Mind Go Numb April 8, 2008

I’m going down again.

I’m getting paranoid and scared and angry and these things are a very very bad combination.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I need to stop thinking. Iwanttoknowthenamesandthewhysandhowtheytaste. Shut up! Shut up! Fuck off! I hate You! Shut up! Iwanttoknowwhereandhowandhowitwas. Shut up! Shut up!

I want to pound my head on the wall until it caves in. Then, I’m sure, the physical pain would take all of these goddamn thoughts away.

Poundyourfistsagainstthewalluntilbloodstartstofall.

There are voices in my head and they won’t stop. They won’t stop. I need them to stop. I can’t make them stop.

They’re screaming now. And their screams culminate in my pain and I am hoping they will stop after they reach their peak.

But they are just screaming, screaming. It’s getting noisy in my head now, too much anger and hate and red, red, red.

I have things to do.

Crappy February 26, 2008

Lately I’ve been very very hotheaded. I’m irritated by everything and anything. I don’t know why this is happening to me.

I guess I’m so pressured to do well that it’s eating me up.

Oh damnit. I must be a masochist for going to med school.

I Miss Feeling February 25, 2007

How can I stand here with you,

And not be moved by you?

I plunge into my memories only to find frames. Empty. Nothing. I remember superficial things like the crystalline raindrops on the window panes, the exact day and time, how he said “I missed you,” the intoxication, the alcohol, the exact words that you said: the wind running tangent to my eyes.

But the feeling is locked away, far from me. I can’t feel it again.

It seems that all I do is mourn for me. And that’s the scope of how I feel. I can’t feel anything anymore! I see the images in my head, but it stops there.

This malignancy is frustrating. I feel sub-human. I’m already suicidal, and I’m not kidding. Remember all those time when I muttered ‘kill me!’ or ‘I will die!’? Those are prayers.

Rabid February 21, 2007

I’ve never felt so inclined to lock myself up in the bathroom and just stare. I’ve never felt so unquiet, so restless, so deeply troubled.

I sat perplexed on the bathroom floor and waited until my fingers and toes wrinkled in the water. I turned on the faucet- the gushing sound will block or blend or muffle or defy my tears.

She says that I’m manic like this, because I can’t stop and something has to give. Like very thin ice, something must break. A few hundred capillaries, a few tiles more, a night like tonight wherein I should be studying but all I can do is destroy or create…

I plead for some form of rescue. A calamity, a rush, an accident, a tragedy… anything to overcome my own. I’m feeble this way.

And all this time I ask myself why me?

I make useless multiple associations between things, and my thoughts jump uselessly around, wandering to far away places from which they are pulled even before anything significant could be done.

Save me from myself.

Suntok sa Buwan February 3, 2007

The outcome is inevitable and yet
I trudge feebly on as if
There was actual hope.

The foreshadowed rejection is so concrete that I cannot help but lament even before I begin.

Going in Circles January 6, 2007

Must things resonate everywhere?

I see you in the lonely raindrops down my window, in the sun sending a faint goodbye, in the lonely echoes down my mind…

Repressed, pushed away and half-scattered is where I put you…

And yet you are here. When something is Everything, it really is inescapable.

I don’t get it.

—

Art.

There must always be a design.

I am creating a separate blog for all the things that I cannot describe.

—

Today I had to euthanize PotBelly.

I hope you finally find comfort in
A place where colors don’t swirl confusingly
and you don’t feel like falling every second of your life.
Where all things are a threat and
You must bite out of terror.
I thought I was strong, little one.
I’m sorry that I had stopped and taken a last look of your
Giant cotton-ball body
Your tiny hands and tiny feet
Your patched mocha back
And I had to stop and cry before I pulled you out of the cage
Into a box
Into a can with ether
Into your soft, deep grave
While I prayed the Our Father and
Cried too loud for
(as they told me)
Too small a creature.
As I held the lid over the can and felt you
Struggling underneath.
Until finally you stopped and I took your body
Limp as a rag doll
To its resting place.

“She is bereaved,” I heard them say as I was howling in my room.
“It’s just a rat.”
And so?
Do we suddenly measure tears in proportion to the size of the thing for which they fall?