I bite my fingernails.

Down to the quick. This is an important piece of information, because it is the only reason my palms are not bleeding right now. I’ve been clenching my fists way too hard for way too long, trying desperately to hold on to the things I want.

But I’m letting go now. I think it’s time I admit my loss of control to myself. I can’t believe I’m picking a lesson out of a Sandra Bullock movie, but I’m going to control what I can and let everything else be. Let things go and see if they still remain. If they do, well and good. If not, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

Yes, this probably means the neurosis will grow even more. I’ll probably chew on my nails more fervently than before. But this is necessary. Self-preservation. Maintenance of sanity.

One thing’s for sure though. No matter what happens, I’ll see you on the other side of it. Irrespective of where that may be.

There's a reason they call it Chodafone

I usually rant about this on Twitter, but since I never get the chance to do so when this thought enters my head, I decided to do it here, now, before I forget.

Dear Vodafone GPRS, I've always been curious. What do donkey balls taste like? Seeing how you suck on them so often and all? Do let me know. Kthxbai.

Depression

It's an odd thing, really. I bought her that chocolate she likes so much, that Rum n' Raisins one. Because I figured, you know, feel-good hormones and all that.

She smiled sadly and said, "Not enough rum."

There, I fixed it.

Somehow, he managed to park the car straight. He got out, swaying like an axe-worn tree that couldn't quite decide if it was ready to topple yet. Held an arm out and steadied himself against the wall.

Bucket.
Water.
Cloth.

must get rid of. little pink bits. light is busted. fuck it.

He giggled a little. Cried a lot.

Thankfully, he made it to the commode before ritually throwing up, following which, he collapsed into bed with one shoe still on.

Breakfast was silent as usual. He cleared his throat and hid behind a glass of orange juice.

"So, um, Ma. I may have been a little drunk last night."

My humble contribution to a meme.

Your childhood will haunt you. Forever.

Even when he's 40 years old, in a perfectly empty bus, a man will shy away from a seat marked 'Ladies'.

Why?

Because he still remembers the taunt, "What, are you a girl or something?"

Orange clutched the robes of grey. Said, "You won't stop me anymore."

Morning broke.

The worst feeling in the world

It's only been about a couple of minutes, but it feels like hours. Your lungs are screaming, but your brain isn't listening. It's gone dull. Forgotten what it's supposed to do. It's registering nothing but the dull throb of dirty, black blood trudging through it like sludge. There are dark spots in the corners of your vision. You're panicking, but you don't know why and you don't know what to do about it.

Then suddenly, it's over. Out of the blue, you remember how to breathe. It's a beautiful sensation. It's like the stroke of dawn, when the sun's first ray breaks over the horizon, slowly painting everything it touches. It seeps colour into a monochrome world. Everything changes, shadows disappear. The memory of great, big gulps of air returns to your lungs. And you follow that memory, mimicking it.

Except you're underwater and it's dark.

That feeling you just felt? It's nothing. Nothing.
Compared to the worst feeling in the world.

This one’s been in my head for almost a month now. I’d roughly converted it into a 1000-odd word story that needed a lot of polishing, but then realised that I was complicating something that, at its heart, was a very simple idea. Hence, here it is, in original form.

Unplug

Welcome back, folks. I’m here again, except I don’t quite think the guy who came back is the same one who left a week or so ago.

I’ve had a rare chance over the past few days to simply unplug. To walk away from my life, almost in its entirety, and look at it from a distance. It’s a beautiful gift, I tell you, an opportunity like this. Do it every once in a while. Forget the little things that make up your day, forget the mundane worries that fill every spare moment between dusk and dawn. Look at your life, not as a set of tasks that need completing, but as the beautiful, huge image on the jigsaw puzzle it forms.

I almost lost myself this past week. To myself. To anonymity. To solitude. To sadness. Away from almost everything and everywhere that I have to deal with on a daily basis, I was dangerously free. Untethered. Unanchored.

And a four-year-old brought me back. She and her six-year-old sister made me see what I wanted. Everything is so simple now. So clear.

 

All of you, do this. Just for a while, unplug from your life. Walk away from it. That way, when you turn around, you’ll see the reason to walk back to it shining brightly at you, clearer than ever before.

Blogger's Note

Clearly, this blog is going through a majorly emo phase. Pliss to be excusing.

Actually, you know what? I take that back. Whatever brings me back to writing, I guess. There may be a short interval as I shall be off in the town of getting laid often (without getting any, if I may add). To that end, this blog will now see you in the new year.

At that point, we shall look back at the dismal 34 posts that this year has seen, and attempt to top that number before the first three months are out.

Wait, don't look now, but I think I just made a plan, there.

Anyhoo. G'morning, folks. See you in the new.

(Points to people who guess the place I'm going to without already knowing. You have won your freedom, yo.)

Smile at me again, why don't you?
I'm not cut deep enough, yet.

Pyromaniac's Paradox

In the heart of the flame,
I watch myself burn,
and it makes me smile.
But I know, very soon,
the emptiness inside
will return.

The demon blog-eater was going to snatch this one up. I decided against it. And clearly, I'm back to my bad-poetry self. Whoopee! Does this mark the return of jhayu the blogger? We shall soon see.

Unmasking

They found him dead in his bed. Natural causes, as far as the doctors could tell. No one knew he wasn’t well.

They grieved for him silently for the most part, once the initial shock wore off. Each in their own way. Slowly, as the news spread, people trickled in. At first, it was just family and close friends, then in large groups, acquaintances, old flames, college classmates. So many people remembered him; a kind word, a helping hand.

The memorial was beautiful. Some were weeping, but only silently. Everyone remembered and tried to respect his well-known wish: Smile at my funeral. Dozens of them spoke, telling of how he touched their lives, selflessly. Made them realise what it was they wanted to do with their lives. How his smile had moved them all so deeply. How he’d always been laughing, always trying to make everyone smile.
Towards the end of the ceremony, just as people were about to leave, his lawyers walked in. Said they needed everyone, just about everyone to stay. Apparently, he’d left a message for them all. A video tape, with the explicit instructions that it be shown to everyone who came.

A large television set was arranged for, and the tape pushed into the VCR. An expectant crowd leaned forwards; some anticipating a reading of his will, wondering what he’d left them; others simply curious to know what he could have known he wanted to say to them even before his death.

Static. Then a hand moving away from the screen as the camera was turned on. And there he was, sitting on a simple chair, smiling calmly like he always had. To many, it seemed at the time as if the dreaded event had never happened, as if he were just somewhere else, talking to them all via video conference or something. And then he started talking.

If you’re seeing this, I’m dead. Heh. I’ve always wanted to say that. I hope you idiots aren’t all dressed in black, weeping around an open coffin draped in flowers. I sure as shit hope to God not.

Now, some of you are expecting me to start reading out which of my ample worldly possessions go to whom, and I’ve got a good feeling I know who you all are, too. Well, tough shit. My lawyers will do that in private, later. But I respect the fact that you’re here, eagerly listening, sitting at the edges of your seats, barely able to conceal your greed behind what is now your rapidly fading glee.

No, that’s not what this tape is for. This tape is so that those of you that have the wrong impression of me get the story straight. I know some of you would have eulogised me, said lovely things about me. Mary, I bet you told everyone the story of how we met. And Paul, how we built that treehouse one summer and I taught you how to hammer a nail in straight. I bet you all said how you really enjoyed all my annoying habits and that as you now realise, much too late, that’s the reason you loved me.

Well, this message is for all of you so that the record’s set straight. I hate myself. I always have. I couldn’t stand my guts and I don’t know how you idiots did. Mary, I cheated on you. Thrice. Once with your sister. I’ve done things that would make you people look back at me and ask yourselves if you ever knew me at all.

And the answer is no. You didn’t. No one did. And that’s why you liked me. And that’s why I hated myself. Because I knew me. And that’s why I’m in that coffin. You cannot imagine the relief I’m feeling as I tell you this. Good bye, and good riddance.

Static.

And silence.

How Messiahs Are Born

The Dreamcatchers come around everyday.

They're there, at my door, every morning, in their pink and blue suits and large, yellow-rimmed sunglasses. I never understood the sunglasses; it's only about 7:30 in the morning. I think they have microcamera screens on the lenses to help them see the fragments of dreams hanging in the air around us. Did you know pink and blue are relaxing colours in the morning? The State told us. They saw it in our dreams.

Ever since Executive Decision 47065B, our dreams are property of The State. They're collected so that The State knows what the people hope and dream for and can give it to us. That's what all the campaign commercials said. So yeah, they give the people what they really, truly want. And they'd know, right? They have the only copies of our dreams.

They come in your door, bright and early; right after you wake up. I guess they have advanced sensors that tell them when we've gotten out of bed. The Dreamcatcher Wands don't hurt. They wave them through the air around our heads, and the blinking blue lights help us relax while they suck the few remaining shards of dreams out of our peripheral memory. The State tells us that The Wands are like vaccuum cleaners for our brains. Just as safe, too.

Don't tell anyone this, but I don't trust The State. That's why I have this plan, see? I've figured a way to get around The Dreamcatchers. And they'll never find out.



You see, I have a dream diary.


Sshhh!