Las Palmas de Gran Canaria

My head has been going on a neverending pirouette all day. Like having a massive weight from my head all the way down just underneath where my heart is. Like it is dangling there with barely any sort of string attached, alternating movement left and right like a pendulum. Like having a massive meal for lunch and not being able to eat for dinner, making me diminish whatever is left of my appetite. And it reminds me that my days ahead already are days gone. 

No one can fathom how much tension and frustration has been building up inside me lately, and no matter how much I try to convince myself that the light trickling intermittently inside me supplants the dark that is accumulating steadily, the truth of the matter is that the law of attraction, which purports that my thoughts have the uncanny ability to manifest things in my life, is just a silly madeup load of shit that people came up with to feel better about themselves. It would feel so much easier for me when my delusions slowly eventuate into my pride and reality, because insofar as I myself am involved, the only desirable outcome is the deletion of my id. This bohemian bag of dicks whose only desire is to want, want, want with no hope for satisfaction. This is why it is never safe to be left alone with myself. The only conversation to be had are those that have already come before, and it never fails to mention all the near-hits and the supposedly bygones and the sad trombones that have already passed me by. Things that are primed for deletion. Old stuff loitering within my creaky biological hard drive. This crepitus is not uncommon especially when I barely pay myself any heed nor mind most days, and the only reason I do is for someone else's benefit. Sometimes if it does benefit me in some respect, then there is a clear expectation of reward. Some kind of compensation for the amount of effort I put into this new thing, although new experiences are a definite no-no to this sad and pathetic little bitch of mine called id. We could not even ignore each other even if we tried, much to the chagrin of the other side of me, which is my ego.

My life is currently being plagued by such an unhealthy sort of longing. The worst kind: unreciprocated love. To love air is like being some sort of an oxygen thief, and the climate becomes whingy and torturous because regardless of where I go it just becomes delineated and occupies every ground and space I cover. I cannot hope to contain such an elaborate labyrinthean nightmare. It has to end in either acceptance or rejection, but never ever in between, because assumptions are the matriarch of all fuckups. It concretises the things that are supposedly not there and ignores everything else. It affects my routine, the work that I do, the small things, the big things, the way I live my life. Somehow this feeling of desire went out of its way from being inspiring to becoming plaguy in a matter of seconds, and every single thing it touches turns into a slab of decomposed human remains, altering the trajectory of my recovery from a hundred to zero in a single blink of an eye. This helplessness drains the lifeforce out of me, and I am so exhausted all of a sudden. I would not love to see another minute of myself bathing in these faecal emotions, only because I fear the outcome has already been laid bare without any confirmation from the other party. My lack of capacity to just accept the inevitable outcome solemnly is a great cause of concern still should the decision one day be overturned. It is not a healthy way of looking at things. I will be liable for any stupidity that is bound to take place should it ever come to fruition, and I hate myself for allowing me to live it.

It is then a great fear for me to say that perhaps it is high time to walk away -- I cannot use the word unscathed because still it hurts even as I write this correspondence -- and allow myself to continue wallowing in self-despair as I have almost a year ago now. In order for me to endure what lies ahead, I must endure it now, as quick as it can be, and endure it for however long. Whatever happens next leaves me with an empty heart and absent grace. There is no joy in this surrender except for the fact that I yet live, and it counts for something still. Something great. And I refuse to use the word hopeful anymore because, yes, fuck that shit. I am within the realm of what so many others have gone before, and here I am gesticulating my frustrations of her here to categorically fit myself into that very same label. It is nonsensical in some respect, but let it be known that getting one's shit together requires a pronounced level of honesty never before expressed hitherto.

A few days from now I will find myself contemplating the mysteries of my life in a whole new space which is occupied by the idea of a person's frame in mind, and I must continue to endure, try to separate the significance of that person from the idea and never try to conflate them. It only hurts more to do that. What joys and pains I feel in that short journey will give me the identity of my revival when I come back home and return. This all-or-nothing attitude is the sort of thing that has kept me coming back for more. I remember the days when time stood still.......

A stethoscope in my hand and a journey worthwhile. All hollow and vague, and ultimately ineffectual, recollections now but remain true and vivid of the history I once have had.