.