The silent Mayhem of beautiful Minds

Never in his life, did he thought too much about romance, until he met this woman who made him wonder whether it’s hysteria or love. He debated his way out of this comedy in his head, thinking it’s impossible that it’s the latter.

No, how could it be?

How can someone you just met a few days make you feel heavy in your heart but ironically makes you want to feel the feel of it? He asked himself this question in his head while she talked about the book she was reading and threw some lame jokes he labeled as boring. Well, that’s just his way of teasing her—to battle against the strong wind that brings him closer to her, like she’s a destination. A place destined for him to live in, or perhaps maybe a home. But he fights it, he fights the urge to look at her more than just how he used to look at girls.

She rolled her eyes and turned her back as a sign of unspoken surrender of losing a debate with him. And then sighed a deep sigh for an ambiguous picture of a future together. With her right hand sandwiched between her right cheek and her soft comfy pillow, she looked past the window and wondered how many girls he had slept with. With his charm and wit, she bet he could’ve easily made his way through their hearts, like how he managed to do with hers.

But ofcourse she would never admit it, she was quite smart enough to know it’s wrong to tell him how safe and heavenly she felt sleeping next to him and observing how his soul of masculinity seemed to overpower his femininity—in the sexiest ways of humanness. No, it’s wrong, what if she scares him away?

She liked him, well, she likes him very much but she feared the idea that he doesn’t like him the way she does.

Little did she know, that he cogitated more than she did as he studies the artistic view of her naked flawless back when she turned around. He wondered how come he’s so drawn to her, not just with what her skin shouts, but more with the language her eyes speak that required neither words nor voice. He wanted to trace his fingers from the abstract beauty of her nape down to the edge of her spine to savor the perfection of it but hesitated for a split second because he thought he should just play it cool.

Or should he, really?

Would it hurt much if he would make an exception? He thought, maybe she wouldn’t mind so he stopped battling against it and moved as close as he can, spooned her with his warmth and breathed near the outlines of her left ear.

The hair of her skin stood like it’s being magnetized by a powerful invisible sense as he embraced her from behind. He whispered something to her but she didn’t mind listening—the beats of her heart was louder as it raced like there’s a zombie apocalypse, like she should run for her life, or should she?

Isn’t this moment something she would want to freeze if she could?

#fiction

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Wrote this at almost 2am here in Iceland, ugh I couldn’t sleep 😂

Love and Loss, Truth and the End (2)

img_3689He shrieked like a hungry baby. He knows it ain’t manly to do so but he knows no other strategy to make her feel a little bit of guilt and maybe just maybe, through his sobbing, she gets to realize that she couldn’t live without him—that his love is genuine, that he’s the one for her.

“Tell me, how can things have a meaning, if you’re not beside me all the time? I can’t picture you with another guy, no ugh I just can’t. Please just please, this time I’ll make things work. I promise you, I’ll be better. I’ll do everything to revive the love that died when I foolishly neglected you. Would you please give me another chance?”

She looked at him whilst he wept, waiting for a message from her heart, thinking maybe the act will somehow awaken the feelings that withered but there was nothing — all she felt was utter pity. He was pressing her hands, kissing the back of it. Like a puppy who finds a way so his owner won’t go to work and they could play all day, like a salesman who desperately asks a customer to buy his product. But it ain’t effective. Too much of emotions seems like a flood of disaster for her. She’s a strong independent woman who barely relied her happiness over someone. And this strategy of begging is just a huge turn-off. She allowed him to say please as many times as he wants, but it’s lucid to her that the word won’t change her mind.

“Everyone deserves a second chance. Even a man of infidelity could be given another chance by the woman who truly loves her. I want to follow this common notion but when I look at you now and I ask myself — is this the person I want to spend the rest of my life with? The answer is a NO. I’m not saying this to hurt you even more but sometimes we need to get smashed in the face by the truth than to forever suffer with a lie. Truth deepens the pain but a lie prolongs it. What do you prefer?”

He stopped crying when each word that came out of her lips stabbed him with no warning. Her confidence numbed his muscles he couldn’t seem to move. Some words got tattooed in his skin: love and loss, truth and the end. He knows that he won’t be able to get rid of these words just as much as he won’t be able to move on from her. He knew he took her for granted, because he thought it was okay for her — she never complained that much anyway. He lacked the initiative to communicate with her, he ignored the signs to feed her needs in the relationship. He was a fool to keep on takin’ but rarely givin’. He was stupid to think love is enough to keep her happy.

What do you think should the boy do? Should he insist and keep on saying please? Or should he let her go despite the fact that a life without her is a puzzle with a huge missing piece?

 

#fiction

 

 

 

The psychoweirdo’s voice

Do I really have to apologize for it? For being emotionally wrecked, for being entirely true to myself, for pursuing these sexual urges and for the poison in my head filled with strong trust issues? Do I have to abide by the rules of relationships and pretend to be the cool girl the society expects me to be? I ain’t doing that shit. I deserve to live by my own independent laws about how to have a full life. A life that won’t forbid me to do the things that satisfy my skin’s cravings for some touch. A kind of choice that eases the pain of being alone but I didn’t want that to last long, being with someone that is. It makes me feel ecstatic to be caressed by married men, by them bad guys who needed some punishment. But ironically speaking, I cringe to the idea of a long term bond, a serious relationship with only one man—it smells like a disastrous thought to begin with. I’ve always been true to myself but I’ve been lying to them for the most part. One of the most pretentious things I’ve ever done that I’m never guilty of is the lie that I had feelings for them. Ha ha! I’m a professional actress by nature. Most guys fall for my emotional acts, for the tears I faked before I would have to leave, for my big brown puppy eyes I was naturally blessed with that tickles their poor hearts. I ain’t sorry for them, I will never ever be. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate them, neither do I generalize men as playboys and idiots. Most of them are but I also would like to believe that there could be some who are decent enough to be loved. It’s just that, I don’t like the idea of it, of love that is. Of what the books have presented me, of what fairy tales have fooled me when I was little. Perhaps it’s not only that I don’t like it, I guess it’s merely because I haven’t really felt it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really kind and if it’s really patient, I wonder if it’s truly powerful.

Last night, I met this guy by the name of Robbie that I slept with almost a couple of weeks ago when I was in New York. I moved in to San Francisco now and I was surprised to see him seemingly lurking around the dark flashy bar I was in. I had a feeling he was there to see me but I brushed off that thought in me. When I see no signs of him, I hastily made my way out of the place and waved for a taxi. Just by the time I opened the cab door, he abruptly appeared out of nowhere and strongly grabbed me by the arm and apologized to the driver then shoo him away. I get off of his hand that was somehow stuck into my arm then looked at him puzzlingly.

He gestured me to follow him and we sat to the bench near the colorful fountain by the park. His dominance honestly turns me on but his silence irritates me so I broke it in a very calm way.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. Or maybe something.”

“Huh. What is it?”

“I lied to you.”

“About what?”

“I ain’t married.”

“So?”

“And you’re the first woman I ever slept with”

My mouth slightly opened with this surprising news but I still managed to maintain a poker face. I pretended I didn’t care and said,

“So?”

“I always see you there, in this bar in New York. I chatted with the bearded bartender once when you weren’t around and I asked about you. He told me this gossip that you only sleep with married men and bad boys, so I decided to pretend like one, I even wore a fake ring to make it look real. I had to do that so I could get closer to you, so I could ascertain what I feel for you.”

“Haha nice story. Go on.”

“The first time I saw you was one Tuesday evening, 11th of November. You were wearing that shiny silver plunging dress. I thought you were really gorgeous, like what everyone else thought in that place. But I didn’t want to sleep with you when I saw you that night. I just enjoyed watching you giggle with the guys you were flirting with, I even daydreamed of stealing you from them and talking to you alone by the beach. I went home with a huge smile on my face and it remained in there everytime you cross my mind. I don’t know what this is, but I’m certain that it’s not merely sex that I want from you.”

I suddenly felt a pinch in my soul, not because I believed him, but because for the first time ever, it sounded so real. I have somehow memorized how the bad guys behave, thus his actions are quite foreign to me. If he is not a bad guy, nor a married man, then what is he? A nice guy? Oh no. This ain’t possible. I’ve just broken the code of promise I made to myself.

I didn’t know what to say so I waited til he say something again.

“I’m not expecting you to believe me, but can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“Would you allow me to prove to you my pure intentions?”

“No. I’m sorry. But if you want, we can go to your place and have a really nice sex. But after that, you can’t see me again.”

I said it in a usual tone of voice of the Ash that I really am—the Ash that breaks men’s hearts. But for the first time in my life, I kind of regretted that I said those words to him.

“I’m sorry I can’t do that.”

“What is? The sex or the idea of not seeing me again?”

“Both. I’ll see you again soon and will ask you the same question over and over again until you say yes to it.”

He uttered calmly as he stood up from the bench and said goodbye. I contemplated about stopping him and following him but I stayed as composed as ever. I glued my eyes to him as he walk away from me, leaving me perplexed with the last words he just said. I never liked a good guy. And a good guy never liked my bold and liberating way of life. That’s ridiculous. What am I supposed to do with this?

#fiction

(This is in connection to my previous post A Psychoweirdo so I hope you read that one too. Thank you!)

To love and to unlove

After I decided to put an end to it, he couldn’t stop crying. It’s but a queer thing for a man like him to carelessly sob in front of a woman. He was the strong kind, he was in fact the bravest person I know. This time, however, he allowed his heart to overrule everything, he allowed it to be vulnerable, to be so weak in front of me. He couldn’t understand. He kept on asking me why, but I only gave him the common shitty excuse that I need to find myself. I didn’t look at his eyes when I said this because then he’d be able to figure that I’m lying. It’s unfair I know, but it will only hurt him more if he finds out the truth. I know deep within me the real reason why I have to leave—but I am aware too that it will only worsen the damage I will cause him, it will crush him into pieces and I can’t afford to see him break.

I thought it’d be easier to lie to him. I initially thought he’d just let me go, because he’s not the kind of man who would beg someone just to stay and he hasn’t expressed his love for me lately anyway. You know what’s true? That for almost three years, I felt like he forgot that I exist. I became his wife he would go to every night, eat the dinner I cooked for him, talk about his day ’til he falls asleep or even after we made love. It was mostly about him—about how he kicked ass in the courtroom, how he smoothly won a case, how good of a lawyer he is. I always listened, because I loved him and I do learn from him too. I offered him my heart with my eyes full of admiration for the passion he has towards his career. But rarely did he ask about how my day was.

I am a housewife with no kids, got an online shop and our dog Rafa who somehow eases the pain of being unappreciated. I left my parents in my hometown in Cebu and had to go with him in London and this is where we got married four years ago. I made a couple of friends from the neighborhood and we usually go out once or twice a week, sometimes bring our dogs to the park. Every time I text him I’m going out with Olivia and Tara, he would only say, OK have fun. He never asked where were we going, perhaps he didn’t care.

I woke up one morning feeling sorry for myself. For accepting the fate I chose when I decided to marry him. I cried endlessly and when I’m done, the way I looked at him has abruptly changed. When I first saw him, I fell hard in love for him. But my constant non existence to him consumed it, until nothing is left. I didn’t know it was possible. To love someone with no reason to begin with and to unlove someone in the process of knowing him. I don’t know if the word unlove has been registered yet in Oxford or in Google, but I don’t care, all I know is this is the perfect word that could delineate my current emotional state. I am leaving him not for somebody else, neither to find myself because I was never lost. I am still me, I still exist in my own eyes, but I am no longer happy to share “me” with him. I am not mad at him albeit my existence has been ignored and unappreciated. For I know that at some point, I also am to blame. Because I allowed him to treat me like this, because I wasn’t strong enough to voice out my disapproval or complaints. I am not the straight forward type, hence I let him figure out my dilemma but I failed. Guess he’s too busy to focus on what I’m thinking, on what’s bothering me.

You lose something when you don’t appreciate the value of it whilst you have it. You will only realize it’s pure worth once it’s gone. This is an old saying but it will always hit you deep within your skin. He begged me again for the nth time and it breaks me to see him like this, but I don’t want to live in a lie anymore. I let go of his arms entangled in my torso, he’s down on his knees, with his face glued to my belly, my shirt seemed to be dripping with his non-stop tears. I felt bad for how he looked like when I saw him but I couldn’t do this anymore. I started to leave and then he tried to stop me, but I stare him in the eyes that says, “I want to be free”. I subsequently closed the door behind without even a glance at him. I walked away forever and there’s no more turning back.

#fiction

(Photo credit to the owner)

Prisoner of a faulty love

I enjoy staring at you when you’re oblivious of my presence. It’s but a chance for me to study your face, to memorize each move, to hear the voices within you—they keep on telling me to leave you, but I used to ignore all of them.

And then you’d catch me staring—hence you’d give me that wonted nonchalant smile, the kind that is inexplicably bizarre to me. A kind of smile I couldn’t correctly decode, a kind of smile I succumbed into, when it first showed up, in that park where I met you.

I enjoy looking at you despite the fact that you wouldn’t do it to me the way i do. I stare at you as if I won’t see you again—’cause I know mornings with you is vague and uncertain.

Then last night you said, I can’t leave her. I shouted at you, cussed you, hurt you. But you put an end to the war I created, using the same line you just said in the beginning of it—I can’t leave her.

Why can’t you?

I asked this to you, but no words came out of me. This query seemed so heavy, my strength is not enough to say them clearly. It’s outright lucid to me, that I am that girl you would go to, just when you’re feeling blue.

But today something’s telling me how wrong this is.

I know…

I am that girl who patiently waits for you but it’s getting tedious.

I am that girl who listens to you when no one else could, but now it’s suffocating.

I am that girl who loves you despite your blemishes, but now it’s making me sick.

I whined for the things you should have done, I craved for the words you should have said. I kept on believing there could be a change. But there’s none, guess I was insane.

I was insane—for I hoped one day you look at me the way I look at you. But now that I’m staring at you, your body seemed to be telling me that there’s no way you would ever do.

I wished that maybe one day you’ll make me first. But your heart seemed to be telling me—I only fit to number two.

Been looking at you for almost an hour now and you’re sleeping like a baby–you’re fully incognizant of what’s going on my mind, of my plan to escape.

Been couple of years since you jailed me in this house, it’s shaky already, it’s no longer enough for me.

I thought to myself, it’s time to leave, ’cause I have to live.

To live normally, to love conventionally, to find someone else who could make me his top priority.

I silently opened the drawer, picked up that old sepia colored piece of paper, wrote a five word message that said, “I deserve better than this.”

I put the note in our bed, at the side I usually slept in whenever he’s here.

I hurriedly packed my things, with no more thinking, no more hesitating.

I went to the door carrying a heart that’s crushing, trying to stop the tears from bursting, persuading my whole being to never look back again.

Before I could manage to close the door, before I reward myself of such freedom, I looked at him one last time.

In my head, I thanked him. I wouldn’t be able to know my worth if I didn’t let it melt with his hands, if I didn’t give my all to him.

I lost myself in the bed of this wrong love. I lost everything and that’s when I figured it’s time to flee.

Just like realizing one’s importance, not by its presence, but by the mere absence of it.