Fifty Four

Here's to impossible loves.


A toast to the simplicity of the equation that is us. And since most of us hate math, it always appears more complex than quantum physics. A raven that is like a writing desk.

When we were younger--or "a few years back", to make it sound more pleasant, solutions to such matters came easy; surrender to the impulse. Sure we end up saying the worse things, dream of the impossible, live miserably.

Its an entirely different matter now. Now that we claim to have learned, if not perfected, the intricate art of letting go. We then justify it by creating halfhearted contraptions intended to make us fly. Convinced that if fate truly favored our union, things will fall into place--which is exactly what happens, we fall. Crash. back to where we began. We desire flight while the other half braces for the sudden stop. Some prefer to call it "back up plan" I call it "not wanting to admit that sometimes, we do fail. without poise or self esteem left for us to reclaim ourselves."

Then we plan in secret, submit to the flurry of emotions within our comfort zones for they shift shapes inconsistently. Find a million trivial things you have alike or make it seem that you do to mask the only thing you didn't have in common that would have made all the difference. all that conniving--only to pull back in the end and say something horribly chiche-ic, like describing the many other ugly fishes in the sea or another feel-good lie you yourself don't believe.

We all fall prey to that vicious cycle every now and then.

Not exactly a shiny new feeling, I've gone far worse. Or i may be a bit more delusional this time around. For me it is more like downing a glass of warm beer.


(yes, my tolerance for malt is that pathetic)
Grips you with intoxication, ruthlessly kneading on well repressed memories, urging you to jump. And as the pull isn't enough, you just peer at what's beyond the cliff, throw a rock to see how deep the fall is, then conveniently plant your feet on safer ground.

I may not be trying something different today, neither do I claim that I am no hypocrite. As I have already laid out back up plans to turn back to my safer version of reality. Yet, without conscious effort, i succumbed to that juvenile impulse of not wanting to eat or chatter. Hoping in vain that my half-attempts would work.

Silently pleading it wouldn't.

Just like everybody else.

And feeling that inevitable crash.

This time though, even if it makes little or no difference,
I admit total failure.

Six more minutes and a short hand would have gone three-sixty. I could have gone full circle but that would lead me back to square one--which wouldn't make sense.

Just like you and me.






Almost, but not quite.