I lift the tiny cigarette, a few inches away from its imminent disappearance, and let it kiss my lips. I hate its taste, but have always loved the way how its tip sparkles beneath my eyes, like jewelry on fire. The wind carries the burning pieces of ashes to my exposed skin. It stings. My lungs feel heavy, and now heavier, because they seem to be the ones carrying my burdened heart.
The pillows lie beside me, immobile. The windows suggest the coming of a storm — outside, it is dark blue, and the ticktock of raindrops start to mimic the sound of bullets. I think: the weather is as dreary as the images projected inside my head. Besides, I am alone, and now, ever lonely.
The rainfall hits hard mid-afternoon. The birds hide inside their nests. The ash tray collects half a dozen more cigarette butts. Outside, the sun has begun showering the streets with its light. Only the territory of this bed, and the geography of these pillows, are now drenched with the product of the storm that has lifted from my eyes.
My lungs fall apart, and at once, my heart follow suit.
I wish I could take back all the steps wasted by this (indecisive) heart, pacing at your door, trailing ashes and regrets. I wish I could take back all the steps, all the minutes, and the days, just walk to your door, and tell you how long I can live without breathing, and how your name is like rich vanilla. I retrace my steps one last time under the familiar stares of your empty windows and wish I could take them back: steps, minutes, and days, and spend them all with you.
Grief is overwhelming, wave-like, liquid and lugubrious. It drowns, sweeps away within a wake of wakefulness, the insomnia of the floundering. Grief turns water to wine, makes one drunk on heady mourning, addled by the scent of sadness. Yes, water to wine. A wine to inhibit the boundaries of propriety, to eliminate the strict separation of emotion and presentation. Wine to blood, blood to sanctify, blood to rectify, blood to pay back, to serve as recompense. The blood of a sacrifice, the blood that makes holy, and in that holiness the profane comes surging forth, rising to the crest of the wave with all the tattered plumage of a deserting mercenary. Sacrifice; the gods demand blood, the gods demand wine. The gods are dead; shall I mourn, shall I grieve for them, and in so grieving re-imagine, reincarnate them? Shall I bury their bones or gnaw on them? Sacrifice; to make sacred, make holy.
If you’re coming back, just give me a sign. Tell the moon to stop singing such sad lullabies. Get the flowers to bloom with your smell in mind Have the skies all clear-up, so the sun can come shine. If you’re going to return then we’ll need a parade; A beautiful setting for your presence that day. Have all of the roads clear and all crashes delayed. Preheat my oven, have some home-cooking made. Make birds all take flight, and make guns not go off, Make all the world’s hard either easy or soft. If there’s a time and a place that you want to meet, Just leave me a note under the passenger’s seat. And remember that I like them sweet, and short too; Two simple words, “I’m coming”, and I’ll wait for you.
Some days I just want to break down and cry, I don’t know why, I just become overcome by sadness, I don’t even know what I’m upset about, I just feel distant and alone, and really all I want to do is cry. But even then, I can’t do that, I’ve always had dry eyes, and that makes me feel even worse, because I can’t do the simplest thing, I can’t even cry.
Some days I just want to drive to the airport and get on a flight, any flight just to take me away from here. just to walk away from everything and everyone. To stop caring, just once, to be selfish and live for myself instead of for everyone else. I guess I think of leaving as like dying, I’d be gone and no one would see me again. I’ve lived with the consequences of suicide, and suffered because of it, and I guess that’s why I could never bring myself to that end, so I guess instead I say I want run away, when what I really mean is that I’m ready to die. There’s just nothing more I want from life, I’m exhausted, I’m wounded and I just want it all to stop. Forever.
Designates the human ability to discriminate among living things (plants, animals) as well as sensitivity to other features of the natural world (clouds, rock configurations). This ability was clearly of value in our evolutionary past as hunters, gatherers, and farmers; it continues to be central in such roles as botanist or chef. It is also speculated that much of our consumer society exploits the naturalist intelligences, which can be mobilized in the discrimination among cars, sneakers, kinds of makeup, and the like.
2. Musical Intelligence (“Musical Smart”)
Musical intelligence is the capacity to discern pitch, rhythm, timbre, and tone. This intelligence enables us to recognize, create, reproduce, and reflect on music, as demonstrated by composers, conductors, musicians, vocalist, and sensitive listeners. Interestingly, there is often an affective connection between music and the emotions; and mathematical and musical intelligences may share common thinking processes. Young adults with this kind of intelligence are usually singing or drumming to themselves. They are usually quite aware of sounds others may miss.
Logical-mathematical intelligence is the ability to calculate, quantify, consider propositions and hypotheses, and carry out complete mathematical operations. It enables us to perceive relationships and connections and to use abstract, symbolic thought; sequential reasoning skills; and inductive and deductive thinking patterns. Logical intelligence is usually well developed in mathematicians, scientists, and detectives. Young adults with lots of logical intelligence are interested in patterns, categories, and relationships. They are drawn to arithmetic problems, strategy games and experiments.
Sensitivity and capacity to tackle deep questions about human existence, such as the meaning of life, why do we die, and how did we get here.
5. Interpersonal Intelligence (People Smart”)
Interpersonal intelligence is the ability to understand and interact effectively with others. It involves effective verbal and nonverbal communication, the ability to note distinctions among others, sensitivity to the moods and temperaments of others, and the ability to entertain multiple perspectives. Teachers, social workers, actors, and politicians all exhibit interpersonal intelligence. Young adults with this kind of intelligence are leaders among their peers, are good at communicating, and seem to understand others’ feelings and motives.
6. Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence (“Body Smart”)
Bodily kinesthetic intelligence is the capacity to manipulate objects and use a variety of physical skills. This intelligence also involves a sense of timing and the perfection of skills through mind–body union. Athletes, dancers, surgeons, and craftspeople exhibit well-developed bodily kinesthetic intelligence.
7. Linguistic Intelligence (Word Smart)
Linguistic intelligence is the ability to think in words and to use language to express and appreciate complex meanings. Linguistic intelligence allows us to understand the order and meaning of words and to apply meta-linguistic skills to reflect on our use of language. Linguistic intelligence is the most widely shared human competence and is evident in poets, novelists, journalists, and effective public speakers. Young adults with this kind of intelligence enjoy writing, reading, telling stories or doing crossword puzzles.
8. Intra-personal Intelligence (Self Smart”)
Intra-personal intelligence is the capacity to understand oneself and one’s thoughts and feelings, and to use such knowledge in planning and directioning one’s life. Intra-personal intelligence involves not only an appreciation of the self, but also of the human condition. It is evident in psychologist, spiritual leaders, and philosophers. These young adults may be shy. They are very aware of their own feelings and are self-motivated.
9. Spatial Intelligence (“Picture Smart”)
Spatial intelligence is the ability to think in three dimensions. Core capacities include mental imagery, spatial reasoning, image manipulation, graphic and artistic skills, and an active imagination. Sailors, pilots, sculptors, painters, and architects all exhibit spatial intelligence. Young adults with this kind of intelligence may be fascinated with mazes or jigsaw puzzles, or spend free time drawing or daydreaming.
I don’t understand why we try to escape our past so much, what’s done is done right? I know that sometimes it can be hard and extremely difficult to walk tall when the past weighs heavily upon our shoulders. But the past, the past is our stories, it makes you who you are, it tells our stories and without it we are not the people we are, and who we will eventually become, those experiences are our narrative and it is through telling them we create bonds, it is through telling them that we destroy bonds, but those stories, however bleak, however dark have our essence, our spirit embedded within them. Every prescript of our lives exists within stories. I’ve always believed that we as people don’t just die once, no, we die twice. Once when our soul escapes our body, and then again, when future generations stop telling our stories. We die and exist in the stories those who we created bonds with tell, and in doing so they inspire others. I can’t count how many times I told stories of the ones I’ve lost, how those stories have inspired the narratives of others. Our past, our history is important, don’t abandon it. However bleak, find the light that exists in each and every story. The greatest people in the history of humanity are never forgotten, their stories are told for an eternity. And it’s true that evil men also live for an eternity but they do so in a different way, their stories give us hope and a burning will to do something that prevents men such as those to never again scar us in the same way.
Is it so wrong to finally miss you? Here, we write our stories as if we’ve already forgotten them. But we have, and these words are mere consolation to occurrences. Nothing sticks and nothing remains. Everything we remember is everything we like to imagine.
Yesterday was a day plagued with the harshness of heat, and all I thought about was cold tea and an umbrella on my right hand. Somewhere in between, I persisted to include a thought of you by my side, persuading me to stay under the shade of giant trees, until the clouds could obscure the rays of the sun. Is it so wrong to think that I have missed missing you? Here, a confession is nothing but a question that will remain forever unanswered.
Let’s say we’ve spent our entire lives looking for each other. Let’s say, in another time, in another set of occurrences, we don’t meet. Why say we look for each other, when we don’t know each other at all? But there’s a feeling, when you grow old by yourself, that you have missed someone all your life. It’s definitely, accurately, and sensibly, just you, wouldn’t it be?
It’s beautiful to imagine you. More beautiful, to imagine you with me.
In the late afternoon I cried. Sitting against the wall on the far side of my room I let loose. I felt the weight of my heart drop into my stomach and its splash sent waves of emotions up through my body and out of my eyes. The tears were like shell casings, releasing from the chamber and falling almost all at once until the magazine emptied. I stood up, and for a moment felt myself falling. I regained my balance and wiped my face on my sleeve. I put on my shoes and left the house. I couldn’t stand being trapped in there anymore. If I could, I would walk across the distance between us. But then I thought that maybe I’m not ready to face the reality that might have been waiting for me there.
Instead I went north, up to the trees on the far side of town. I walked among them and climbed several. And in that moment, I wanted to forget about everything. Nothing feels real at all. How did things become this way? It feels like a dream. A nightmare I can’t shake out of. Bored and lonely, wishing you were here, wishing we were happy. I don’t know what else to do.
I did the only thing I can do, cry and cry and cry. What is there left to do anyway?
They do not linger in your memory like ghosts nor in the past like skeletons. They do not exist as shards of glass simply and curiously embedded in your mind. No, they are like trees, taking root into the unconscious. You take her in your arms and she takes you into hers. The toxic scent of her skin and the faint fragrance of her hair fills you, sweeping into your lungs and burrowing into your neighboring heart. The warmth of her breath on your skin sends tendrils reaching deep into your mind, breaking down doors into the rooms you once kept only for yourself. They breed memories, fragments of a thousand piece puzzle where you only have half and she the other. Memories which flower into thoughts and emotions. And emotions into dreams. You sit under the sweltering summer sun and find yourself shivering, dreaming of the warmth that you once, although briefly, shared.
I remember how I love to spend my summer nights – lights out, under the sheets, watching pink films, laughing and crying with real stories of men and women on how they find their true love and happy endings in the persona of the same sex.
I always dream of finding that someone.
Someone who could really knocks me off my feet, and makes me fall in-love head-over-heels. Perhaps, meeting a random stranger that will make a huge difference in my life, or a best friend that I never thought would fall in-love with me.
I want these love stories come to life. And I want these to happen in my life.
Some of the greatest love stories may end on a sad note, either, they’re dead (someone is dead) or destiny did not permit their love. Well, at least, they tried and experienced this kind of love - the real one.
Now, I don’t watch these films anymore, not because I’ve outgrown them, or I stop believing in finding my true love.
The bridge did not burn. It simply vanished, leaving me standing at the edge of my world staring at the hazy shadow of yours. All that’s left is an emptiness filled with fog and vague memories, figments and fragments.
The bridge did not burn. It simply vanished. I trace your name into the ground. This was where I first saw you smile, where I first heard you laughter, and where I first held your elusive hand. This was where I first kissed you in the depths of my dreams and under the discombobulating sun of reality. This was where you last stood when I turned around despite the constant nagging of my mind.
“Come on,” it said, “It’s not that hard. Just look her in the eye and drown in those warm brown hues for the last time. Breathe her in. Take in every scent, every crack of her lip and every strand of her ebony hair. Push away everything. Nothing else matters now. Not today nor tomorrow. Tell her now. It’s the last time she can taste your words and hear your smiles.”
Your name stares up at me from the cold ground. The bridge did not burn. It simply vanished, leaving me on this side with a crushing handful of regrets and stacks of unsaid words. You have always been so beautiful, love. I walk over to the edge of this world and smile, a new brick in hand. The bridge did not burn.
Sometimes I feel like such a terrible person. Because I don’t want anyone else to lay claim on you. Like… I’m the only one who has that right. And I don’t. And I never ever should feel that way because for one, you’re a person, not a thing, not something that can easily be claimed as mine. And second, before we even met, you were owned by some other people — you are your mother’s son, you are your sister’s brother, you are her friend. And just… feeling this way, feeling extremely jealous, makes me feel like a cretin of a person. But this is it, this is me, and no matter how much I try to hide that green-eyed monster in a little box in my closet, I can’t. That’s the way it is. Once again, I have turned into this selfish lover who only wants you for myself. Damn.
“I don’t understand why you find me attractive. You’re, well, you’re you … and I’m … I just don’t see it. You’re beautiful and sexy and successful and good and kind and caring—all those things—and I’m not. And I can’t do the things you like to do. I can’t give you what you need. How could you be happy with me? How can I possibly hold you?”—
Even though it did not seem like I felt anything, it meant the world to me. These little things you do that make me hate you, and the even littler things you do that make me love you more, they keep me in motion and in sync. If you only knew how tired I am of this roller coaster ride.
That quick moment when your arms wrapped around me and locked me in that embrace - I didn’t want it to end, I secretly hoped that you’ll never let go. In those brief seconds I felt how real it was, no joke, no fooling around, just what you really felt in that time.
I wanted to hug you back as tight and as warm, but a weird feeling took over me. A pinch of hatred from all those days you left me out. But if it weren’t for those days, I would never feel how real it was, how true to your feeling that embrace was.
Transit: Canton - Pour Toi: Your Sail, My Sail, Etc.
I just want to say goodbye so I can feel alive again It doesn’t matter if my ship is rusting I just want to feel alive again
But the sky’s all grey These clouds are brewing a storm And the raindrops are piercing through my skin, leaving marks of still burning love
I just want to say goodbye so I can be alive again Let go of the things that bind me to you— the moorings, the anchors, that got caught up on you
But it’s hard for me to lift just a foot away from you And the farthest I have gone is here, the place where you’ve left me off.
To retract is the only thing I can do right now, it’s just hard to move. I can see that your sail has already set but I’m still here, stuck, fixing my ship
I just want to say goodbye so I can be alive again Let go of the things that bind me to you— the moorings, the anchors, that got caught up on you. My moorings, my anchors, that got caught up on you. My moorings, my anchors, that you’ve finally set loose.
How could we insist on the persistence of a memory? When there’s so many things that easily slip through the cracks, carved by the sharp claws of forgetfulness? Vanishing without warning, like a thief in the night, or a firefly that has escaped your eyes. Why rely on ephemeral instances when there are things far restless and immortal than a mere piece of memory? Diamonds. And stones, and the sound of your ticking heart. Why, of all things then, a memory?
I don’t want to think about the ending. I am fully aware that my time with you is limited, but I don’t want to focus on what happens after everything has been said and done. Although, I can’t stop my mind from wandering. It’s sad isn’t it? Knowing how short our time together may be. To every end is a new beginning, but it’ll always be sad to say goodbye to something we’ve grown accustomed to. Whether it’s familiar faces or the places we’ve come to know at the back of our heads.
I don’t want this to end. Is that selfish of me? I’m afraid of what’ll happen after. No, afraid is a mere understatement. I am completely and utterly terrified of what’ll come next. How long will it be before it’s time to say goodbye to the people I’ve grown to love? When will I have to move on from this place I call home? What happens after my story is over?
I find myself pondering over these questions every day. It drives me crazy.
We arrive at the station, and this is your stop, not mine. Yet.
We have traveled a long ride together. And this is the time where the train stops for you, where the tracks hold the burden of such weight. I try to say goodbye, but the words fall apart inside my chest. You retrieve your luggage, it’s time to go, you’re all set. The sweat in my palms increase. Your palm-lines aren’t aligned with mine anymore. I try to wave goodbye, as you step out of the train, but even my hands are silenced of a sentence of farewell.
We arrive at the station, and now the train is ready to move, and you have already left, and I’m still here. I’m still here, as I move along to the course of these tracks.