if only, david, that everyone in the world shares the same view as you. i couldn't agree more with what you said. love is indeed an emotional dumpster. another black hole to focus all our hideous egotistics, channeling deep within for a glimpse of self-glory, self-assertion. and what comes out of it is just fuel to our maniacal ego. sometimes i really wish that people do hold mirrors on their faces and discover, that their visage is imprisioned in ricus sardonicus, with black mascara streaks flowing down the empty ocular sockets, eyelids stapled to their foreheads and muscles grow taut in rigor mortis, capturing their expressions for history like amber beads. and then hopefully they would thus realise how truly utterly nauseatingly laughably disgustingly destestably execrably repulsively obscenely deplorably awfully appalling sickening depressing they themselves are, and that they would all slit their wrists and commit themselves to hell. some people are just ineffably ugly, both on the inside outside inside out. wait, i mean most, actually.
so keep on shoving, emotional basket cases! live in hope that there is always someone else out there to make you happier because you are just too damn lazy to make your own happiness.
"So I said, "Dahling, when God put teeth in your mouth, He ruined a perfectly good arsehole."
"Some dreams are different. Most dreams are a tangle of things: foreground and background, subject and object. I once had a dream in which I was chasing a mad clown around Saint Patrick's Cathedral, which was also my old high school. And after a while I was the clown they were chasing."
"Well that's it. I've had enough."
He got up and swiped his jacket off the couch. Dusting the white speckles that clinged to his corduroy pants, he looked up and angled his face in a position to my eyes that made shadows descend upon his left brow and cheeks. Those shadows were reminders of his leonine self moments ago, caged and agitated, his claws sheathed. I never knew whether they were bruised and broken or were just left unused. No matter, the luftmensch had been divested of his wings and was on his way, a mere worm, burrowing back into the nigerous ground with a black heart.
However, that was de minimis. I care not for what just happened a few minutes ago. To a voyeur now it would have seemed that what just happened would have caused a quietus. My tongue no longer articulated words; all I had was my mental etch-a-sketch. Absent snippets of past events now condemned to fleeting memories are constantly erased or mutated to as I deemed fit. Knobs and cogs were turned to fix errant opinions. And so thus my opinion of he was revamped. We only seek to remember what we want to anyway, and pour molten memories into tortuous moulds and pound them into submission, fashioning a new tool for prerogative.
And I deleted him from memory. I replaced him with a new identity, a new person that I have just met and I have told myself that this new person is supposed to be an interesting person. However rewarding our conversations would be of course demarcated by my myopia.
But as I gathered, a narrower vision funneled into a more cogent form. I have set out to disappoint myself yet again.
He has left too much in me for me to forget completely. My hands are not entirely my own.
And when I stare in the mirror as the frigidness slides down my face, I know.
I woke up, and one of us was crying.