August 2011
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Orange lights and empty streets, cold gusts and tall shadows.
You step inside the jeepney, deciding to sit right in front of me.
I look at you, stare at you… gaze at you, even.
You share the face of another— a face among faces in the whirlwind that is my memory.
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“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the...”
– Charles Bukowski (via roscoe-)
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Hello.
I hate goodbyes— you know, “goodbye” goodbyes. The ones that are spoken with a voice you know you will never hear again. Those kinds of goodbyes. As much as possible, I’d like to avoid them.
I’ve only ever had two of those in my life, and they weren’t even real goodbyes, but metaphorical ones— abrupt as to not make the speakers hear my disapproval. I was...
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arsenicofmarikina replied to your post: Quick!
SPEW IT ON TUMBLR!
YOU’RE RIGHT! I SHOULD! D:<
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Quick!
I need someone to talk to! To spew out my feelings on! Quick, while they’re still hot!
(And while I still don’t care about what kind of creature hears/reads what I’ve got to say!)
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I'd like to stay optimistic
and think of myself as a late bloomer.
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A few years have gone by, and I keep on wondering whether or not I have grown out of taking things less seriously than the rest. I… most probably haven’t, despite turning into the coffee-drinker I now am.
The aches still creep through my aorta and into my beating heart, a sign that, perhaps, things haven’t changed too much on the inside.
I… don’t know what the point...
