What does it mean to be free? Is anyone ever free with everything that we’ve experience in life? Death, desire, lust, mysteries, fate, destiny, free will. How can we all be free and not at the same time?

It doesn’t make sense for the rambler that things are just is without no rhyme or reason. There has to be a reason for things that happen, connections that are made, friends that are lost. There has to be a reason for these things. If not, then they are just things. They just is, existing on their own with no connection to anything or anyone. They are coincidences in our little lives.

As I sit up here typing away in my usual spot, in my typical verse, I wonder to the drowned out thoughts in my head. What is life? How do you live life?

Life is something that one just experience. Life is just something that is lived by the individual. Life is life. There is nothing about it and nothing around it. It just is.

Fond tickling of the parts around me, fond ticklings of the arm, the soft skin, the smooth cool digits, the dooey eyes and the beautiful face. Fond tickling things are.

I sit and I sit, looking out wondering, lusting at the things that people have and I have not. I look around shaking with the bridge that I am on. Is it another earthquake or the traffic and the wind that is blowing oh so fiercely?.

If it is the big one that ends my life, then this little diddy will never be read by any wandering eyes.

Traffic lines up in the claustrophobic tight streets of Westwood Blvd. Traffic lines up waiting to go somewhere. Traffic is what holds us up.

What is the traffic that we deal with in our normal daily life? Our neighbors, our friends, our fears, our confidence and self esteem. They stack up because they have no where to go, no signs that give them permission to be release. Nothing. They just build up and build up and build up, waiting for that initial release to free itself from this stagnation.

Once given the sign, they flow freely and go wherever it is that they need to go. To our loved ones, to our heart. They go everywhere and nowhere. They just go and flow like they are scraps of confetti blowing in the wind. They flow and flow.

I flow and flow everywhere I go, for my life is free flowing. It goes wherever my little feet and my heart takes me. Sometimes it’s daring, taking chances with that particular someone. Sometimes it’s shy, staying away from people that might intimidate him. Sometimes it just doesn’t care and does whatever it is that it feels like doing. That is how things are now. It just doesn’t care.

My life goes and goes, never ending until it ends. My life goes and goes, never ending until there is a stop. My life goes and goes. After it builds up its momentum, it is hard to stop it unless a tragic force hits it with fury. It never stops.

Stagnation is a place that I’ve been to and it’s a place that I do not want to go back. It is my hell in a place of hell. It is the worst part of life. The moss has been thrown off of this tumbling sand pebble that built up into a giant bulder. My life tumbles and tumbles free willingly down this majestic mountain road that many have been on and traversed.

Now it is my turn to have a little go on this mountain round. Now it is my turn to roll with the punches, fly with the birds, flow with the streams. Now it is my turn to face my fears and put them into submission as I take chance after chance after chance in the chance game of life.

Whatever comes, no one knows. Whatever that is before us is a mystery to all.

I got a crush on this little new found glory that clouds my mind. This little new lust that causes me to dream dreams I’ve haven’t seen before. This new found joy of life that everyone notices. This joy of release.

Many have notice the change of giddiness and happy moments from the usual dark brooding moods that usually flow through my veins and through my skin. It is a new change in me, and it all has to do with an extra hour of sleep a night.

Sleep is my new found friend that I’m so familiar with. A long deep night’s sleep is the refresher that helps me face the day ahead. It is the extra juice that pushes the start button.

Sitting here on this little bridge, typing whatever it is that comes to mind is becoming tedious and rusty. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, so out of my routine am I. Hopefully my outings of writing will increase as my laps will increase too. Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully.

New editions to the family will make its way to us soon. Boy and girl, girl or boy, boy or boy, girl or girl, are possibilities that come with life. They come and grow up and go like the rest of us all.

Sometimes they bring us smiles, other times, they bring us tears. Most of all, they bring us to us.

Walking across the street, walking across the road of life. Crossing the path, crossing the path. Crossing. We risk our lives to cross the path so we have a direction to intercut with the life that is before us.

We give ourselves power to do the things that we need to do, if we don’t we get assistance from those near and dear.

Still a little hard to say, what’s going on in this little head of mine. Lusting for things that I dream of and rejecting them all at the same time. The confusion that besets me slowly melts away to the self assured nature of who I am.

As night slowly creeps up on me, watching the glowy orbs criss cross against the roads, I sit and watch as the world is illuminated with life and lights. I watch the world fill with stars in the city of the stars, Los Angeles.

I have neighbors up here with me, so if the big one hits, I wouldn’t be alone in my fall to the broken streets below. I’ll be a part of the rubble and I have no qualms about that.

So come on courage, teach me to be shy because this new found “cockiness” is scaring the usual tame nature that is me.

Walking in platforms, there you go, lost in thought, talking to that lil’ someone beside you. You walk into my life and out like it was the front door to your house. No regard for the mysteries around you. No regard to life at all.

You go about your business, you go about your deeds. You come again and pass through the entry way again, not paying attention. You pass through and pass through.

Finally he got the hang of doing nothing says the billboard across the street. Such old news to a guy who does nothing perfectly well. I’m an old pro at the inactivities of life. Come join my hermitude of antisocialness. Come join me in this little game of being on one’s own. Come join me in the new found lust of life. Come join me.

Does this mean that I want to move away from my old ways of hermitude and bring forth new life to my veins? I find that hard to believe but the desire is strong and the desire is there to make one last connection.

I want a strong and free flowing connection to a new infatuation that turns into something more than just mere games. I want a connection that is wireless, and understands all the information that I need. I need a new connection.

 

Sitting at this new found place, watching the traffic drive by and typing my conversation with my computer screen to a recipient a thousand miles away, I just sit and wonder where things are now. Where are things?

Things are where they always have been; things haven’t changed much. I’m out writing my usual diatribes as always, and I’m out away from home, doing whatever it is that I’m doing. I’m not in a rush to go anywhere or to meet anyone. I’m just here.

Things have just gotten better for me, as many have been putting it. I’m not depressed anymore; I’m the chipper, happy go lucky guy. Well for the past three to four weeks as I’ve been told. That’s good for me too, so I’ve been told.

What has changed that I haven’t written about. Nothing much. I guess the things have just set in and I’m tired of my old ways. I’m tired of my angry ways. I’m just tired. I’m starting a new, starting a new trend in my life.

There’s just nothing that has changed much. Things are going as well as usual with that particular single mother at work. Things are going well at work. Things are going well in the social front. Not that much is happening, it’s just that I’m doing whatever it is I want to do. That to me is all that matters. That is all that matters.

Life goes on like always, life goes on like time. Life just goes and goes until it goes no more.

I’ve lost my will to write today. I lost my will to write now, as I am distracted by the sun and by the invisible conversation that I’m having. I lost my will to write, but I march on, typing the words you see now and inserting my two cents where it needs me. I just wait until it is time for me to leave as I’ve scoped out the place that I’ve came to scope out.

I’m just waiting for things to come to me like I’ve always done; but now, I’m more patient than I ever was. Now there’s just things that changed in me that will see an opportunity and act on it if it is appeasing.

I sit here typing away, looking at the people sweetening their already sweet coffee and teas.

Butter is what I smell in the air. Not the familiar aromatic smell of coffee beans, but butter. It’s the rich oozy kind that is in theatre popcorn. The “heart attack” inducing butter.

The place is louder than I thought it would be. The place will do, the place will do. I have found my place for this month; I have found my place for the next meeting. It is Tanner’s Coffee, which reminds me…

I’ve lost my will to write today. Maybe tonight, I’ll be better. Things will most likely flow better tonight. It’ll probably be my typical diddy of mindless rambling. Maybe, maybe not.

I haven’t written anything in a while. I haven’t written anything in the past four to five weeks. This is my first attempt. This is my first real entry in a long time. It’s not good.

It is now approaching the time when I will be meeting my little troupe. It is about that time and the place seems a little more crowded than when I first started to be here. It’s getting a little louder; it’s getting a little more uncomfortable. I guess I’ll have to see how things go here in the next two weeks, then I’ll find another place.

I’m always looking for new places. Looking for new little gems. I haven’t found another gem like my usual spot left. I don

Well, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, whether work wise or journal wise, as you all can attest to. I’m at home right now with Six Feet Under on next to me, but I’m typing away. I was to start and go writing tonight, but I opted to stay home and watch some episodes. I was supposed to write tongiht, and continue on incorporating my two plays into one. I was to write tonight. So here I am tonight, writing.

I really don’t have much to write about, so I think I’ll share a little something that I think I wrote.

Here’s a funny story. A couple of months ago, while going through some files on my computer, I came across this poem. Now here’s the funny thing, I don’t remember writing the poem. I found the poem on my laptop, in my poems folder. It is titled and formatted.

Now, I never format my poems and i rarely ever title my poems. And most of all, I don’t remember writing it. I hesitate to call this poem mine because when I read it, it is actually really good. I don’t write good poems. I write bad poems well, so imagine my surprise when I found this one. I’ve contacted all I knew that wrote poems and asked if the poem was their’s…It wasn’t, so I guess this poem is mine. I will call this poem mine. Here it is.

LOVE IS A DIM AND FADING LIGHT

I see you on a daily basis
Watching you watching me
Stealing shy glances that we both don’t see

You talk to me and build me up
I construe your attention as affection
Leaving me drunk with your essence

I join a group to confess my sins
It clears the soul and brings realization
I’m a puppet entangled with your strings

Now knowing what I know about love
I rebuild my heart with ice and iron
It keeps me steely cold from your glances

I keep to myself not talking to you
Hoping that these feelings will fade away
It doesn’t because my heart melts for you

I mend my heart again trying to find a way
But there is no way when it comes to love and lust
So I go through the cycle with you day after day

2004-08-14

There it is. Again, the peom follows the same themes or unrequited love that I usually write about in my poems, but again, I don’t ever remember writing it. But, again, here, I call this poem mine.

I came out here tonight so I could write, so I could write a personal entry about a particular girl and what happened to us last week. I wrote the entry. I kept her little notes and her little story about us framed in history with that earlier posting. Now I sit here for about an hour just thinking what else to write, what else would I need to say. I couldn’t think of anything. Nothing at all.

So I just sat and read earlier entries that I’ve written in the past month to take note of what I’ve written. I’ve written about many things, lots of things, some personal and others that aren’t. I thought I was going to go onto another personal diatribe about what is happening in my life right now. I don’t think I will. I don’t feel compelled to. I’m just going to write.

I sit here on this bridge, not as alone as I would like, typing away under this spotlight. It hurt my eyes, but I don’t care. I’m writing. I’m putting words down on the page, adding another entry, just writing to keep my brain working. Just writing.

I guess because it is fast approaching summer so early in the spring that more and more people are coming out to my little secret writing space to do their little work. Read, write, do homework, watching the traffic that float by like I’ve always loved to do. I’m just sitting here typing away, doing my best to ignore these people, but at times, I don’t think I can. They are invading my space. They are taking over my beloved quiet work area. I can’t have this anymore. It’s just too much but I can’t do anything about it.

So I just hunker down and write and write and write. I type words that string together and I read what I just wrote to know what it is that I’m thinking.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. Is it that single mother that I’m so obsessed with? Is it about the dinner I had on Friday night with a group of friends of mine, or is it about the poker night I had over the weekend. I lost a dollar by the way.

Gosh, it is only 8:38. I can’t believe it is so early. It felt like I’ve been here for a while now, and I have. I got here early tonight. Really early. So I sit here just typing away in my usual stream of consciousness, just typing away.

I think about all of the things that happened to me in the past couple of weeks. My bouts of socialness, my long talks with that friend of a friend. I’m just thinking and replaying things in my head.

I’ve been told something I’ve been told many times today by that single mother. I have nothing to be angry about. That is true. I really have nothing to be angry about. Nothing at all. I guess my sudden mood swings comes from my bouts of fatigue and lack of rest, even though I rest a lot. I find myself weird and strange, not able to control my feelings and emotions. But this past week and starting today has been a good time. Been happy and playful. It is always a good thing when I’m happy and playful.

I should just let things be. I should just let things go and let whatever happens happen. I shouldn’t care so much about these petty little issues in my life, my lack of experience, my singleness. I should care less. Let things happen when they happen. Just let things happen.

I’ll go on letting things happen as I am so use to letting things happen. I find myself enjoying being alone. I don’t feel inadequate that I’m not with someone. I actually enjoy being on my own, doing my own thing. I could do whatever I want, see whoever I want, go out with whoever I want, stay out as late as I want and I don’t have to compromise with anyone about these issues. I just do.

I’ve been writing seriously lately. Very serious. I just finished a new short script the other day. It is a 2nd draft of something that I wrote last August. I’ve changed many things, many things. Originally, I wrote the script Hermit Love as my first short that I will shoot, but then the reviews came in and the general consensus is that it sucks. So I rewrote it. It is drastically different. The only thing that stayed from the first draft is the characters’ names, the opening scene, and the story idea or theme.

Well, theme, story idea, I

My eyes struggle to focus on what use to be so clear in front of me. They can’t see what the signs say. They can’t make anything out. My visions worsens with each passing day. What happened?

It has begun; what I’ve dreaded for so long. The longing pain of unrequited attraction, the longing pain of infatuation, obsession. The longing pain. It has begun.

I’m not going to glorify this infatuation like I’ve always done before. There’s no glorification for any infatuation. There shouldn’t be. It’s just too painful to glorify and chrerish. This is all because of my sickness, my masochism.

The signs ahead of me were so clear. They were crystal, spelling out everything there was to know about the things to come, but now, they are just a blurry mess of words that I can barely make out. She always secretly liked his brother Edward. That’s what the sign says, but now, I can hardly make out the words.

The signs ahead of me are so open to interpretation now, I just don’t know how to approach them. I may have a clue as to what it is. Instead of me being with the single mother, I was only to think that I am ready to be with her and help parent her child. That was it. That was all there was to that sign. I’ve finally figured it out. I was too hopeful to believe that it was anything but. Where did this optimist come from? Where?

Now I sit here dreading the feelings I have for this beauty. Now I sit here wishing I was never this kind of person who falls for the unattainable. Why am I like this?

It must be the challenge of it all. It must be. I am a man of logic and practicality. It makes better sense for me to fall for someone who is attainable and likes me instead of falling for the one who I can not have at the moment. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?

It got me down today. It got me really down today. It was the first day since I’ve met her. It brought me down. This is the moodiest I’ve been in a while. It was the weather I tell her. It was only partly true. She was the rest.

Now I sit here, loathing in self pity for the feelings I don’t want to feel. How familiar this thing is. How familiar this life is.

I could do something about it, but I don’t know if I really can.

I’ll just let whatever happen happen. I’ll just not think too much about it, take a step back and reevaluate things. I’ll just let things be and just not partake in the games that we usually play. I need to keep my distance. That is all I need to do. Keep my distance. Keep my distance.

There is just something about writing in the day that I just can’t do. I’m sitting here in The Java Man here at Hermosa Beach, CA waiting for the writing group to arrive, and yet, I am at a lost for words on what to write. Sure I’m writing right now, but it just doesn’t have that flow that I always have when I am there on the bridge at night. It just doesn’t feel the same.

Maybe it is just too bright out, or maybe there is just that there are too many people around. They are distracting me. The traffic, the two blondes over to the right or the two guys behind me. There are just so many factors and distractions that I just can’t focus on anything pertinent.

The Java Man seems to be a nice chill place to just come and write. If only there were better places in LA like this, maybe I would be there more often. Maybe not. I wonder how late do they open.

I’m just at a lost for words. My fingers are dancing with the same ferocity as they are use to during the guise of night. Nothing flows, nothing streams. Just bits and pieces of staccato thoughts here and there to get me through.

There is nothing to write about at the moment, nothing at all.

Well, tomorrow will be my birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be 26 and either tomorrow or the day after, I may have my yearly birthday writing. I wrote one last year, dammit, I’m gonna write another one this year. I don’t have any idea of what I’m going to write yet, but I’m sure it will be something. It sure will be something.

I don’t even remember the last time I had a heart to heart with this journal anymore. It just seems that more and more, my postings here have become less and less about me and more and more about the stream of conscious writing that I’ve grown so accustomed too. No, that’s a lie. There are still bits and pieces here that is me. Everything here is me. Everything.

I wait silently like a lone reed, swaying in the cool breeze, just waiting, waiting for the time to come when we can get together and do our business. Just waiting for the time when we would all arrive and just sit down and write, share our valued works and to share our selves with the group. I’m just waiting for the time.

In the mean time, I will just type, type my little diddy of whatever comes to mind. This is the most “stream of conscious” writing I’ve ever done. This is the one that has no purpose, no forethought. I’ve never done this before. Never.

I’m sure my other ramblings here have some forethought in it. It has some focus as to where I’m gonna go with it. The girl, time, life. This one is just pitting me against the elements of time, boredom, and just me trying to keep myself occupied until they are here.

I sit here, just typing away, typing away to the rhythmic staccatos of the keyboard. I’m looking at each pedestrian that pass by hoping that it is a member of the group. Just looking to see if it is a member of the group. Many pass, but none are them. None.

There is a haunting woman that hangs next to me. She seems naked but a tray of food that sits in front of her. Maybe it is food. It’s a yellow mass of shapes and swirls that sit in a red box. She gazes out at us all, ignoring the people in the background. She just gazes, ignoring all. She looks at us as we are the show and she is the audience. She voyeuristically sits there lifeless to us, thinking what strange people we are, just sitting here drinking coffee, writing, talking. We are wonders to her.

And I sit here, just thinking about her. Her long strands of sandy blonde. The crimson nature of her surroundings. What is it all about? What is it all about? The blue wall behind her, are they windows or are they hanging life that are doing what she’s doing, that is looking? What is it all about. Who are we to judge, who are we to know? We are not her creators. We are no one in particular. We are just who we are, sitting here, enjoying the atmosphere.

The people just lounge, talking enjoying themselves. Maybe they are looking at us too, observing her as she observes us, and they look at us to see what is so interesting that grasps her attention so much. What is it about us that is so fascinating? What is it?

They sit there all nameless and faceless. They seem to be having a great time, they same to be enjoying themselves. That is who they are, just nameless people with forgettable faces. They are like the pedestrians that walk by minute after minutes, and we try to find a face and a name to put to their swaying walk and bodies. But it never happens. We all are just passing strangers. Just passing strangers, walking by and ignoring everyone, as we should.

Such a happy demeanor she has as she runs her long fingers through her blonde strings. There she is, another nameless soul to me. She talks to the phone, leaving a message for someone. Who? Her boyfriend, friend, family, who? Who knows? It’s none of my business. There she goes……

Isn’t it funny how sometimes some songs get stuck in your head and you remember it so clearly, that everytime you hear that song, it brings back certain memories about that song? Like, for instance, a certain moment that sticks out in your mind about that song, what you were doing, who you were with, so on and so forth.

I’ve been thinking about this lately, especially at work. There’s one particular song that would come on and it would just bring back a small memory that I have associated with that song. It wasn’t a memory of something big and momentous in my life, no, it was just a mundane memory. And for some reason, I associate the song to that.

The song is Natalie Imbruglia’s Wrong Impressions. This song came out something in 2001 or maybe even 2002. The memory that this song conjures up is a simple one. I’m in my car, my old car, the 1991 Honda Prelude. I’m just driving down Santa Monica Blvd, going to the Century City mall, most likely going there to catch a movie. The windows are down, the sun roof open, and I’m just driving. Of course the song has to be playing, if not, then why would this memory be associated with this song? Who knows.

The memory. Again, it’s a simple one. I’m just driving. Thinking back on it one day at work, it just seems that it was a happy memory for me. I don’t understand why it was such a happy memory for me, because around that time, I don’t think it was a happy time in my life. Well, maybe it was, and I just didn’t realize it. All I know that the feelings that I associate with this particular memory is a happy one.

I could see myself so clearly, just smiling my little smile, listening to the song, driving down Santa Monica Blvd with the wind blowing through my shaved hair. And it was a happy image, a happy memory. Maybe it was just me being on my own, not a care in the world, living the independent life that I’ve always wanted to live. I got a job that supports me and I’m on my own. Cut off from family as much as I could, not depending on them to survive. I’m doing it. I’ve become a separate entity from my parents, my brother, my family. I’m on my own, I’m myself.

Another similar memory is of Michelle Branch’s Washing Machine and Breathe. And these too are of memories of me driving, wind in my hair, not a care in the world. I’m just driving in my little Honda coupe, going to Fresno. I’m independent and I’m free. Driving, going where ever I please, doing whatever it is I want to do. Freedom.

Music has always been a big part of my life. It is everywhere and a part of everything that I do. I’m listening to music now as I type my little ditty here. I sing to myself classic tunes of yesteryear and also the mainstream popularity of today and also other tunes and other genres that are so common today. I sing, I hear, I listen. Tell you a little secret….Sometimes I dance too. Me dancing, a sight to see my friends, it’s a sight to see.

Music is just something I listen to, something to help me keep time, something to help me pass time, something to help me think. With each song, I’m sure, comes a different memory.

Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You from The Body Guard Soundtrack is a song that I will never forget. It is the song Amber and I danced to at our senior prom. I will always remember that night, I will always remember that dance, and I will always remember her.

It’s one of those memories that you never forget. It’s one of those things that you just look back on to see where have you been and to see where you are now. Amber, the love of my life, well, not actually, but she was my high school obsession. She was my high school crush, and most of all she was my friend. It was senior prom. I honestly don’t remember exactly why I went. Maybe it was during a ignorant time during the end of my high school career, thinking that I will be a little bit more social, so I went. I bought two tickets, but only needed one. I asked her out, but of course, she went stag. I went stag.

The night was on a boat. We cruised around the sound for a little bit. That was our prom. Now, me being the antisocial socially defunct guy at the prom, it wasn’t a really enjoyable affair. I was alone, not having a good time, and I was stuck on a boat. I had no where to go. I would go up and down, up and down, keeping myself occupied to pass the time faster. But unfortunately, it didn’t pass by fast. It was slow and torturous. Slow and torturous.

I don’t remember exactly what time it was, but I remember coming from the top level of the boat and going down to the next level to go to the bathroom. I walked through the door and there she was. Amber, in this lovely strapless black and white largely checkered dress (on a side note, which made her ass look big). Her hair, down and curly, a little pulled back. She was coming up the stairs. The bottom two floors were the dancing floors, but there she was.

I smiled the best smile that I could manage, given my episode of depression. She came up to me, grabbed my hand, turned around and just walked me down. She hasn’t said a word, not a word. She just dragged me down. I didn’t ask where we were going, I didn’t ask what she was doing, cause I knew. She pulled me to the middle of the dance floor, and there we danced. I Will Always Love You. She took off her heels to get more comfortable and we just danced. Slowly swaying to the rhythm of Whitney’s voice. I Will Always Love you.

I don’t know what she was trying to say or do, but all I know was that we danced. We just danced. Why she picked that song, why she went through all the effort to come find me, I don’t know. All I know was that we danced.

After the dance, I stayed with her for a couple of minutes, just trying to be social, but my usual self won out. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, and things just ended there. I bumped into other friends, talked for a bit, and then went up to the top floor where I was. Just looking out at the setting sun, watching the glimmer of light reflecting off of the sound. The light went out as the sun faded, and that was that.

Funny how you will always remember these memories.

The most recent memory is of Pink’s Just Like a Pill. It’s a good song, mainstream pop like any other, a song that I like a lot. It’s catchy. It was a few weeks ago actually, at Jill’s house warming party. I’m not exactly sure what I was doing at the time when it was on, maybe I was sitting inside on the stairs or maybe I was standing near the kitchen in conversation with some one. The girls, Drew included, were putting on songs to dance to. Just Like a Pill was the one that they put on. All I remember are the girls just jumping up and down, dancing, and singing at the top of their lungs to the chorus. Just dancing, laughing, singing, and having a good time.

The particular image that comes to mind is of Drew dancing, jumping up and down, singing at the top of her lungs. She looked so cute, just dancing there, laughing, smiling. But it will always be a memory and nothing more. Things will always be a memory. Just a memory.

How long do memories last. Will they fade in time as my brain cells gets fewer and fewer? Will there be more memories of this type? It’s a sad and longing memory this last one is. Just me, passive, sitting there, watching like an obsessed stalker. My how much I’ve changed huh?

But no, in all honesty, that’s life. Things just get stuck in your head for no rhyme and/or reason. They just get stuck. It is a imprint of a lost moment that you can never get back again.

People are like music too, they leave imprints, images, visions, memories, even dreams in your mind that you can’t get out of your head. You come up with a picture of the person, then another picture, another image and so on and so forth. Then you start to put a soundtrack to these images, a song that fit your sentiments, your moods, your emotions. Then you start to obsess and start to do this more and more often, and pretty soon these images become your life.

All of these things, these images, these people are of your past, yet, you remember them so clearly, you remember almost every detail. They haunt you like the living things you come across in your daily life. But you can’t do anything about them.

They are of the past and should stay in the past.

Why is it so hard to forget the things you want to forget? Why is it so hard to just leave these imprints behind in the past where they belong? Why?

I’ve been reading a book lately. It is a book about Wong Kar-Wai and his films. It is about analyzing his films, his themes and motifs. Time, memory, isolation, alienation. These are some of the main themes in almost all of his movies. Time and memory. He is fixated by time and memory. In particular in Ashes of Time. Near the end, there is a line that just rings true. It is somewhere along these veins. The more you try to forget something, the more you remember it. The more you try to remember something, the further away it becomes. It is so true.

I’m a guy who lives in the past, for I am a guy with a elephant’s memory. I’m a guy who can pull memories out of my mind like it is right in front of me. I spend much of my time focusing on these memories, well more so a long time ago, but not recently. But, the memories are still readily available. With each day, new memories are made to be filed away.

Tired.

I am tired. My body just screams for the bed that I sorely miss right now. It screams at the steal chair, the uncomfortable position, the drug that I’m taking. It screams for something more comfortable, something softer and warmer.

Each piercing scream gets louder and louder in my head. I ignore the pain and march on. I have to do this; I have to maintain this routine. If I deviate from the plan, I lose all focus. I can’t lose focus now. I have to focus on my work and nothing else. If not, pain will crawl slowly back into my life again. I can’t have that.

I come here night after night, typing away at this keyboard, writing my little stories about secret lives of other people. Last night it was Stormee, who “seize the day” and did what she must to get her guy. She was a brave soul, yet so tortured from alcohol. Was she thinking straight when she pretended to be passed out while her soul mate rapes her? To her, she was thinking straight; she was thinking clearly. She never thought so clearly in her life as she puts the plan in action. She needed her Christian that night. Stormee got her wish.

A couple of months before, it was a Young Man who raped his good friend. He fed her a few drinks and took her upstairs. He had his way. Finished, he just left her there, passed out and none the wiser, scraps for the buzzards that were flying high above. He did it because he could, because he’s done it before, and because it was a friend. The opportunity presented itself, and being a guy of opportunity, he couldn’t pass up the chance.

How can things like this happen in life? How can something so vile and so wrong happen like it was nothing? How? It just can. That’s life. The Young Man raped his friend who he thought was passed out, but in reality, his friend just used him to get what she wanted, and that was to have him inside her. It was a ploy to get him into bed, because she knows he wouldn’t otherwise. That was all that mattered to her, that was all she needed.

Who is wrong in this situation? Stormee for pretending to be passed out so her friend, Christian, can take advantage of her? Or is it Christian, who took advantage of a drunk friend?

Who’s the bad guy? Or are there any bad guys in this scenario? Funny how things are just left up to people to judge what is right and what is wrong. Many people will see it one way, others will see it another. Many will agree and many will disagree. It’s kind of hard when both are acting on selfish motives. But in life, we all are acting on selfish motives. To some people, they have no problems with taking what they can get, no matter the cost. Others will never consider or even think of the possibility. They just admit defeat and move on.

Fiction. Flights of fantasy these two stories were. Just something I made up to entertain myself. It was something I wrote because I got an idea in my head and I needed to put it on paper. It was taken from an experience from my life. No, I never done anything of the sort, any thoughts of that nature never crossed my mind. No. It never happened. But in a way, I was accused of it. I made it into a story where it actually happened.

That was the story of the Young Man. It was his tale about a friend of his from highschool. He raped her, and that was that. No more, no less. Now the story of Stormee was a fabrication all together with no outside influence. I wrote it because I wanted a companion piece to the Young Man’s story. I wanted it from the woman’s perspective. How it was like to be raped? I don’t know. Instead of going through with her story about being raped, I had to come up with something different. Power. Will. Choice. Manipulation.

The woman had the power. Everything was her doing. She had the power over the man. The Young Man was weak, giving in to his nature, giving into his animal instincts, to his greed and selfishness. The woman showed control. The woman had the power throughout the relationship. All women do. She used him for her own gain. That was all that matters.

So again, who’s the bad guy here? Who is in the most wrong? The man or the woman? Who is to judge?

My social self is not a very pleasant one. I see myself in a certain light that is drastically different from how others see me. I see myself as the antisocial loner that alienates himself from others, and others see me as this social butterfly that jokes and laughs and makes conversations with people. These people who see me in this light are mostly people that I met from work.

Work people are different. I have to play nice, I have to interact, I have to socialize with them, so it takes away the pressure of socializing with them. Now, people that I meet at parties, that’s different. There are people that I connect with right off the bat and there are others that I don’t connect with at all and in my case the former is generally the case.

I am both, but I really do think that I am my own belief. I’m that social wallflower.

I can get to be that fun guy, but it all depends on the situation, the party, the people that I’m hanging out with and all importantly my mood of socializing, and my level of sobriety. If I’m not in the mood to socialize, I usually don’t go to the party, or if I am at the party and I’m not feeling the crowd, then I tend to keep to myself or find someone I know there and try to talk with them.

I find myself doing that this past weekend at a party that I went to.

I wasn’t feeling the crowd. It just wasn’t my crowd. It was my friend Jill’s house-warming bbq bash at her and her roommate’s, Leina, apartment. Nice apartment. If only I was richer.

Anywho, I went to the party, expecting just to be like her birthday party that I went to a few months ago. It wasn’t. First of all, I didn’t have enough to drink, and secondly, I was kind of freezing my ass off.

I didn’t feel comfortable. The guests were talking about things I know nothing about or cared much for. So, I was out of my element.

But I went anyways. It wasn’t until the very end when I actually enjoyed myself. It was just Jill and I, talking. Just talking about life, expectations, finding oneself and not compromising one’s interest and one’s personality for the greater good of the crowd or friends. Be yourself. One has to sacrifice many things to do what one’s heart desires. I did it, and so can she.

But back to the party, the wallflower in me. Walking in the door, I noticed a THE GIRL. She was there. I half expected it, but at the same time I thought she was somewhere else. But she was there.

Last time we’ve met, I was smitten. Seduced by her girlish charms, her bouts of cuteness, her bad jokes, her adorable sense of attractiveness. She’s hot. We talked, we joked, we laughed. It was a great time had by all or so I believe.

She looked no different, dressed down more than last time, which makes her look even more attractive. But she is still she, her adorable self.

I don’t know what it was with me, but for the most part, I tried to make a connection with her again, but I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe it was just me being a wallflower or maybe it was her sensing my awkwardness around her that made her keep her distance; I’m not sure what it was, but I know for sure that we didn