Dear C., (from the white room)

Are we closer or farther now compared to where we were at first?

I found myself drifting back and forth between ‘closer’ and ‘farther’ a lot. Sometimes if you just touched my neck a dash longer I would enfold you so invasively your veins would merge with mine and our blood would flow for us both. And your light would squirm within us and my air would penetrate our frames simultaneously. And I would just melt in this voracious embrace, vacuum-wrapped in contentment.

Some other times I wish I could, with a razor, scrape you off my brain. I would make a deep incision from my ear across my neck, and another from my pinky finger across my wrist. I would drain my blood, thrash my lungs, exhaust my air, pull all of my organs out to make sure there would be no trace of you inside. Then I would ablate my skin and crush my bone. The erasure of you would make my vanishing an incomparable rapture.

You see my dilemma? My affection for you suffocates me, but I reckon dying because of you is just… irrelevant. And stupid. I don’t want to do things in these categories. But it’s really unbearable, this stoic distort of devotion for you. So I resorted to what I did fifty-seven months ago. And I haven’t budged since then.

But now, C., I need to break this stagnation. Why now? There’s this strange sound only audible when the cat stops meowing. I’ve been hearing it fifty-seven months straight and it has been tolerable. But around nine months ago it became insufferable. I thought and thought and thought, and failed and failed and failed to understand why. Now I know C., the sound was unendurable for me now because it stopped. My only link to you ceases to connect. I can’t stand it C. I must find it again. To find you again.

I will budge now.

C.

Where are you?

Surpressed

The sun goes down behind her ears. On the ground, her silhouette stretches. As it reaches the door, it jerks broken and sticks up vertically. It looks fragile.

She stands still

as she waits for the breaking sound of a drum. 

Beloved

DEATH
Once in her dreams she swore to me
If once she’d be loved
If once a man could give his soul for her heart
She would be mine.

Time passing by, she fell in love
Out of thousands fellows, she chose
A lad of no soul
The prince charming who would never understand love

They carried her away with flowers
Saying she’d rest in peace
But for ever she’d wander in hatred
Beautiful self deceiver.

 

GHOST
Every night I came to you
Covering your body with love
I could give you my existence – the truest
But you didn’t want that, did you?

Time passing by you found a man, you believed, perfect
He took you, and your love, like soil
Then you, yourself, ground it
I could die again of that sorrow

You had gone today to the land of hatred
Wandering forever in timeless gloom
Broken, lonely and faded
Could you ever cure your bleeding wound?

 

SHE
I felt your affection every night
On my body, in my heart
I wanted to spend my life for the search
Of you

I felt you cold, but inside you must be warm-hearted
It was you. It must be you.
But you didn’t love, you invaded.
Didn’t you have a soul?

I die, for no longer did I crave for love
Nor life
But once my loathing drained – it would
I’d come back
Surprise!

The box and the candy

It was towards the end of a yellow afternoon that the candy died in the box. Painlessly, very slowly, death wrapped the candy in some form of transparency so that the candy was still visible but no longer perceptible.

The box lost its perception of the candy. Before, it was hollow without something and now it was hollow with it. The cubic cavity had changed in a way the box did not know how to deal with or what to do with itself.

Sculpting

A man sculpts dolor into a figure. As it needs three more strokes to complete he stops, thinking: “If I finish this I’ll die of sorrow.” He leaves the chisel and the mallet with the figure and goes out to think more.

Done with thinking, he comes back, wraps the figure in a piece of cloth until its outline does not show clearly anymore.

With the figure imprint in his head, he starts talking to the package as if it were totally different to the thing in his mind. He says when he was born he felt really light and the world really heavy so it sank and it just kept sinking. He says if you swallowed a coin it would get stuck in the throat and the taste of metal was really weird and if you managed to take the coin out the smell would still plug your throat. He cries a little when he says those things, like he’d cry sometimes when he carved the anguish.

Closing his eyes, he unwraps the cloth. As he touches the figure he gropes around for his chisel and mallet, looks to find where he has last stricken, takes a breath, opens his eyes quickly to strike again and close them immediately. In only a fraction of a moment still the pain stings him here and there. He wraps it again.

Now that the figure has faded a bit more while the new trike has not totally registered, he talks to the package again. This time he talks about the stray dog that followed him for food, when crossing the street was knocked dead; he buried it, and after that he still fed stray dogs but would throw stuff at them to shoo them away. He talks about the time he ate so much crab soup with salted garden egg that he had diarrhea the whole evening and it felt like his intestines all ruptured but afterwards as he thought about it he did not scare but would still long for crab soup and salted garden egg. He smiles.

Again he closes his eyes and undo the cloth. As he feels the figure he finds the new mark, visualizes it, grabs the tools, and strikes anew without opening his eyes. The mallet hits the chisel, hits his thumb too. It hurts so much he goes numb. He drops the tools, grips the figure for his body to loosen. Then he swathes it again. As the figure emerges from rawness the frequency of thumb hitting increases so much it has deformed the finger; one more blow isn’t that big a deal.

Now, neither of the strikes is as clear as the figure. So he says that he has wanted to break it into two. Prop it with the biggest stool, use the longest chisel and the heaviest mallet, hit it hard. Swift, focused, sharp, the strike would not break it but simply divide it into two. In fact he is going to do it now. He puts it on the biggest stool, brings around the longest chisel and the heaviest mallet. He undoes the cloth. The more the figure emerges, the less air he can keep inside of him. Even with his eyes closed he still “sees” the figure sucking him in. He unravels it hastily, points the chisel on its top, raises the mallet. He opens his eyes. In no doubt of the spot nor of the figure, with all strength left within, he hammers down.

The figure bounces up. The mallet hits his hand making a cracking sound, then plows into the stool in a short “phubp”. The figure falls to the ground. There it trundles, and it rolls away, and it keeps rolling.

When the figure stops, a tramp upon seeing it picks it up to look closer. Unable to work out what it is, he however suddenly feels at the same time extremely excited and tremendously angry; his left and right selves simultaneously shook hands with and charged him. Indecisive between the impulses, holding the figure with one hand he lances the other furiously, walking with one leg he jerks the other uncontrollably, and he shouts, and he laughs. In a second of tranced conflict, he drops the figure. It falls to the ground and breaks in two. In the middle of the white thing there is a black substance similar to dust. The tramp looks at the broken halves almost identical in size, breathing heavily. Air rushes out of him by lumpy masses.

Under the water near a deep hole

A man found Utopia.

The sound of Utopia resonated with memories of a big green leaf whose surface was shone through by different lights, whose stem as hard as steel perforated his right eye and grew through his left cheek, twisting down his throat, protruding on the left of his Adam’s apple then stretched down his larynx, piercing his diaphragm to his abdomen, jutted out the second time between his navel and penis – this time crawled along the outside of his right thigh until it penetrated again above his knee just to stick out from its inner side and impaled his left thigh. With his right eye he looked up at the green shade. Clear fluid ran in its veins.

The color of Utopia crept around his body, slowly on his back, at speed around his groin, posthaste across his eyes so that all he could see was a nebulous, disintegrated glow of something very much like a furry centipede whose many legs at every touch on his skin left a fragment of color enough for him to know it was a color yet too little to identify. It marked on the back of his eyes a turbulently bright dot around which he could see eternity – colorless, dimensionless, bottomless, with not so much as another pixel of light except the center dot. With his breath he followed the centipede. Its motion drew warm lines.

The sensation of Utopia pressed his heart between two fanlike screens, one of them elastic so that the pulsation could take place and each time his heart did so a current of pain broke into his vessels and spread to every corners of his body. His bones fractured. His ribs twinged. His crotch cramped. His guts squirmed. His fingers stung. His tongue swelled up. His scalp fissured. As the pain receded his body loosened shortly until the next wave came to shatter what had just been assembled. He felt without understanding the pain. All he recognized were pauses that deepened a kind of placidity in him, synchronized his awareness with nothingness, enveloped his being in disappearance.

Whether Utopia opened the door for him or as he found it he did it himself, he did not know but as he dissolved in it he smiled like he had never comprehended anything from when he had been born but this innate happiness.

Note from the verge of my grave

Dear S.,

I still owe you $2.18 as my part of breakfast the other day – you paid for both and I forgot to pay you back. I remember it just now. I expected to reminisce stuff like how i first managed to bike or the “I love you”-not-after-fuck, you name them. Yet I remember that i still owe you $2.18 and it doesn’t seem to go away. There goes my last dozen of seconds of breathing and everything. Damn.

By the way, I notice today that when my cat bites my mom, she feeds it. She explains the act as “to stop it from biting”. But you know what Pavlov says. No wonders the damn cat keeps biting. Nevamind it now though.

So S., when did you know for fact that I was incurable? When I told you the bleeding wouldn’t stop even they removed my uterus? Or when they did so with the ovaries already? You’re cool, like knowing stuff and everything. I remember you said “Oh really?” and I was like “You fucking twerp, that’s all you can say?” – only in my head though, I was so relieved that you said so, I mean you being you and not like people who would fucking say things like “It’ll work this time, don’t worry.” If even you would say so I would have given up the last particle of hope and just had myself right then for my own sake. So you kept me alive for sometimes. A bit dragging I have to say, but still alive. I’d give you a kiss for that. Or a bear hug. Want one now?

They talk about the sky S., now I know why, cuz that’s all they can see. It’s blue today. Like your eyes. I like your eyes.

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