Crazy talks from a crazy fool

Curiosity shot the cat

I came across a man once and inquired, “If I give you this one dollar, what will you do with it?” Lowering his flimsy cardboard sign, he hurled, “why the fuck does it matter what I do with a fuckin’ dollar? Does your boss ever give you your hard earned paycheck and before he does, he fuckin’ interrogates you with the shit you’re about to pointlessly waste it on?” His sulfurous venom ceased to gather more toxin, more force to throttle the saliva drivel he wanted to dump on me. “Don’t think that one dollar gives you any more rights than me. Like you, I’m trying to live. This is my job…” Momentarily pausing to shift his gaze from matching my eyes to the ridged dollar bill, “This is my earning,” he uttered in a pleading timbre, contrasting the tarred acoustic of his earlier remarks. I soon felt the piece of green paper shedding through my fingertips and to my bemusement, I managed to wheel myself away from the scene of the verbal thrashing.

By the time I rolled into my studio, the fluster in my face has not completely vanished. Humiliation followed me home but humility barely reached my doorstep. I proceeded to question why I had no requital for that filthy homeless. In a natural state of defense, my mind revolted with silent shouts, “I am better than him!…I’ve got a home. I’m in school. I have a job. I have a life. I live for a purpose!” So why then do I feel beneath the tattered, rotten shoes of his? Whether it was my inability to conjure ground for justification or to plainly endow the unequivocal truth that he was right, I gave up. Brushing those thoughts aside, my body took a dive onto my mattress and I woven it into the luxury of the 400 thread counts sheet. Following another velvet night of dream-weaving, business and pleasure went on as usual. I never saw that same bum again and whatever feeling I inherited from that encounter gradually lost its momentum. Yet, from then on, my pride never fails to refrain itself from pulling another dime out for another man on the streets.

The flailing of feelings

I must quit letting my emotions go cliff diving at first impulse. These instantaneous combustion of feelings can equate to drinking a fifth of goose. The consequence could be far too treacherous. It’s definitely time to tighten the ropes.

Mmm…this is my second post in one day? My tumblr might overload and crash as it’s not used to this kind of attention.

FB ≠ BF

You hide in the corner, wishing that someday your heroine will come to hear your story. Not one who will swoop down on her nostril-flaring, mystical dragon nor one who will stand in grandeur, casting fears among the antagonists with her courage and nobility. One simple act of kindness to evolve into a well-nurtured friendship. You want her to hear your story and not to graze your back with a sympathy that she might find for millions else. You need her to feel the inclination to submerge you in her embrace or trifle your sensitivity with her scrutinizing yet awakening words. Either way, she’s here to stay. She’ll engage in your melody and she’ll gather your pieces. Your heroine in a form of a lover. A lover who hides in the corner, waiting for you to come and hear her story.

It’s mutual, it’s beautiful.

“Like I’m daydreaming again…”

Even for Seattle, this unremitting cloudiness is atypical in July. Any expectation of sunshine is foregone while the conclusion of summer languidly draws closer. The gloominess calls out to the cuddle monster for some major sprawling underneath the sheet. Nestle, snuggle, let’s drift off to a subconscious adventure where we’ll ambush ninjas and drink grog with ye’ mateys, arrr. We’ll write our own storybook in our abstract space, where our minds meet and our bodies entwine.


Apparat - Arcadia

“What’s the point of waiting for life to come…”

Out with the old, in with the new…

Not so fast!

As you may have noticed that my last post to this tumblr was a little more than a year ago and due to my besotted memory, I have forgotten about it in the same way I failed to recall the face of the last stranger I kissed. In an attempt to reset the password to my new tumblr account, I somehow managed to change the password and automatically logged into this account. Sweet nectar of agave tequila! This is an obvious sign that I should be using this tumblr and not the other one…wait, which other one? Forgotten…swiped clean from memory…like the face of the last stranger…

Guilty Pleasure

My current state of unemployment has been a blessing. I can do nothing that a hard-working human being (ahem my father) would consider productive but feel absolutely amazing at the end of the day. I can sleep all day, devour all the music (old & new) my body can take, and practically do everything on my bed if i ever desire. What a grand state of life! haha. So i know at this rate, i’m not going to save the world anytime soon. But just give me another week or so before it hits me that this freedom comes with a price. For now, i’m going to say adios suckas, this is how i chill from…’til.

Souls of Mischief-93 ‘til Infinity