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“Musings because I had the opportunity to muse” or a post that could also be entitled: “Because we’re all broken and messy in a way” or even, “To all the happily broken people: this one’s for you.” (In other words, I’m still working on a decent title. Please bear with me.)

I just realized that being an adolescent became an excuse for me. I was a mess, a convoluted stereotype of hormones at play, of rebellious inclinations, of never ending angst. And I redressed my mess, my self as a mere pubescent experiment in a grand tradition of transitioning into adulthood. I hid behind the term “teen” and convinced myself that I had time. Time to be wrong. Time to be lost. Time to be broken. Time to be waxing and waning, and coming and going and never being whole- not quite yet. I had time to make mistakes and pick my pieces up together and above all, I had time to want. Everything. Anything. More often than not things that are not good for me. Things that held in themselves a gluttonous, self destructive, addictive sparkle. Things that eluded my craving mind- and boy, did my mind crave! It craved for knowledge, it craved for adventure, for experience, for life, for love, for sex, for time, for every single abstract construct that’s a pain in the ass to contextualize because postmodernism had its way with language, with meaning. And then suddenly it hit me, that one day, I can’t afford to want the same things. And I find myself wondering what I’m meant to want for myself? For others? When the phenomena of aging, of time, of change, of growth had had its way with me… when I am no longer of the “youth”… What do I want then? What can I afford to want? Because wanting is a dangerous thing. Because needs are dangerous things. Because gratification is just as tricky as any other hypothetical construct. Because wishful thinking can either make you or break you. Because.

There’s always this fear, which age reminds us of, the fear that you’re running out of time. And you wonder, have I picked up my pieces? Have I collected myself? When we come to a point wherein the “teen” is omitted from this supposedly insignificant number that suddenly becomes charged with socially constructed meanings and connotation when society urges the mind to reel, we become aware; more and more aware that- nope, I haven’t gotten myself together. I am incomplete. But the thing of it is every body’s broken. Every one who’s conscious enough to probe into themselves. We’re all broken. But coincidentally, every body also always has this thing they can hide behind, an excuse they can shield themselves from: I’m young. I’m a teenager. I’m not supposed to have it figured out altogether yet. Or, I’m neurotic. How the hell am I suppose to know how to be okay? We have all these labels we can choose from. All these shields we can protect ourselves with. Because as much as we need society to repress our barbarism, we need a linguistic, constructed tool to shield ourselves, even excuse ourselves from time to time, from society’s prejudice, from society’s propriety. From society’s requirement, which our repressed barbarism, our repressed primal being could never fully satisfy: the requirement for perfection, for complete and utter perfection. But maybe, imperfection is a human condition. So is being broken- one way or another, being incomplete somehow. It is a human condition. Because we want. And we can never stop wanting. The trick is wanting something good for you. The trick is wanting and not feeling guilty about it. The trick is- there are no tricks, no trade. Just a thing in pressure. Just a thing compressed and repressed and pushed and pulled from all directions. A thing in a pressurized, shaky equilibrium constantly anticipating the day when she finally tips the balance and collapse into her self. Thinking: if I anticipated this, does that mean somewhere in me, something wanted this? In my own twisted self-fulfilling prophecy, did I want this? Because perfection is unrealistic but failure isn’t?

And at the end of all this? All I realized is that I never needed to be an adolescent to be a convoluted stereotype. A mess of rebellious, unsatisfied angst. That never goes away. I’ll always be that mess. The mess. I’ll always be waxing and waning. Because maybe human nature foretold that to be human is to wax and to wane. Is to bend and break. To be damaged and at the same time to want the unrealistic, seductive, addictive sparkle of healing.  Maybe, we don’t need to be that whole. Maybe, in today’s modern world, being whole is relative, being sure. Knowing. Becoming. Maybe the pressure we put upon ourselves are merely induced by the meanings and connotations charged into plain and dull constructs, injected by a bored society. Maybe there is still salvation for me. Or maybe this is my salvation: to get to a point where I know I am broken and I wouldn’t even mind it. I wouldn’t even care. I wouldn’t even notice. I’d just be tattered, lovely in my fragments. Placid in my lost pieces running all over the place, imperturbable in my mess. Maybe. 

Dear Cigarette,

You are my dandelion. Your ash the pollen that separates itself from my lips- hungry for an independent existence, thirsty for some sort of freedom from the stem. Your smoke are the wishes that a girl blows into the wind with her breath to find some sort of hope. You are fragile- breaking apart if you aren’t already broken- just like me. I love you, like how Stalin loved Nadya or Marcos loved Imelda or did they? Maybe it was just an image just to make people believe there was beauty behind strength and that even a tyrant could still love. Who’d have known, we’d be this misconstrued? You and I. I can’t seem to quit you but we’re bad for each other. Slowly killing each other. Then again, we delicate, vulnerable fibers redressing ourselves as apathetic tyrants, know only this- only this love. This destructive love. A blackened love with blackened lungs and grey ash. Burns. A sick romance because too much sweet is sick anyways. Why not cut to the chase? As I BLOW you into a death coma. As you give me cancer. See you in hell, lover.

See you in hell. 

With all my love,

XXOO

Dear Frued,

There’s a darkness lingering in the spaces between my brain folds. Replacing corpus callosum fibers. Draining fluid. Grey matter reduced in a broth of brain fever. Inflamed senses burning in the night. Sneezing, weary thoughts decaying in the stench of my narrow perceptions. This must be it. This must be the sickness everyone’s been talking about.

This must be madness. The plague of the 21st century.

I’ve finally caught it.

Insomnia

I can’t sleep.

Sometimes I don’t want to in fear that while I do, reality will slowly slip away from me like a dark stillness creeping. A slow consuming of its diaphanous body like self-cannibalism, a slow mutilation of the I. Destruction of the Id. A gentle slipping. Off and away. Folding into itself like crumpled sheets in a bin. Sucking itself from beneath me while I’m blissed far away in a dream coma. A vacuum of universe. Leaving only the knowledge of loss behind. So when night comes, and when my rebellious, red eyes begin to fall into a spell of fatigue, my hands cling automatically, impulsively. They cling to anything real. Anything alive. A glue grip on a stranger’s limb. A soft lying on a close chest. A sensitivity to someone else’s breathing. A sharp ear sticking to a sound. Goosebump soldiers and admiral hair skins on watch.

Otherwise morning will come as an unfathomable oblivion. And I’m left a heap of flesh spec in a black and white. A flaw in an emptiness. Wondering where it all went. Looking for intact memories of then, finding only holes where a bed was, a wall stood. A lover slept. Infinite holes of then. A treasure trove of nostalgic gaps and endless dejavu. Everything becomes a war of the familiar fighting the lack of recollection. A tension of stagnant dangling things on tips of tongue, a steady footing on tops of heads.  Knowing becomes a perfected balancing act standing on a fine string separating the conscious and unconscious. Remaining always in between.

And I? I’ve become reduced to an echo with no resound. Clumsily going back and forth hoping to find anything solid to amplify my existence. Because, in all honesty, reality is that fragile and the mind? The mind is a passive aggressive friend that isn’t really your ally but a sly trick, a treasonous harlequin throwing magic reason to blind a dream, parading a juggling act of self-defensive humor, of perfectly timed witty deflections, of sarcastic, quasi-comedic microcosms to mimic a sentiment and at the same time to barricade it.

I’ve become reduced to a daydream. A bad trip. A slurred speech in a frenzy of losing grip and soundness and stable ground. Because time is relative and relative things are hard to keep track of and easy to lose. Because shape isn’t at all tangible. Because space isn’t permanent. Because blood isn’t as thick as it should be for it to keep hold on a beating desperation, to glue broken bones and tattered veins. To keep life together.

So I don’t sleep.

I can’t.

Because, though I know the chances of this happening are slim, well, slim probabilities are ruses and I’ve never been one to gamble on anything slim moreover could I ever place my trust in a statistic.

 Because reality is not a friend.

 It’s a stranger looking for a one-night stand.

 Fickle. Nimble. In and out before you could even realize it.

 Because reality is a bored goddess conniving with the mind for entertainment.

 And I am a paranoid, sleep-ridden pawn in the middle of it.

Because.

There’s a comforting notion there somewhere: to be caught in the waves of the unreal. Floating. Drowning. Losing self-

Mind.

Excused by a semi-insanity plea from a perturbed normative, postmodern, nonlinear, caging consumerist existence that’s more difficult to fathom than madness.

Excused in a state of wake-dream.

There’s comfort there somewhere. 

I wish I was a saxophone note

with a license to make melancholy sound beautiful.

I’d be driving around with a tune that makes a tear seem picturesque.

I’d be brass born.

A rusty golden thing that knows misery isn’t always ugly, sometimes

misery is just natural. 

Wishful thinking.

God, If only I could breathe in your poems! 

My lungs wouldn’t even miss the air.

I’d be living merely by your words. 

Which is more than enough.

If only.

Just because my pen, like me, is restless. Hence, we decided to draw our nerves away.

Welcome to Wonderland.

The Cheshire cat smiled.

I understand its madness now.

For, now, I too smile the same smile-

With its waxing and waning feel to it.

A simultaneous coming and going.

We all have a bit of it in us-

The bit wherein we’re barely there.

We’re barely there altogether.

Waxing and waning.

Coming and going.

Disappearing and becoming.

Physical

            (and)

Formlessness.

The Cheshire cat had taught me to accept this-

Completeness is a state of mind.

We’re all part purple stripes and

Part lavender

Part ivory teeth

And part blackness-

A lot of dark.

We’re all cat-eyed.

A yellow.

Purring.

Reaching for a ball of sun yarn.

Trying to make light sweaters. 

We’re all Cheshire cats-

Lost nay banished from Wonderland

And therefore forbidden

To present our true forms

In a world where reality demands to be

Completely solid,

To be tangible.

To be mind and time and space.

Contained.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t be real at all.

We’re all mad men

That have lost our hats.

Looking for something,

In the meantime,

To protect our heads before

We lose it too.

Before our Red Queen chops it off.

Painting white roses into red-

Pale cheeks into rouge

Because we must conceal the madness in us

[before they notice it]

Or was that supposed to be “sadness”?

Rhyming things are easy to misplace.

            [Especially when]

We’re all late.

We’re all white rabbits in black coats

Running in a rabbit hole that’s

Way too small and much too dark.

We’re two sizes too big

And yet we feel ten times too small.

In a big concrete world

Suffocating in the concrete dust.

            Trapped.

No flowers sing here.

No teatime for hares and mice.

No breakfast of cake and jam.

No happy un-birthday song.

We’re ravens and writing desks.

A deck of cards domino-ing

A lot of red herrings.

We’re all staring through the looking glass.

Trapped in the reflection.

And so I look at myself constantly   

Because it’s the only thing tolerable enough to see.

[I see.]

The Cheshire cat smiling.

[Past the illusion.]

I smile the same smile.

[This isn’t a dream.]

We’re barely there.

We’re barely there altogether.

Or is it supposed to be “I”?

Or Is it only me?

I’m barely there?

Barely here.

Pronouns are hard to keep track of

When the noun had lost itself-

Lost.

In the waxing and waning of stripes.

If everyone already thinks I’m eccentric

why am I still afraid to play the goddamn part?

Fill the fucking shoes they’ve already assigned to me?

Maybe I have an issue with fitting.

In.

and filling.s.

I’m not liquid enough. Barely fluid enough.

Too stone.d

Too rock.

Too stiff.

Or maybe

The description’s not just my size.

Beyond (my) shape.

Maybe.

I’m not anybody’s clay.

Not anybody’s description.

I like the latter explanation better.

Being known by my nonsensical noise,

I find it difficult for people to respect my sudden silence or the mere fact that I chose it, that I wanted it. 

A defense for the Sociably Challenged.

A brief introductory remark:

Given my sudden fascination with the political philosophers of the olden days up to the 18th century, particularly with Machiavelli and the Contractarian thinkers, the means in which they talk, argue and posit their inklings, I opted to make for myself what seems to be, in comparison to their gloriously logical rhetoric, a mock and rather laughable presentation of a defense in a style (that hopes to seem) similar to theirs. In modern terms: I wanted to try to write like them or at least in a manner that seems “like I know what I’m talking about” and so I implore you to please bear with me as you read (if ever you read) this post. Thank you. 

 

Sometimes it makes more sense to burry your face into a book and hope to God the entirety of your existence follows, and in its following actually lose itself. Personally, I deem societal politic to be something difficult to fathom. It’s a man made locus of convoluted principles, unsaid but implied and above all, ambiguous. Not that I’ve never thought about the necessity of ambiguity. For I have and must admit to being ambiguous myself, especially under the tensions and uncertainties of societal politic. For in the realm of this politic, ambiguity despite being able to result in further tensions in its extreme, can also, during certain situations, ameliorate it, soothe it that such tensions become more controllable and less eruptive. We cannot live in utter ambiguity but we cannot deny its function and attachment to our being. For man, I suppose, with some respect to its nature, is partly ambiguous and thus, such is also the nature of man’s interactions; interactions governed by the doctrines of societal politic; doctrines that seem even more intangible, even incomprehensible than that of the abstract. Or maybe social interaction and propriety are abstract things? The self, I suppose is abstract and volatile all by itself. Imagine, now, infinite selves, infinite volatile things interacting together, living together in a state of tensions that result itself into a society, a society that demands interaction. Imagine such instability! With such a concoction, it’s only a matter of time before such a mixture, such a deceivingly immiscible mixture- for coherence, social stability and oneness is but a struggle between interacting societal strata and far from homogenous though the surface may imply homogeneity, implodes into itself or explodes into ruin. Because the struggle and tension between selves, the balance of it, also involves a balance of a multiplicity of abstractions- the tensions of power, the tensions of morals, the tensions of pragmatism and necessity and order. A fragile, flimsy balance in a vast harsh plane wherein the self is a microcosm of society, society the compounding, elevating, setting free and at the same time taming of the natural self, and the politics of things, in a way, is the means to control these tensions, is the very arena where these tensions juxtapose under the elevated guises of governance and the more minute but nevertheless crucial realm of personal relationships and by this I mean, the more individual-specific form of relationships and not the general, vague bond that connects all humankind for simply being part of humankind. Our selves are in a constant push and pull, an eternal tug of war, stemming from simple communal interactions wherein power play is almost always present, and so is second guessing and groping in a game of chess-like relations. Personally, it is easier to prefer isolation to this, to prefer the company of books, for there, we have no need of politeness or impressions, appearances and proper conduct. There one needs not measure, weigh and debate over the speech one is to utilize, the position of one’s body at all times, the moments of having to consciously choose courtesy over the impulse of rudeness, the course of action one is to pursue at each interval of the day and the consequences, implications and repercussions of each. Alas, being human, one cannot help but find one’s self in a conundrum, for if the principles of sociability is a puzzlement, one cannot simply separate one’s self from the need for society and to be, with some respect of the term, social. Man perhaps by nature is solitary- as stipulated by some of the Contractarian thinkers like Hobbes and Rousseau, in opposition to Augustine that stipulates no man can stand alone. Though, given that the context of these two characteristics of man are from different states, we must assume that both are right. The solitary man exists in man’s state of nature that is as pre-societal man. Man can stand alone in nature, but in a society connections and interactions are crucial to its development, to man’s very survival, to man’s progress. Thus giving both stipulations an air of truth to them. And with such, there rises the contradictions in man’s character and the possible claim that man, by nature, is a mesh of contradictions. A dilemma then arises as a result of being a mesh of contradictions: what if the very nature that allows one to survive depletes one’s existence into a doubtful sort- an existence beleaguered by a stubbornness, a naturally introverted, socially unsuited character? What if the standards of one’s life and therefore of one’s existence is reduced due to the necessity of sociability, in the name of order, for the sake of allegiance and with such a reduction forces one to put into question the legitimacy of such a life, of such an existence? Why live or force one’s self to live in a reduced state, especially if the obligation of sociability causes such reduction when the need for society arose to ameliorate human life through the guidance and privilege of civic virtue and order? Perhaps my rambles are mere folly given that it is a mere exaggeration and reflection of my own disinterest in interaction, connection and the rules that govern them, the behavior demanded by such rules. Or rather my rambles are a mere defense of such folly and alongside this defense, this explanation also arises my prayer- a prayer that hopes to excuse myself from such sociable necessity. It is true that not all men are sociable though man is in essence social. The problem perhaps arises in the usage of the term that somehow being social implies, nay demands being sociable. The two are rather different things to some extent. Being social means that one is related to a society and given that we are all products of a society, for, as mentioned, only through a society (which ideally should be just and virtuous although in reality such ideal has not been completely achieved) can man flourish, progress and survive, by this we are, intuitively, all social. It isn’t a question. But it is wrong to assume that because we are all related in and to a society in some way or another that we are, as part of our nature, as induced by our circumstance, educated in the manners of the sociable- the friendly. Being social does not imply vast comprehension of friendliness; for ties, the interaction of such ties and the rules of said interaction that limit, define and outline the appropriateness of behavior within such an interaction in such a tie are tricky, convoluted, flimsy and to some extent relative and therefore incoherent. For a society to function, men must form themselves into an allegiance. Society is perhaps like a clockwork of allegiances and ties, wherein society can only function if such allegiances- the very gears that form the clock- interact in the necessary manner they ought to, that a prescribed law and doctrine is necessary for order. Man acts in a peaceful, ideally altruistic manner with other people but this manner is governed by ethic and morals-supported and strengthened by legislature and positive law, which are far broader, far elevated, far civic and less personal than the rules of sociability. There is supposedly an overlap. I cannot deny that. We must be friendly to some extent but the rules of friendliness can apply to even more specific scenarios and in this realm of particulars- such friendliness and its maintenance becomes tricky, complicated, and above all exhausting, especially to those who cannot keep up or tolerate the constant changes, the constant varying demands suited to each form of tie. There is a matter of forming impressions, the changing or retaining of that impression. The rules of friendship and social interaction vary depending on the form, type, and degree of the friendship- degrees which easily interlace over another, change and flow without a notice or announcement and you must always, always be on your feet because a change in form, type and degree changes the rules, the concept of propriety, the needs, demands, expectations and so many more aspects of the connection. It is a given that all ties are strenuous but given that ties are necessary for social order and social continuance we must form them. That I do not dispute. I am merely stating a, perhaps already known or in the least implied, but never fully articulated remark- one that seems naturalized and thus is in no need of articulation, making such a notion overlooked and even forgotten, and that remark is that these ties are dangerous, tiring, upsetting and in tension much like any form of interacting mechanism. And with such a solid statement, I must remind people, that though society and sociality is a given, not all man are capable of keeping up with the maintenance of sociability- a far more specific, particular, personal and “near-the-individual” level of the social. Not all men are articulate in the language of connection, friendship and interaction. Those who are articulate and knowledgeable in these affairs or are lucky enough to survive while being ignorant to this language and politic, must not ostracize but rather understand those who cannot fathom it. Being knowledgeable in these matters does not excuse nor does it necessitate the ridiculing of those who are not knowledgeable but rather, by the very doctrines of these matters, which the majority is allegedly so knowledgeable about, requires that such people accept and perhaps aid those who are in the modern vernacular: anti-social. Although such a term may seem inappropriate, inaccurate and badly used given its psychological meaning, linguistic inaccuracy and proneness to misinterpretation of being understood as literally: anti social- against that of the social, and against that of society, hence, I prefer the term: sociably challenged. In this defense, I wish to clarify that I am not justifying improper conduct or encouraging isolation as opposed to the individual’s social development. I am merely imploring the understanding of those more inept at sociability to bear with those who are less inept in such a way that those who are challenged be encouraged to tackle, and participate in the playing fields of societal politic or in the least consider it for it is inseparable, despite having its difficulties, to a social entity- which we all are.