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Advent Feb 10
I’m writing in memory of your beautiful skin. I’m writing to profess my obsession, in admittance, and also for your knowledge, how your flesh makes me mad. Mad at you and those around you who get to have a glimpse, a touch―even the softest, most placid contact of the husk of your core, your bloodstreams, of your entrails.

I write for you to understand that your skin is the only skin I want to touch, to watch at night, resting. And I’m also writing for your appreciation―which I don’t think you will―that these are the things I think of when I’m with you even during the briefest moments we spend together; that there will always―for always―a feeling of admiration while you’re standing next to me, arm on my shoulders or when your hand is on my thigh.

Sense of touch is one of my weaknesses, and one could only imagine the faint in my heart everytime we brush against each other. Even the littlest and the most innocent touch there is. I am also guilty of being infatuated in our fondling, your caress, and your sense of being-there. And I don’t know how to make sense out of it. This craze is almost like a delusion that is outside of my circle, unprecedented. Your flesh and its texture. I love it. I love it so much. I love you so much.

It’s making me sick.

Advent Feb 8
I feel like a sick lady waiting for well wishes from my sisses and mates. I’ve been a giver and a settler and in three weeks, I found myself hanging in between. And now here I am, in my sickbed crying for attention— living in this pocket-sized, time-filler, slick box for most of my days just prying on everybody else’s lives to check how incomparable it is to live a life less like mine.

Everyday at five, the sun sets, overshadowing the blue sky with soft transitions of reds and oranges. And just right before I knew it days, weeks have already gone by. I found myself with nothing but dull empathy and collective misery. I re-spiraled down to the mantle of my being until it hit me— attention is cheap, but intention is gold. And I have wasted so much time, so much time, chasing the idea of perfect romance from the most impossible people. It made me worry, too, on how bad I have been in making decisions just to curtly satisfy my longing for any human who can provide even the slightest damp on my cold skin.

I’m not trying to compose a self-help quotable narrative nor ****-**** essay about self-love. I have stripped off the idea of 1-2-3s, of healthy coping mechanisms, of capturing perfect moments from the most mediocre, mundane fragments of life during my trying times. These past few encounters have been merely playdates and guessing games where I’ve lost sight of innocence and sincerity, making it hard for me to differentiate temporariness with permanence. And knowing kindness with or without an agenda is like a cloud in my head. Therefore, throughout these years, the flowers I planted have slowly wilted under the shade of infinite uncertainties. I have lost the love I was willing to give, and I can’t help but think that romance is not for me. I’m tired of giving and losing; I have given up moving mountains and breaking walls just to find myself being stabbed for being too much. From this day on, I am going to be me, with me. A bloke. A woman—alone in a swarm of parasites and flock of birds. A strong, pragmatic, detached woman in this horrifying epic journey of self-salvation.

Advent Feb 8
We were standing against the railing of a balcony somewhere before the ocean, standing under the dusk of good night’s sky. The quiet air, moving past our faces, hair blowing, fills the dead atmosphere in between the silence that clears the solitary moment. I reached for your tiny fingers as I shiver in the cold. But only the coldness of the midnight tickled me. My smile turned to a frown then I turned my back on the shore.

I wish you’d come back.

Advent Feb 8
Your beauty is like the smoke I puff on a Sunday afternoon after all the dandelions fly their way up―visible and infinite. Imagine it on an island while you chase the light right above the ocean. And I’ll be seated, watching your hips sway, realizing that you’re too good for me.

Advent Feb 8
She starts with a ‘you’ and they start with a beauty of something that’s new. She starts with ‘sometimes’ and they start with probabilities that are perhaps more valid. She keeps asking ‘why’ while they are always sure what’s been written. Well, I say, we’ve different point of views and hers’s a lot deeper than what’s on your mind.

Advent Feb 8
You–I, saw the world. The allegiance of mankind to rising of the sun. The treachery of actions to life. We shared spectacles of the remote lands atop mountains and boulders. Butterfly kisses made us weak, hushed promises and dreams made us vulnerable, and nape grabs always led your lips on mine.

You–I, we were one of a kind, self-aware, and spirited. You learned to thirst for open air and I also buried myself in your cosmos of black and white–of objectivity, ambitions, and pursuit of balance. We embraced one another’s quirks and differences.

You–I, were each other’s halves. We’re individuals almost equivalent to each other. Our souls met halfway as there were no words, definitely no words, left unsaid even through the darkest or littlest bickers we’ve had. Everything was real and translucent. We saw through each other, effortlessly. And everything wasn’t so bad.

We were us, together. With our dreams and aspirations. And as a team, we almost perfected compromise. Trying closely to weigh the good and bad banking on our values, beliefs, and priorities.

Until finally, we surrendered to our fragmented relationship and irreconcilable differences which made us grew better together and apart.

And maybe, that’s why we broke up.

Advent Feb 8
You’re sad. And sadness, well, it’s characterized by negative circumstances in your life. But have ever thought about it? How the brain controls emotions? How the brain, literally, controls every reception in our body?

Loss of a family member, of a special someone, disappointment over your colleague–everything that happens in our world is purely information. And our brain decides how to react on it. I am sad, you are sad, he is sad. Everyone feels the same, though never exactly on the same degree. But the point is everyone endures feelings because our mind tells us to. And sometimes your brain will fail you and would you ever know why? Why the system of the neurons rewiring in your head suddenly choose to break you? As much as you want to be in control, it’s hard and it’s a process. But thinking about it, isn’t magical? How the brain controls your decisions and suddenly your entire life?

But remember, you’re just a science in this world. We all are. You’re a walking anatomy of cell tissues. A speck of humanity sitting in corners. Unnoticed and insignificant. You’ve read books about philosophy of mankind, of intangible things, of excruciating norms. But the mind could only absorb what you feed. Now I’m asking, how do we take control? Our emotions? Our tendencies to reciprocate what’s unworthy? How do we justify the unthinkable? Art? How do we take control of our lives? Faith is a good concept but aren’t we just a product of science–science of pumping blood and adrenaline glands? Science of DNAs and reproductive system? Bottom line is, mortality is cruel. And all our stories end in one–death, decomposition, and a life untold.

So try not to be sad. Try to take control of your feelings. Take over your ******* brain–your freaking hypothalamus. Because in years time, eventually we’ll crumble in the ground. And we won’t remember a thing, memories happy or sad.

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