Don't call my Name, I just want a Cigarette

The battle scars bear witness to the wars waged on emotional fronts. Love is dead under the fires of Practicality and the necessity of War. My heart is the battlescape with criss-crossed battle hardened scars laid over scars, drenched in the futility of tears that barely wet the dry leathery organ, I have no need for love anymore. The only thing I want for Christmas is to heal my physical self. Let the emotional scars remain, for this is my Glory.

The branded words on my heart. Unspoken, yet clearly there.

The Impending Lull

It is going to be Christmas all too soon. The word is ready as I am about to launch a full-scale offensive on the physical front, to clear up my face and my body. My vision awaits. The blog is not at its deathbed, it appears, as I jumpstart the dying chortles of the beaten self. The mind has been battered but the awakening bides its time. All in good time. All in good time.

Let's not be too hasty in our judgment. I am after all, Xavier Harker.

The Beginning of the End

I think it's about time I close this blog. Life is too full of sorrow already for me to add on to it. It's time to lay down the arms, lay down the sorrow, lay down the wears and burdens and come to peace with Father. It's almost time to go back to Him, who has been patiently waiting for me to return ever since I knew Him, and left Him in the middle of that night, sixteen years ago.

I don't wish to come back here again. I have been closer to the edge than never before. I have loved, have hurt, have been hurt, have cried, have laughed, have been angry, been jealous, been excited, and have experienced the full spectrum of emotions that a human should have. This year has been this eventful.

But I will never forget, I will never regret the times of extreme sorrow, extreme love that I have so keenly felt, the hurt, the passion that coursed through me, and that I have expressed here, for it makes me what I am. I am glad. The Night is not going to be gloomy any more, as day breaks for a better tomorrow.

Xavier Harker means 'listen for the home'. It will be time to go back soon. Very soon.

The Game

Stripped of the useless emotions, I am who I was, but for how long? I wonder. I yearn for that sickly sweet feeling of love, but am full aware of the destruction it brings. It is wonderful while the feeling lasted. Let the heartbeat die.

Too Late to Apologize

I guess what must go, must go. Only the memories will remain; at least I have lived once before.

Nihilism

I need to stop all feelings; hate the reckless run of emotions, hate the harshness of reality, hate myself, no meaning, no direction, no life.

The Frozen Wasteland

This is the time when I constantly remind myself not to be slaved under the chainings of love, that my identify matters as much as anything else. Because often not, I have been copying so many things that I am but a mere doppelganger to everything, especially the other. I need to establish my voice, subsumed for so long under everything 'normal', because I am anything but.

I need my cloak around me, yet my cloak must be my feature, my voice. I am not the other. I will not be subjected to the tyrannies of 'normalcy', to rules, to expectations, and of utmost, I am who I am, despite not knowing who I am actually. I need to be comfortable in my own skin.

My quaser remains, my every move forward is to make it happen. Damnation to those who stands in my way. The Mage shall control his destiny, not the other way. For too long have I been subjected to the damning rituals of my own contrivance, and it shall no longer be so. I am the Mage. Everything must be controlled. I shall not be held sway to the irrationalities of emotions. The Frozen Wasteland must reign in its place.

Swept Away

As the emotions surge and alternate between anger and sorrow, despair and rage, the Xavier Harker kicks in and sweeps away all of these irrationalities, only to be replaced by the mute desolation, the icy wasteland, that frozen landscape devoid of life, of humanity, of feelings, of voices. The ice shall surge in all its stark bluest glory, for the world holds no hope for me. The pimpled reflection never fails to remind me.

Love is a sham, solitude reigns.

September Drawls

As September draws to a close, so does the seemingly impoverished self retreats into that cosy corner of reflection while dreaming of that bacchanalia teeming with fish and dancing with wild abandon. Company is both desired and detested.

I am bereft of rationality as Xavier reins me in occasionally with tight mental slaps. I have a foremost duty to my body. Xavier is selfish. And so should I.

There is no difference between friendship and love.

Alejandro

It complicates my trajectory of life, this affair, as I shuttle between joy and despair. It's not who I am, it's not who I will be, but that quagmire of confusion that muddles my mind in that obtuse manner of thinking and speaking. The voice in my mind grows louder, as I lock myself in that corner. I am no longer coherent. I am Alejandro, calling for my name which is an illusionary label, like that which we call love.

The Carnival is Dead

The carnival holds no allure, its loud music and sweaty bodies a pale reflection of what it used to be, a hedonistic site reeking of pleasure which now, is lost to the recesses of the mind. Fun is illusionary. The company is sheer disappointment, unnecessary pressure on my Mustang self. I detest the chains of guilt and duty and that will be the last place that I imagined to be exacted on me. And that will be the last time I ever visit the Carnival.

Nadir

No amount of happiness could compensate for the sorrow I feel in this life, as I push myself deeper and deeper into the abyss. Will I bounce from my nadir, I wonder, whether one day, I would cease to bounce at all, and remain at the pits of my misery.

I wonder why would people want to go on living at all, when life is such a misery. People keep on asking why I want to die. I ask them why they would want to keep on living.

I have been living on borrowed time, since I was 15.

Scars

Platonic and romantic love differ by a thread, and when does one meld into the other, or rather, degenerate into the former, there can be no telling. The frequency of meetups seem to dictate the conditions but I may be mistaken.

The situation may be comprehensible, but acceptance is of another sort entirely.

It adds on another scar on my already scarred heart, as I try to mute it and mitigate the pain, but it may be too much insofar that it's extinguished altogether.

It was like a tight slap, that it might degenerate into an obsession. It's not me. At all. To devolve into that mindless slave for love who pines for something so illusionary. But today, I did something for myself, finally.

Resolute

As Xavier Harker takes a firm hold over my mind, I feel, and I am afraid, that I will lose the flame in my life. His pervading sense of lost emotions and deadened throes will soon overwhelm me. I am afraid of losing him. Yet, Xavier is resolute. His cold will reign, and my love may be lost too soon, too soon.

Balance

As I settled into that odd state hovering between jadedness and calm repose that smells curiously of stale marriages, I seriously ponder what is the difference between love and friendship. One looks like the other, or is it that I have misconstrued the idea of love, that assumed stereotype of flame and thunder that accompany the notion of it where both meet every day to satiate the desires of constant companionship. Or is it simply a small notch higher than the other. How much do I love to accomodate all of that usurped notions?

I have to live with the idea that it is not what I had imagined. Is it time to retract myself from it? I have to keep readjusting the expectations and reformat my time. I have to be Xavier Harker again.

Arizona

As the wind blows across the sandy landscape
The tumbling thistle rolls past the sole cactus
Riffled by the dust devils that bespoke
Of that lone hooded figure.
Such is the affair of my heart.

Abandon

When you said that you would abandon me for your friends, my heart broke.

Trip

Things are looking up, I guess, as I struggle to make sense of the myriad emotions that had assailed me, that Dy is so near yet so far at times, so near yet I cannot feel that familiar touch, that I thought my frequency seems off-beat from Dy's, until I realized it really doesn't matter, that I still love Dy. Every minute of it. If there is anything called madly in love, this is it. And I know, irrationality is overwhelming every bit of logic and sense that still remain in me. And I know I will never love another like I do again.

The Mistakes Continue

It is that neverending vicious cycle of mistakes that drag me further and further down into the depths of condemnation, from which there is no redemption. There is no purgatory in the workplace, only the extremes of heaven and hell. The situation damns me much as I damn the situation.

Is it what I want, what I desire? Does another job await? I wonder yet again.

Why I Run

The pain that afflicts each runner, the cramp that threatens to cripple the run to the finishing line, yet, every one wonders, why do we still run despite the tortuous pain? The taxi driver comments, one must be crazy to sign up voluntarily for the race, instead of spending time dating, or whatever. Or whatever indeed.

I run, to test my limits, to test my spirit. I am the runner, the gazelle and the mustang. Running is Life. To tune out the pain, to withstand the anguish, to grin and bear it, as with Life.

The Pain is Good. I am the Pain. I am Sparta.

Despair

The numerous mistakes plaguing the works that I complete, the utter dismay and dissatisfaction with each task, the sheer idiocity that accompany the errors seem to collapse in one day. The tiredness, the anguish and uselessness converge and I wonder if I am better off in that small wooden box again. All these point to my incapability to deal with reality and to be the worker they perceive me to be. Disappointment arises as words too, fail to express my thoughts, befuddled with the surging emotions of conflict, as the fatness, idiocity, and ugliness find a focal point. I have no worth.

Left to my own, left to my own.

I am so tired. I am alone.

After all.

At That Corner

I thought I would be free from the inane politics that befuddles the workplace. Such is the stuff of humans. O to lead a simple life where one lives out the innocence once again like the children whom I face. But no, this is reality, an escape tainted by the stains of adults and power struggles and ambitions for that lofty place of prestige and bloodied honor. The issue of capability is always at the corner of the eye, hovering and waiting in ambush. I would have to invoke the Blue Mageborn again.

The Reign of the Iceman

I numb myself to the endless deluge, the frost now blows stronger than before. Let the snow reign. There shall be no fires burning left, but that bitter coldness in the biting chills of everlasting winter. I am the Iceman.

Taboo

As I spend time alone, the carnival beckons like never before, that senseless escape to a temporary Wonderland, where no one sleeps in that mind-numbing music. It dulls the mind to a mechanized drone, that self-induced trance which forbades any other action other than the repeated motions of crazed intoxication. In short, it's a taboo.

The retaliations against public sensibilities, the drowning of which is the opiate of my innermost protestations. I am that lone Mustang in the wildeness of improbabilities, yearning to test my limits like never before, to indulge in the untried vices of worldly temptations; sex, cigarettes, liquor, fights, you name it. Especially the fights, that leaves one bloodied and emancipated. Life is never more inglorious, a true bastard.

I detest the leashes of social correctness. Instead, as Gaga professes, let's have some fun, this beat is sick.

Dumb-dumb

I have often wondered about the essence of intelligence, having watched my neighbour grow up in that state of vacantness in the Room Upstairs. And I have often wondered if I do belong to that club of theirs, seemingly normal enough yet probably deserving of membership due to my ineptness in certain capabilities.

There are many instances of some adults who are normal enough to function in mainstream society, yet marked as dumb in their actions. Am I a dumb-dumb? I know I must do something to escape that branding. Five languages are never enough. Or should I remain so?

The Boy in the Pimple Mask

The scars are a testament to the nefarious struggles against the infidels of the system. There can be no perfection, no control. The blemishes stand stoically for that. Will my quaser be attainable? Am I to wear this mask forever?

No one's Fault

The rain shall continue to pour
and washes the unwanted all.
Will I forget? Will I?
I wonder the whatifs.
I wonder about the swim.
The swim that I have waited for so long
Has come to naught.
What if
What if
There is no turning back now
The shed tears
The extinguished hope
The misguided light
Has no place
The coffin is bare
The grave is empty
Where has it gone
In the waters
Of my memory

The Easy Way Out

Take me, my Lord, take me, for life is a miserable wretch, an agonizing struggle against the woes of humanity, a daily warfare against the Fates, the three bitches who turn the damning wheel this way and the other.

Cut the string, I say, cut it. Why prolong the torture that beset me at every corner? Haven't I been played enough already? I am unwilling, I cannot swallow it, this hell, this accursed workplace that reeks of that sulphurous stench everywhere I go. It is hell on Earth. And every day, I report to hell for work. Thirty years of unending anguish, torture, and it seems so much easier to take the easy way out. One packet of broad beans, just one packet is all it takes, and everything ends peacefully.

The connections I have forged, will vanish in an instant. The good things together with the bad will disappear, misery will be extinguished. Let there be neither hell or heaven, but that entropy. Take me!

Insomnia

I can't sleep until you are by my side. I can't believe myself. This seems nearly impossible for this postmodernist soul. But yet, I am by your side. It's a dream, and I am constantly afraid it would end. I am living on extended time, after all.

It's insomnia.

Monga

So it shall be. The meaning of life lies in the very acts of struggle for existence itself. One loses something and gains something and in that very process, completes the search for the existential truth. God is at my boundary. There is only the Fight.

All These While

As the drudge wears on, I wonder if the mental resistance will collapse eventually. Am I capable of juggling all these brutal burdens? Am I worth the trouble? My capabilities are overrated, and I don't feel the sense of self-worth after misadventure after misadventure. I am weary.

I want to do something more for the kids, yet I am bounded by the very fetters of administrative drudge. I am helpless. Yet, how do the rest cope? I seriously wonder.

I trudge on.

I need to find an alternative to the apparent fate lying in store for me. And this is an occupation I refuse to be quagmired in.

How could even the keying in of remarks be deprived of autonomy? I don't even have that barest of authority, usurped by the process of management itself.

What other scholarly pursuits can I undertake? I need to continue my quaser. But at what price? I wonder again.

The Wanderer, the Juggler

I am destined to wander, in search of ideals that are never meant to be. I am the Juggler, a balancer of acts who precariously teeter on the edge. I am a Mustang, a spirit of the Cimarron, never to be tethered, to be cooped in the cages of reality. I am the Rebel, rebelling against the constricting rules of society. I am a Fighter, battling against the wheels of fortune, of fate turning, turning. And I am the Mage, a magic-user of the mind and time, of the Will and Fate. I shall control my own destiny, and fulfil my Quaser despite the constant deluge of sorrows. For Sorrow is my strength. At my nadir, shall I rebound with greater strength. I am the Will. And I shall dictate everything in my fancy.

The Time is Nigh

The time is finally here for me to make a stand for whatever I stood for, the insistent call to the grave, to embrace my ever-lasting peace. The Time is Nigh, I say, and nothing stands against my way. I shall complete what I have left unfinished 15 years ago, something which I should have done so long ago. I shall bring my years to a close. This week, I hope.

No Rest for the Wicked

The only thing,
more than anything in the world
that I wish for
is for evening to descend,
to let me get my eternal rest
For life is a burdensome woe
And all the happiness merely
a distraction to the untold sorrows
Yet I linger
Each painful step
Craving for sleep
Craving for peace
Every breath a fight
I have nothing to live for
Let it end
Let it end
Let me rest

Stirs

I saw the changes he has had and it stirs my blood, my dispassionate soul into a motion, into the desire for more changes in myself. I must not reside in that stagnancy and rot to the high heavens. Change must be initiated and materialize. I am the Changer. Have I changed today?

Voice of Duty

I have failed in my duty two times in a week. No matter how much I do, it won't absolve me of the guilt that attaches willy-nilly to my grovelling self. I am paid to do my duty, yet I have failed. In samurai terms, it necessitates a harakiri, and I should have perished in the waters that I have loved for so long, or something else to that effect.

Yet, I am a biathlete now. Elation would have filled me if not for that sense of dread and self-whipping guilt that eats into my soul every minute until an act of compensation of time and effort vindicates me. It really seems sorrow and fitness do go hand in hand for Xavier Harker. What could I do to redeem my soul, except to mark this as a lesson of obligation towards duty above fun. I am born to suffer above anything else.

Happiness is just an incidental effect, suffering and sorrow a norm, a default. It is my duty to submit to that rule until the day I cease to be. Let the voice of duty reign. Let the fateful day arrive quickly. I shall submit.

Penance

It is not a career. It is penance. As he is so fond of reminding me, it is karma accrued from my past life, and I am now suffering for it. It is just a matter of how much more suffering that I have to bear and grin until something gives way, physical or otherwise. It is so much easier when your life is riddled with less obstacles, but yet again, as he reminds me, it tests my mettle for all it's worth, but to what purpose, I may ask. When will I lay my weary self in the seas of oblivion, when I feel the full thirty years weighing on my shoulders?

What am I fighting for every day? In a run, at least, I know I have a goal. But in life, it defeats me.

Disturbances

I detest it when work interferes with my personal life, when all has been planned and there appears a kink out of nowhere. And I know that the fight continues, as I exert my Will in the harsh realities and trying to establish a foothold in the slippery whims of powers that try to control me. It is but a matter of establishing dominion over them instead. I will have my cake and eat it. I will study, and I will exercise, and goddamn it if I may be disrupted again.

For Glory

Next week's the open water swim. Will I die? Will I live? Something lurks at the back of my mind, urging me towards the former, as logic insists on the latter option. I tried preparing the eventualities, and I ponder what would it be like if indeed I leave with the Reaper. Would it be like the time I lost consciousness? Where I have no sense of anything at all? What would I miss if I am to leave just like that? Am I ready for that? Mere rhetoric.

Gobbledy-gook

Sick again? Trying to fight, spent all my life fighting, so a few more fights with my spent self won't matter. Spent the entire day in bed, musing, mulling over the prospects of working. What would I do if I don't do this? All this garbled speech takes me nowhere. Am watching the romantic comedies again and it delights me, although I am hesitant about the actualities of love.

Call

What do I want,
what do I need?
What should I do?
What can I do?
Oh Will, guide me, guide me,
tell me what to do, what to do,
that I may pass the week
with my sanity intact.

The First Rule of Fight Club

The first rule of fight club is, you do not speak of fight club. Fight club is an illusion in itself. You weave every thread of reality into the fabric of illusions and sew it layer upon layer until it becomes a great comforter, a quilt to suffocate the pains of reality. Each breath upon birth is a gasp of pain and suffering without one's realization. Sometimes, the physical pain that you are inflicted with merges with the metaphysical ones, that one does not differentiate one with the other. Maybe that's why I run in marathons, and work myself to the death in gyms. The pain is much relished.

Maybe that's why I am not a religious person. For one to continue this existential pain into eternity, it is an abysmal nightmare that knows no end. No amount of love can cover that. I am a disbeliever of love. I believe only in pain and suffering. Happiness is a temporal relief.

The Boss is Always Right

It is a classic case of command and control, or rather, commanded and controlled. It is much of a nuisance that people do no bequeath that trust, and remove that autonomy for no reason other than pure idiosyncrasy. You are just a worker and you do not question authority. No wonder school sucks. The job sucks. Everything is institutionalized, even sanity. You just smile at it all and drown it in hedonism to mitigate the situation.