Saying Hello (The Thousandth Time)



“Face your life, its pain, its pleasure, leave no path untaken.”
― Neil GaimanThe Graveyard Book

What’s in your life when you have to write about it?  Why do you have to write about your life in the first place?  Is that what you call freedom?  Taking advantage of all the things, big and small, and letting it explode in letters, words, language – wide in the open – to call yourself a chronicler of your own life.  If that even makes sense then perhaps it is also remarkable to affirm that I am one vainglorious son of a gun who exploits the power of the page . . .

. . . to exorcise the horror and covetousness of my tiny, ludicrous life.

These questions, among others, invade my much-cerebral milieu every single day.  I wake up, I estimate my time choosing to masturbate – begin my day – or just shut my eyes and start daydreaming at 8 o’clock in the morning.  Then I realize I have to take a shower – not really caring much about breakfast as my kitchen is the cornucopia of my room; books and things on top of the dining table instead of plates – and that I need to remember all the things I wrote the previous night because in many ways than one, as I stagger down the stairs with my ugly morning face, I may have forgotten what I have actually written.  Or maybe I have stopped caring at all.  Or maybe . . .

. . . maybe I reached a plain of my old life not really wondering much.  I have begun believing in the concept of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.  The hell with little things!  The hell with existence.  I have a day and I have learned to be weirdly happy  (for the day – for the given day even if it’s Wednesday) even in my ugly, scruffy and not-much-ado morning face as I stagger down the stairs to catch my much-needed shower.

I beam towards the mirror as I look at my face a good forty-five minutes later.  9 o’clock and my breath already smell like an ashtray.  I have a pretty face.  Finally I can say that.  Yes, I do have a pretty face. I want to thank my genes perhaps.  Or maybe I want to thank the Vitamin E’s I’ve consumed throughout the years.  I want to thank God, in fact.  Yes, I want to thank God for making me look 10 years younger than my age.  And yes, I do not look it.  Supposing I am wrong, then that’s an advantage because I really don’t care anymore.  I may have to write down as well that the things I post on Twitter characterize not only inner longings but, in fact, the authenticity of my premature death.

Twitter post:  I miss my lesbian friends.


 “But other people also ‘invite’ us to behave like victims, when they complain about the unfairness of life, for example, and ask us to agree, to offer advice, to participate.

Be careful. When you join in that game you always end up losing.”
― Paulo CoelhoBy the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

Do not trust your emotions.  It is actually a clown who farts his way out of making you cringe with your crafted pain.  Your emotion is also a painter who is post-modernist.  His use of brush is fashioned in disarray, thus, it is almost indecipherable to look at.  Stop looking.  Stop looking for proofs.  It will only make the journey snaky and filled with road signs that are even more bewildering.  Instead, taste it.  Use your head and connect it with the universe that you dwell in.


Go for it.  Jump.  So, you will know how it caresses your tongue or whether it is even edible.  Smoke a joint, fight with someone, run naked under the moonlight or brave an anal sex with your partner instead of plotting more money, more adoration and more power.  Everything in this world is short-lived.  Instead of living for greed, live for encounters.  You’ll see.

Whether you are in a relationship right now or not, nurture yourself more than anything else.  Dwell in working because it makes you feel better with yourself.  Accomplish something for the good of everyone because it will absolutely come back in ten-folds.  Balance is the only religion that is worth summoning, needless to say, so, be rest assured that what goes around comes around.  In bits and pieces, in magnified form and in situations.  Like work, your relationship is also worth keeping your watch for.  It does not come easily – the bond can take gazillion of years to work like clockwork – especially if there are bottled up passion brimming nicely between two people.

Cliché as it is, but love, in all its grandness and shaded façade, is a lot of work.  Love procreates relationships but not necessarily alleviate its wondrous promises.  Remember, it will always start from YOU.  Work out love with freedom and laughter.  If there is gas, there is oxygen and we all need to breathe, not suffocate each other in liaisons of different shapes and sizes.  So, breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.


Drifting again.

In my wakeful and unusual rational state, I sometimes think that I dwell in relationships (both the good relationship and the eventful distorted ones) just to be able to write about it.  It may have been an alibi to escape the frustrations and to deny the mistakes, but at the end of every calloused love adventure, with my eyes droopy with crocodile tears, I look in the mirror, put a smile in my face and opted to these betraying words, “Well, Jon, at least you can write about it.”

Then I drift to the next leaf.  The next tide.  The next song.  Like a desirable and oftentimes, a psychotic, siren would.  With her hair flowing to the call of the wind and her eyes myopic to the compass of her own hand – writing about it.

No, I am not a victim to my heartbreaks or my heartaches.  I am an accomplice to my disorders. I bake my cake and eat it too.  NO WONDER I revise recipes ever so often . . . NO WONDER I have not saved enough money for the future because I am living in the future, nonetheless, I may have been the biggest fool who ever lived.

Is that evil?

Yes, because in a certain philosophical plane, it defines the ulterior motive of building a world that is so totalitarian.  Moreover, it exhausts the mind and (during seasons of polygamy back in my 20s) the body as well.

No, because as I drifted here to there, lounging here and then stretching my legs there, I found variety.  I engulfed and reconnected with my other selves scattered in the four directions of my infinite universe.




 “Don’t sacrifice yourself too much, because if you sacrifice too much there’s nothing else you can give and nobody will care for you.”
― Karl Lagerfeld


See, there comes a time when you think that your life is being handled by a far more indignant force other than yours.  It is so tricky.  There was a time when I absolutely surrendered myself to the laws of marriage – not that I was ever legally married and hopefully, never would – wondrously diligent in monogamy and bounded by the conjugality of situations.  It has consumed me.  But I loved it.  The other face of marriage, the face that we all love and yearn for, is belonging to someone. Being with someone.  Working through the labyrinth of life with someone.  It is sublime.  Consuming and beautiful.  Until you screw it up with its other face that craves for that overwhelming need to be you.  To stand on your grounds, under your own terms.  Others will call that selfishness.  Fine.  But honouring your selfhood repairs your way of dealing with the bigger love.  I hope you will agree with me when I say that intimate partnerships convert you into somebody else other than you.  And then you call it for the better.  Wrong.  You just deceived yourself ten-folds.  Imagine being robbed off of your own ideas, your control of things, and your OWN beliefs?

Unbecoming and becoming.  Enchanting all the same.  There is simply something peaceful being among non-living things as it gives you room to get to know yourself all over again.  And yes, sometimes, we forget about who we are.  There is something about the self that likes to get lost momentarily but we refuse to do so because it feels like it is a waste of time.  Again, self-deceit.  Why can’t we realize that the biggest love, the greatest love of all, is loving yourself?  If Whitney Houston (before she became a crack head) can articulate that, why can’t we?  So, I say, get lost and feel weary if you need to.  And then walk.  Move on.


So, what’s in your life when you have to write about it?


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