J’ai peur mourir toute seule. Showers tend to keep my heart racing, the cold water flowing from hair to scalp to forehead to eyes, the pressure resides. Like before, the usual drowning every attempt at avoiding to think about it, the other side, the blank state: that final surge of blood like a river struggling to get out of the desert. It snakes its way through every nuit blanche, the pain of it a poison streaming in me, while the restriction a moment of drought, seeping out what could have been swelling. What could have been alive. Maybe I actually died alone. And I wanted to die again so I’ll kill the lie l’eau n’est pas vivant.
Chestnuts roasting in an open fire. You told me that’s how my green crochet jackets feels like. It is already January but the cold front still keeps the windows of buses northbound to Manila foggy. I have tasted chestnuts once, they were roasted golden brown. I take a bite. It was hard. It was bitter. You told me you never had the chance to buy something similar in a department store. You weren’t satisfied with what you just bought. It’s fine. I like what you’re wearing actually. Like four seasons juice on a white sand beach sunset.
I admire acrobats. I saw a digital painting once, “Power and Grace”: two acrobats demonstrating the title on the flying trapezes. The human repression to fly and if ever one wants to fall, one imagines not to fall to death, it will always inspire me to transform. I hate Icarus, then, because the passion was not enough. I hate to become Icarus. So at the end of the day, I imagine my feet on the asphalt road as if I were Jesus hovering, walking on troubled waters.
I write my depression away. I write on the bus, at the café, amidst the tons of things I need to do. A couple in front of me is studying together. In this state of depression, I wish they would have just broken up, hurt each other, and be depressed as well. It’s about time I rewrite my reality, into something I wished I had. This itch to write inviting me over to tell at least myself about the alternate narrative, the fantasy I can believe in. That one day, I would be like Midas, owning everything I gaze upon. I want their souls so that they can bring their bodies to me, too.
Hold me. This longing for touch is now turning into desperation after two decades. I am telling you this in lieu of what I might say, especially when I fear they will (always) turn wrong. It doesn’t matter where you’ll hold me, it will suffice for now that this text is being held by your eyes. I am satisfied, but I think I will never find love. Because it is just madness that’s swallowing me whole.