Apt in Brooklyn

It's 5 o'clock in the afternoon, the smell of rain is in the air, it's quiet, cool and surrounded by a light tinge of blue. I like that. It's not saying that I'm addicted to sadness (or am I?), rather it's the feeling that I'm familiar with. The impending onslaught of rain, the darkened land, the odor of rapidly moisturized atmosphere and the actual descent from heaven. I like looking at nothing in particular through the weeping glass.

It's one of those times that you are so occupied, yet without having the slightest urge to comply with the obligations. You're not in a great rush to go anywhere, you're content with staying right where you are (but of course, it would always be much better if she was here with you. Unfortunately, it's rather unlikely, of which you are aware). Maybe we can coin this mood something like ah Pacific Islandish, hmmm... Pacific Islandish... or perhaps Oceanicish... anyway, doesn't matter, you get the idea.

It's the kind of cozy and lazy afternoon feeling, like you've just had a cuppa, some sandwiches, ham and cakes on a nice shaded lawn ah what a lovely afternoon don't you agree my dear while soft breeze murmurs lullaby at your ears, inviting you to sink into a world of unchained fantasy. When you find yourself caught in this kind of mood, you know you're not necessarily happy, just sort of not-completely-of-the-negative-side-of-inactive.

Got an email from Rebecca the other day telling me that she was looking for someone to share the flat with. And even though Brooklyn was not among the most exotic of places in the world, it is for me at this very moment. It seems so distant and faraway, so unreal, it's one block from Prospect Park and the Brooklyn Library, with the Brooklyn Museum and the Botanical Gardens a few blocks away. On the 2, 3, B, Q subway lines. I have no idea what that translates into geographically, but it hardly matters. It feels so totally from another world, and, well, it is, after all, which helps me, for a while, to forget about my own troubles.

Monsoon Wedding

I find myself overdosing on motion pictures these couple of days. Motion pictures with emotions that I myself can't manage to muster. Gloria said that she'd been in the mood and that she'd cried. Well, I told her that it was something worthy of celebration because she was still capable of crying, for some of us can't. It's a luxury that is not to be luxuriated in by some.

At 47 minutes into the movie I checked Ailing's MSN alias, damn fool you're torturing yourself. At once, an overwhelming wave of vomiting sensation hit my brain and I was force to cut off every moving motion, I knew I shouldn't have looked, but I did, and the remaining 67 minutes of film seemed like 67 million years.

***

Fictions are magical, they present you with a world that is faraway, objective yet at the same time intimate and exotic, not matter how miserable and familiar the world in which the story unfolds is. That's why I love it. And you get to cry, despite being cinematographically induced, that's another bonus.

She said she was afraid of my dark side. Yes, she was being honest, I appreciate that, but I did scare her away, eh. I just screwed it up. Yes, the opposite of sex loves you when you're easy, and they're out of sight faster than the ray of light at the faintest hint of something foul. I know I shouldn't be cynical, but once you made a mistake you don't get a second chance, like you simply can't step into the same river twice.

Implosion

I've failed in foreseeing the same reaction. I didn't see that her presence would trigger such an inward rage, a rage of not foreseeing the forming of the same result. It's a rage that's hard to explain, whose shape is no easy task to grasp, nevertheless I will try to do so and hopefully in the process would be able to achieve that now sitting alone in the office with the residue of that rage.

It's, what can I say, irrational. It's a mixture of many things, but mostly her constant refusal, her unwillingness to express her thoughts, the lack of information and my nonstop guessing. Among them, I suppose it's the guessing that finally gets to me, it's endless and tiring. And I think I'm finally over quota.

I need a confirmation from her part, yet am unable to do that. Her attitude is ever ambiguous and this ambiguity is making my already troublesome organ even more troublesome. The sad thing is that I can't just go knock on her door and tell her that I want to die because I'm in love with her. But I need her to know that I'm suffering. So I didn't do anything, not the least reaction at all, when she said that her legs were killing her and that she was tired. I didn't do anything, not responding to her question why I was in a bad mood, not greeting her, no smiles, not looking at her, nothing.

Of course I know that this attitude of mine is stupid and won't achieve anything but the contrary, because he who plays it cool to make his world a little colder is a bloody fool. And I'm, most of all, angry at myself for being one, for not being able to care about her when I find myself getting caught by such emotions. The residue is nothing but remorse. It's like setting the hard works of your whole life aflame and see them disappear amongst the dancing flare in front of your very eyes.

What I need now is a truck that goes at 100km/h. One that is overloaded and comes towards me.