Friday, August 12, 2011

What A Delightful Friday

What a Delightful Friday.

Within the only context that i am familiar with, or used to, this day, so far, has been delightful. Delightful is delightful.

A handful of delightful.

A delight to the sight.

Obviously, the sun is shining and i am liking it.

How I Write

How i write.

Normally -or times when i feel normal, i bleed then use the blood to write. Or i cry then use tears to make my pen work.

Classy.

Now when i bleed or cry, i use a keyboard to write.

Nonsense. So here i shall describe the many useless things i do before i finally publish a post, which i always like to read and go over again.

On my ipod, using the notes app, i write the blurbs, words, things that keep me awake at night. It is practically like scraping sediments off the bottom and sides of a very old, rusty watering can with a spoon, then thinking about what to do with the gunk afterwards. These bits of words, these ideas that make sense only to me (of course), this pile of muddy, sandy, blackish ick, usually end up getting pushed in between paragraphs and, indirectly, help me settle my mind. The paragraphs i don't need to be consistent with each other, nor helpful to anyone else' well-being but my own, since Im the worst insomniac that i know and I have problems i need to resolve.

And i don't mind having an online showcase for a diary. I cannot explain why nor how i want to be read and yet not be spontaneously relating scandalous engagements -because i could, but i just cant.

So i scramble the tidbits into a mush, and form paragraphs out of it. However crudely I've made the paragraphs, it doesn't matter -spellcheck irons them out.

Then click+hold; choose copy; press Home button; open Productivity folder; open Pages app; click+hold; choose paste. Then all the misspelled words are underlined red; i edit the spelling a.k.a. change 'im' to 'I'm', etc.

Why i don't write directly with the Pages app is a ritual. I just need to use the Notes app first. Im now boring you, unwary reader.

Then i open a blogging app, paste what I've done on Pages, then i publish it.

Then i read it after publishing it.

Again, i cant just go directly to the blogger app, in spite of it being made for writing, editing and publishing. I have to have my useless process.

I have the same ritual when using the PC to post: Notepad, Word then Chrome (to go to blogger.com).

Absolute nonsense.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

3, Almost 4.

3, almost 4.

Hours.

Still good for an insomniac, i guess. I slept late, and got little, and cant go back. Because i don't feel like getting more. From the moment i awoke, dozing off is the last thing i would want to do.

I think my writing is suffering. My fingers are lazier, heavier. And my head cant be any cloudier. This post is bad, but i don't want to waste the mood i got off the lack of sleep. Also, my brain needs some jumping, i feel its jammed. All things considered, i feel terrible.

I feel terrible that even sunshine -gilded sheets of glorious silk, made me feel like bitching early in the morning. I have gotten worse. Maybe sleep is that important.

And no one is helping me get over my angst. People are either busy or not talking to me. This small paper I'm writing is all i have right now. But I'm not about to pat myself on the back or kiss myself.

I feel bad, like a piston seeded with gravel and mud; like cogs stuck with chicken heads. Like nothing is going to be worth a smile.

Im going to retire for a bit now.

Fuck i am not even hungry nor horny.

Bye.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

It is 6 in the Morning.

It is 6 in the morning.

I shouldnt have taken alcohol hours ago -approximately 5. I was alone then, and bored and restless. I thought being dizzy helps with sleep. Apparently, i am not that familiar with alcohol.

So here is a problem, which i might have told you before, and im stating it again, and im going to garble it again so you wont get it clearly -think Windtalkers: i feel like ive just been pulled off a fishing hook. Imagine a fish, just caught by a line, with its lips hanging onto a set of acutely curved hooks. Several holes punched onto both lips, apart and almost bent outward, the fish struggles to pull away with every bodily flail.

But it dies anyway.

I, on the other hand -or hook, survive. But i wanted to get hooked and "die". I prefer death over freedom, or at least i did for a brief time.

I was hooked but was pulled away. The hooks gave away. The line split. The rod broke in half. The fisherman died. The fishing boat sank. A tsunami occured. Lightning struck rocks and caused a boulder to roll down a cliff and ricocheted off the rough terrain and hit the fisherman on the heaf. The gods went crazy. Berserk. They misfired lightning bolts. The planet reversed its rotation then went back again.

The bottomline is that no one knows how i got off the hook. Being just a fish, i do not know why the hell that happened happened.

And that question keeps me awake

It brings anguish, actually. Sporadic bouts of helpless, unreasonable anger. No one is at fault And no one is willing to take blame.

I am but a fish. I am unaware.

Monday, August 8, 2011

So what if im really insomnia-stricken?

So what if im really insomnia-stricken? What is up with being an insomniac, anyway? Except, of course, for my eyelids, nothing is up -i am still a socially dysfunctional, partially intellectual, half-adult who is unemployed, willing to get his hands onto something just to have something to do.

Im not going to die from it, directly, at least. Indirectly, of course, insomnia is fatal. Smelling flowers could kill you, indirectly.

So past blog entries considered and revisited, im having problems. Life sucks, most aspects of it included. And those unaffected parts of my life are not safe. My weight has been good -it's not like i'm watching it, but i am eating less. Smoking has been regular, controlled, but starting to get out of hand. Hygiene has always been so-so, but im starting to forget to remove my contact lenses. Big, relevant problems, i know; the slum parts of the metro experience these with too. We might have the same problems. That is nice to know.

But what could a boy do? What should i do? Problems are supposed to be hard, and i just need to be smart enough to survive. But i am not, so i shall find a compromise.

Here, im writing, having a small discourse inside my head, trying to organize thoughts as they are put to print, waiting for the thinking cogs to shut off before 5AM.

Is this productive?
I have no idea, but i am sure that this is safe.

I just need a safe form of escape from the storm-ridden minefield that is my head -i need to get out of my head before, well, i start to pull my hair out and roll my eyes way up into my skull. And probably scratch my ears off.

Insanity is frightening, isnt it?

Life needs dealing with, and i am waiting for the sleep to help me get on with the dealing. Life minus sleep is a bitch and a bitch aka an easily irritable gentleman doesnt need a bitch of a life unless he wants hell, which would be unthinkable.

So i have started to pass a few yawns throughout this piece. Sleep might come now. And life, as i know it, might be fended off to be dealt with in another day, or week.

Good night.

Friday, August 5, 2011

And again, life is not being fair.

And again, life is not being fair.

But I didn’t expect it to be -it had already given me a situation I can’t see the fairness of.

And it hurled me another. It’s like trying to catch a boomerang after you've caught a Frisbee -you think you've done it, turned it all around, and the ground you've stood is safe. But the unexpected has just turned a corner, a painful turn, and like lightning, hit you at the back of the head with a crisp WHAP.

And suddenly you have the bloodiest back of the head of all the park population. And dizziest.

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So silly how that last paragraph went. I’m not even sporty.

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If only I could state the matters going on inside my head in plain words, I would. That would be lengthier, raw, and boring.

It's either blogging or praying.

It's either blogging or praying.

And since I get more responses when I write, I don’t have to put my hands together and silently bow and possibly weep the hell out of my heart.

Kidding. I don’t cry.

______

So while waiting for my own life to blow up and leave me to pieces, across the floor, bloody and messy, let me tell you how it is doing. And later, how I think it would look like after the awaited catastrophe.

First, let me tell you how my place is rat-infested. by infested, I mean I see a small mouse or two at times, running the corners, picking on bits of food that I may have accidentally forgotten to clean up. It’s not really a problem, it being unsanitary -I just hate it when they turn up, and run surprisingly fast, with their thin black tails crooked in slight angles that make me wonder how they got to be that way. Obviously, evolution has made them unattractive with a purpose: to make pilfering food so much easier. People just hate ugly things.

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And here's my real dilemma:

I am out of work, since having just graduated from a good university with a degree for a not-so-simple medical practice. I haven’t yet acquired a license to practice. I am set to leave for the states, get licensed there, and then work, as how my parents have planned out my life since I was born.

Parents do not take my life choices seriously, seriously.

I had wanted to take up journalism, or a fine arts course, both a whole million yards away from the medical field. I had wanted to live my life smelling the flowers I wanted to smell, and not examine the stench of somebody else who I possibly hate.

And on with the dream-slaying propagated by parents, and my dreams were left to rot. Now I wouldn’t even try to take a short course under any arts program. My parents told me that arts would give me no money, and it was possible that they didn’t even believe that I could do something to be called art -so supportive, these parents.

Parents never understand.

Now, I'm fighting with my entire good boy [well, I still am] rebellious angst [bad writing, but I had to use these words] to keep them from abducting me to live in the states. My decision could either make them leave me be, and let me try out how life's going to be on my own; or disown me. The latter I expect them to do, so now I can’t ask them for money.

I don’t even know what to tell them to make my decision be worth their respect or support. Honestly, I have never felt genuine support from them, but it could be because I always have ideas that are more or less crazy and/or fatal to me. But still, I might have had some good decisions that they didn't let me explore. so I keep telling them that I won’t be leaving til I have exhausted all my choices here [verbatim; this is what I tell my friends too]; and when I face the dead-end of my life here, I’m flying to them without even thinking twice. So my choices are: to work as a writer, sell some awesome cookies [free of marijuana, if you're going to ask], or whatever. I plan to become a yuppie, with the mandatory question in mind, "where will life take me?"

I have neither work experience nor ethics. A good work ethic is easy to gain, of course. I just need to smile a lot and compliment their shoes, which I learned in my medical internship. And never be late, but I have yet to find the loudest alarm clock I could find.

In short, I have to work. And earn. And ultimately prove myself worthy of something.

And until I exhaust all of my chances in here, I am staying.