I'll forgive the two of you for taking my favorite spot in the lagoon
if you forgive me for being a witness to your intimate moments.
You're probably oblivious to the fact that
the sky is cloudy but still beautiful,
the leaves on the trees are undisturbed by the wind,
the grass is wet and fresh from the glorious drizzle
(you can thank me for that shower - it always rains on me,
and it so happened you're within my 50-meter radius),
and that a lovely melody is being played by the Carillon's bells,
considering you can only see each other's eyes,
hear each other's murmurs,
taste each other's sweetness,
feel the blood rushing and pounding in your veins
(and god knows what else).
I sure hope it lasts for you both
and that I can forgive myself for writing like a terminally-lovesick puppydog.

After temporarily dropping out of the rat race,
I've decided to be a rat again (as a friend put it).
I still hate life in the sewers and
I would still rather play in the rice fields,
but sooner or later I would have to
go back to the dark, filthy, disgusting world below,
if only to try and make it brighter, pure and wonderful.
(I didn't know rats could wear rose-colored glasses.)

* * *

So here I am at someone's (actually, no one's, I think) desk
trying to pass the time.
(Why is it that few employers think unemployed people's time is gold?)
Controlling and condensing and 'concretizing' my thoughts seem to be
the most worthwhile thing to do right now.
(I forgot to bring any of my untouched Time and Newsweek special editions.

* * *

On a cab on my way here (I still haven't gotten rid of my awful habit of being late - but lately
I've been beating the clock, and with time to spare.)
it just came to me that most, if not all,
people spend so much money, time and effort
chasing after unknown things in the pursuit of hapiness
(hapiness which is not guaranteed, at that).
In my case, a job, the result of which, I know, would rarely result in bliss.
In other and even sadder cases, "love."
Why do people go around throwing tons of stones
just to try to shoot a single bird
which would die and be useless anyway after it's been shot?
(I really should remember to bring something to read the next time
a potential employer tells me the interview is at 10 a.m. and then talks with me two hours later
- for 10 minutes.)

I want to write.
Contrary to popular belief,
that statement coming from me is something new.
Sure, I like to think of myself as a writer.
But this is different.
I don't feel like I have to deliver or
give birth to a certain idea.
Not at all.
I just can't get the feeling of this particular
ballpoint pen gliding through this lined sheet of paper out of my mind.
Smooth. I love it.

Never has blank paper and ink in a piece of plastic been so appealing to me.
I just want to write even though I don't even know what to say.
I don't want to just doodle - so many things don't make sense as it is.
I don't want to contribute another nonsensical piece of crap
to all the bullshit that's already going around.
But am I even making sense?
For all I know
I'm full of crap.
I'm not even sure I have a point.
I just love the feel of this particular ballpoint pen
gliding through this smooth lined sheet of paper.

5 a.m. and here I am sitting up in bed
writing about a damn pen and a sheet of paper.
Maybe it's lack of sleep.
All these sleepless nights finally taking its toll
on my abused brain cells.
Brain cells. I love those words.
I just like the feel of this ballpoint pen...you know the rest.
If only I were as sure about everything
as I am sure I'm enjoying putting this pen to this paper.
Am I still making sense?
Did I make sense in the first place?

Maybe I'll take Tatie's advice (to himself):
"Do not worry. You have always written before and
you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence.
Write the truest sentence that you know."
Okay, I'll try that. Let me see...
I don't know what I want.
That is so true, and I've known that for quite some time
but I have to admit it's different when that true sentence
is in black and white (and blue-green and red) and
is staring at me right in the face.
But, at least, I think I do know what I don't want.

What else do I know to be true? (This is tough.)
I don't really want to think anymore.
I just want to write. Just write.
I'm afraid that if I start to think too much again
I would feel sad and lonely and alone.
My hormones have been blamed too much already
(whether unjustly or not).
But could it be that loneliness is also making my hormones go haywire?
Would there be a plausible explanation for that?
I just realized that true sentences could be therapeutic.
I should remind myself that I (and every one else) am not alone.

I may, for some reason unknown to me, feel lonely.
But I am not alone.
Get that? Get that? Get that?!?
I may not have lots of things, but it's only because
I'm unsure of what I want and therefore can't
go after anything. I do work best when I have a goal to focus on.
Sort of something short of a tunnel vision.
Unfortunately for me, I'm not even sure
I want to want the things I think I want.
Like...the usual things.
I can't even bring myself to write them down (the chicken shit in me).

For pity's sake!
I just wanted the feel of this ballpoint pen gliding through
this smooth lined sheet of paper!
Now I'm thinking again!
There's no escaping it, is there?
Even when I lie in bed trying to sleep, I start to think.
Don't get me wrong, I happen to like my mind, for all its neuroses.
It's just that thinking gets too taxing and frustrating and
frightening sometimes because I start to worry.
Live for the moment (and don't mind the past and don't worry about the future).
That's another one of the truest sentences that I know.

Imagine how many pages I'd fill if I acted on the urge
to try my other pen and my pencil. I shudder at the thought.
If only I would be satisfied with doodling.
But no. So I have to restrain myself and be content with
the nice feel of this ballpoint pen...I'm sure you know the rest.
I'll try the other pen and the pencil some other time.
Will there even be another time when I'd feel compelled
to put pen (or pencil) to paper just for the sake of doing so?
"All there is is love" is, I think, the truest sentence I know.
I think I've run out of "truest sentences" (for now, at least)
and I've had enough of the feel of this ballpoint pen...you know.
Thank God.

Morbid.
Draw up your will - even if only in your mind.
You might not have much time left.
You're brilliant, talented, gorgeous, young and healthy
but for some reason you might not have much time left.

Scared.
Where would you be ten years from now?
What would you be doing then?
Who would you be with (would you even be with anyone at all?)?
What would have become of you?

Chicken shit.

You feed your every emotion like it's a ravenous animal.
I squash mine like it's an annoying bug.
If an emotional person says he's pathetic for feeling something like that, isn't it natural
for a rational being (like me) to try to make things better by getting to the bottom of a "feeling"?
I forgot that all you asked me to do was listen.

How you do run on.
Even if it doesn't seem to match with mine, I do try
to take the wheel from you - to no avail.
A "pact" of any sort won't work
because I can't just listen forever.

We do a great job of setting aside our subjectivity
to look at things from each other's point of view.
I think that's one of the reasons why
every encounter is so enriching and fulfilling.
Somehow we help each other listen to our own selves.

Even though we don't talk, almost all of your words touch me.
We're two different people from two different places doing different things - or so it seems.
I guess that adds to the incredibility of this connection to you that I feel.
Will I always be in awe when I listen to you?

There it goes again.
The urge to touch the soundwaves generated by the machine
that's playing the cd in which your voice is recorded.
If only I could
catch that part of the air that is ethereal that is your voice.

i have got to learn to let things go.
stop being such a control freak (when it comes to certain things).
the Universe will take care of me.
my questions will be answered in due time.

without warning
whatever flimsy thread that connects me with
everything good and noble and peaceful
snapped.
i suddenly felt alone.
i am not alone.
am i miserable?
(i cannot let myself admit i am miserable)
i am NOT miserable.
would it be fair if i blamed all these on that damn song?

Even before the week started I sensed that the theme of the following days is "urgency."
Here I go again with the seemingly constant battle
between toughness and meekness;
between being assertive and being quiet.
Should I attack, run everybody down,
eat them alive? or reflect/meditate, turn to Myself?
I wish I were without question the
complicated, domineering, uncompromising, pigheaded, brilliant type.
Complicated I am, which is why this is an issue in the first place.
Brilliant I am, because I know Balance is the key (which I am still
trying to find).

I usually momentarily forget things that I already
realized are important (to me). I can just laugh when I remember them (again) because
such forgetfulness shows
I have a lot of catching up to do with ME.