drunken conversation

some of the lyrics of “Secrets” by Alexa Woodward

Beautifully haunting

St Augustine - dedicated to my hubby who’s traveling solo to Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand today

I’ve tasted a lot of poison in my life but nothing has an aftertaste that lingers as long as you.

I’ve tried rinsing it, gargling it, to the point of vomiting the insides of my guts but whenever I sit still I can taste it somewhere down my throat.

It is not love, nor hate, nor any other form of strong emotion. Like oxygen, I only notice it when I have trouble breathing because you’re not around.

It would probably be okay if I were nineteen, but I’m not. Or if I had an addiction, but I’m not.

So you thought it was okay to reply with almost nothing, and maybe you’re right because I was not supposed to sit around waiting for you to answer me.

But it is what it is. I am what I am.

Don’t grow up too quickly, lest you forget how much you love the beach.” -Michelle Held

hear the sounds of the dementors

the night purgatory opens its gate

and it’s all about hate, about sad, but mostly about hate

hear the popping of the champagne

the night laughter dies and evil reigns

and it’s all about hate, about regret, but mostly about hate

Offering sugar for your coffee, because I know you like your drinks to be sweet, a habit I find a little off track with your usually healthy choices: the gym the salads with no dressings the two glasses max and never on empty stomach drinking policy the one cigarette a day and your Nazi regime of a skin care that makes your skin glow, I can’t help but admiring you.

I admire your stand for normalcy, your determination in keeping the straight line, your decision to always show your public face for public, your refusal to show your inner turmoil, strength I simply do not posses.

I am the opposite of you, I don’t like sugar for my drinks but I don’t limit myself in anything.

Taking you out for coffee on a rainy afternoon, complementing you on the scarf that I hate with contempt, praising your sense of fashion that I find a little overwhelming, promising you a juicy girly chat that you love so much, I can’t help but hating you with the kind of hate that makes a person capable of pulling another person’s innards and chew on them, blood and gore, lock stock and barrel.

And by the way I am sleeping with your man.

On my way to happiness I bumped into an old acquaintance, the joker.

“Happiness is a trap,” he said, “When you have it you have nothing more to aim, and after a while it won’t feel like happiness anymore.”

I smiled politely, looking for an exit. However, I was in an elevator.

“One day you’ll wake up in a limbo. You know you’re no longer in happiness, but you don’t know how to be back in happiness, nor do you know whether you want to be back.”

The joker used to be my indulgence, the equivalent of cheap tabloids. The one I enjoyed and was ashamed of. He was my favorite nightmare, the one whose door I knocked again and again every time I needed my fix of danger.

“Happy makes no story,”

We made quite a story, the joker and I. Years had gone by and still on random days I would meet a random person who would still associate me with him.

The joker was, and still is delectable.

The elevator ride was coming to an end when I pressed closer to him. The joker’s eyes flickered as he expressed the same sentence one more time, more convincingly.

“Happy makes no story.”

I pressed even closer and looked into his eyes unblinkingly as I said

“Story does not make me happy.”

I have outgrown the joker.

Although I tend to dislike anything cute, I have an irrational soft spot for cupcakes, I love them so much even if I don’t normally eat sweet things.

This lovely illustration is particularly special for me because it is drawn by my best mate Woofy, who’s now living her dream life traveling South East Asia while doodling and harassing her wonderful French boyfriend. For more of her designs go to http://www.etsy.com/shop/woofyworld?page=1

Whether he died on the cross or not, whether he was resurrected on the third day or not, is not for me to worry.

Whether Jesus was a man or not, whether he was a son or a god, is not for me to worry.

I believe in love, I believe in miracles. I believe tragedy is necessary because it is part of a greater scheme, which I am only a small particle within, and the scheme is not for me to worry.

I believe in a greater power, I just happen to like to call it Jesus, regardless of whether he died on the cross or not.

Each morning I wake up I look in the corner and see discarded dreams piling up. And I look for a sign in the pile, in the dreams and everything else in between.

In the corner of my eyes tears drying up for a while, before another stream comes rushing and diluted into the cup of my morning coffee, stirred together with the sugar and the cream. I took a sip to wash down the bagels so hard to swallow because my throat is choked with memories of sharing omelets and grilled tomatoes.

For a while I will look up the window, but it is always the wind, the sound of lives outside my walls, the world that keeps moving even though I long for it to sit still for a while, until I mend my wounded wings.

Each morning I wake up I look for a sign

A sign for the rain, a sign for trouble

A sign of you coming out of the rubbles