Lazy from C-Z

'We're in this together now,' she says to me. 'We will make it through somehow.' I said nothing, remained transfixing my sight on to her, and suppressing an overwhelming wincing sensation inside me. I thought it's either she's delirious or hopelessly clueless. So I decided to wait, harnessed all my opinions, and waiting for the right opportunity to unload it all. 'Well,' her eyebrow rose, mouth open. 'You aren't helping at all with silence.' What answer does she want? 'I think it's better if you let it be,' I tell her coolly, as if understanding fully the situation. Her eyebrows immediately drowned and made me feel a bit queasy. 'I don't get it,' she says. 'But I think I understand where you're coming from. You do make a fine point. Let's take that into consideration.' I certainly didn't get what she meant by that but somehow I felt jubilated. Now feeling confident, ...

It gets harder and harder to sleep. Counting the ways in which victory could be attained somewhat already defeats the purpose. If I were to indeed lose (which I already undoubtedly have), then the only direction is forward. Retaliation is not my forte nor do I intend making a habit of. I'd rather have sweet, looming irony overcome this obstacle than anything else, or a dash of twist of fate mayhap, or a bullet in the eye. Figuratively. I still believe victory, though Pyrrhic, will one day find life on my shoulder, dreading on the days passed by, counting misfortunes and laughing at them all the while. There is only that wishful thinking, more dreadful than dread itself.

It's beginning to flare up now. I like it, really. All those repressed thoughts slowly and finally bursting forth and manifesting itself. Then I realise I'm on the other end, and also then I begin to take notice of what's in store, the battle that will either torment me for a long, long time, or my own sudden demise coming to a closure. Each and every step shows a new opening. I have never asserted myself into anything, that is because I no longer feel the need to. All these pent-up rage, whatever you call it, it's basically drifting into the space and becoming one with its end, like a burnt-out candle in an autumn night. There it stood no longer sensible, and by then my end will be my peace. Or it could be a launching concept of melodrama.

Laughably bad, that was all it was. Laughing stock, and then some. No pity parties for me tonight. Tonight I find peace in whatever way. Tonight everything will turn out fine. I just can't speak for myself for tomorrow. My chest was stuffed with feathery foam in order to provide a laugh or two for the spectators. I would if I could, not that I couldn't, more like should. The demand to collaborate is high. These are not my tipping points. I work better alone. I work better for better or worse. As I was halted due to my extreme audacity, I knew nothing good would come soonafter. Hence I became something of a monstrous, cancerous, dangerous presence. Feeling the need to threaten and voided of choice. I look back and all I remember was my laboured, crooked smile directed at the person involved. It is no longer about plans for vindication. I have had a lot of shares of that struggle in this past couple of months which, sadly, amount to nothing. Those pathetic eyes linger an...

Parting gifts for friends in farewell Wish them luck on a wishing well They swallow everything you feed at them Including lies in an old fool's requiem Sons and daughters of an absentee Faith is all there is to see A pity fuck for a single dime The guilt lasts a century's time Flakes of snow on a summer head It's always better, yeah, better off dead Promises of something that truly last The future is yours except the past

There is nothing left but flakes of sand on my feet. I can hear the whispers of the outside world from this elevated room far above to the sky, all empty yet tangible. Funnily enough I have awakened earlier than usual, a practice I have yet to master, for there is no mastery to master, only repetition, redundancies which are bound to pop out every now and then in search for longing. It is no mere nostalgia, however, as the world rotates in one direction. Nostalgias, as far as I am concerned, rotate counter-clockwise. There is nothing left in the fingernails but pebbles of dust similar to the sand that bothers my feet. I have never found a reason to cut them, for there is nothing to cut. My teeth does all the talking. And when they alas meet, then all will be for naught. The sun shines faintly brightly over dawn on the edifice as I notice by the window. How long does the effect last? What happens when the eternal star is no longer eternal? A darkness consuming us for over an en...

Well, I really didn't expect that Pacquiao v Marquez trilogy to end in a bittersweet fashion. Was rooting for my homeboy but the other man brought to him a whoopin' to remember. Never expected Manny to dodge that call on the end, but he did, and I somehow feel for Marquez despite the odds. And to top it all off, I really, really, really need to polish my turd. Even though it's still only just a piece of shit, getting my act together is mandatory. I'm beginning to lose everything all at once! First the laptop then the telly. It even laid waste on my HDMI cable just now! Drat! I want to stab myself for being such a fucking fuckhead.

Pacquiao, Marquez later. Cannot wait. Sausages, oven soon. Cannot wait. So now there is this question whether or not I am meant to be or not meant to be. Perhaps the latter, I shudder to think, but what options are there else? Weeks pass, no change. All the love gone bad. Solilotude. That's the new term. Yup. Somebody else will notice. Someone ought to. Here's to hoping. Another hope gone sour.

There is a weird, slight pain present in the posterior part of my neck that, I believe, is slowly building up. For whatever reason it purports itself to be doing, the consequences of the events that transpired during devising would not have varied if at all, and more likelier to have jet-fuelled the burning agony further. So basically I am fucked up either way.