Lazy from C-Z

I am bleeding, for no other reason but to bleed. Because the joy we get is rooted deeply on our own individual suffering. When the time finally comes, of tallying and proving feedback and reckoning, all the minute details coalesce into a vichyssoise of abstract being. Of me, in my most fundamental sense. Of who I am in a grand scheme of things. My inua in effect. That being the conscious energy that engulfs you and me both. From the beginning of time relative to which time, and to an end that may never even exist. At least not yet. Whereas history is concrete and absolute, the hereafter is tentative and mercurial.

A silent killer is the intermittent joy of one's false arms around you, toying with your mind, creating expectations and optimistic folly. The voice of the desperate clinging to the remnant of what a multiversal possibility could only potentially show. Sometimes we cling to the hope it would change for us, but for what it is worth, the only outcome truly is the void we leave behind for not trying harder enough.

There is a lot that could be said of a martyr's soul unravelling. Struggle is its basic form of sustenance. It is the delay that keeps their spirits engaged, woven intimately into their mortal coil. The form with which all things sublimate and gives ample purpose and meaning albeit in increments. What little impulse one has will always incline to pursue this one great goal, because a goal is only great when the soul decides upon it and makes it part of itself. Some days are found of wanting, spent on banal productivity to fill the gaps in between. Some days, there is nothing better than wanting for nothing. But some days... Some days are so full of copium one just decides they have had enough.

This onistic frustration stems from an unhealthy obsession of regrets undone by reconciliation. Sometimes there is a desire to hop on to the closest refuge in order to mitigate the sorrow, diving in for a temporary high, not knowing that the consequences may lead to another undesirable outcome, but overall the chances of the original sin ever going away is next to none, constantly chafed by the resilience of nature that persists ever so much. I will always be an avatar of all that is worst of me. My worst being the selfsame nature of that which is best of me. Passion which begets unknown results, often causing downfall to those who have sacrificed all there is in order to attain one particular goal. But I have never known a goal of so much worth that I would dedicate my entire being to. None that deserves that attention because nothing checks out the prerequisites. And as much as I try to label my own value of standards into other people and things and ideas that may commendably be wor...

There is no poulticing the wound. The echoes ricochet off my hardened skin. The words proliferate vividly over and over and over again. I could fall to sleep and allow time to decay, but time and time alone is all I have left. The wind outside is howling while I continue to wait for that one hello that will never come. To be burdened still by the shadows of her likeness, that smile, that look. I cannot keep doing this to myself forever, but I will probably be here forever.

To meet me in a state of what and where I was a year ago; downtrodden, heaps of scrap; a reminder of what once was, and yet there was this nagging feeling of hope in the foreground when met with a lovely certain shade of green. It was Ainhoa's grace that kept me afloat. Perhaps I can attribute this frustration with the fact that she bloomed the charred, emptied fields of my day-to-day. That too has long passed. But I cannot want to let go. The seeds had all been laid bare, ready for nurture, prime for consumption even. It is a forever thing. The fragile hopes of frigid tropes and frozen copes. Love has torn me apart again.

The thrill of the hunt has wavered and turned to ashes. It oftentimes meddle with the ones that I do decide to care for, and when it submits, it becomes somewhat undesirable and withered, pushed aback by the winds. Like memories. Of forgotten days and feelings. There is nary a day that I do not think of Ainhoa. That bitter aftertaste at the tip of my tongue knowing it could have been handled so much better (or maybe not) on my part, and it gnaws on my very essence endlessly. Things happened so quickly, and next thing I knew she was no longer there. She was sublime, moreso than any soul that has ever compelled me to feel, and I feel left out for it. Like I have slapped the table where I eat hoping food would enter my mouth on its own volition. And due to this extraneous strain that never seems to want to go, my days no longer contain that copacetic edge to it. Everything else pales in comparison. She gave me that soft but unbearable lightness of being, that legal high that gives, despit...

The southern lights have just faded; mountains bursting forth out of thin air. It was always there, I reckon, but to fail the security check, it felt somewhat demystified, anticlimactic. My mother passed away a few weeks ago, and it has zapped me of what little humanity in me is left. Even though it was inevitable. Even though I had for months tried to push beyond what I am capable of. In that moment I saw my own mortality before my eyes, seeping into my consciousness, gnawing at my system, overlapping of thoughts I had of missing Ainhoa. It was unbearable. It is unbearable. I cannot fault life for gifting me this burden. It was inevitable. It is inevitable. Going through the holiday season with harsh penalties. She left me first, and she too left me, after all this time waiting. Never the same, we ponder. Never thwarting. Always amicable to hardships, and what for? This viral cacophony of wanting to do something about myself now rings true and rings ever so louder. Mother should have ...

Like a song I could not figure out   Sometimes the worst thing is not knowing   How best to approach your moments   And feel the inside out of what is out and about   So we may yet explore what I hope to discover   And maybe perhaps recover   The intimate melody of your sweetest smile     Nothing is quite the same now   I just say your name now     But I always thought it was always your strength   To keep at bay your emotive core   And it was never your fault on how we came to be   I fell limply in love with all my force even before   Which I hoped to explore and yet recover   And maybe perhaps discover   What it is exactly this journey was for     Even though the pendulum always has   The tendency to swing wherever it wants to lean   I don’t look at it as a flaw we need to extinguish   The pendulum swings perpetually   And here you still are   Messing the...

I have made it a point to endure the reality recoil once this short sabbatical is all said and done. The reality is that not much has changed, except for the sudden dwindling of my funds. I spent more of my finances in the last few days rather than the totality of my camino . Slightly effete for a man whose claim to life is my spirituality; that smug and self-righteous opinion that the world is mine and it owes me a living. Rather than claim it, it seems to me that I have instead lost any sense of it. It is not an invalidation of the whole duration of this experience, it is more rather my epiphany. When I arrived in Finisterre with a duo of misfits, I sought not to throw any valuable that I held dear simply because I did not want any of my possession to be a ritual for my own salvation, instead I sought it to live for the sake of my own oblivion. I will stand tall. But the long stretch of not communicating with Ainhoa stirs my thoughts day in and day out, waning my mannerisms. It is a ...

Today was supposed to be a cheat day, a moment to recuperate and recharge, after a long week of underreliance.  I had allowed myself a moment's notice to be free, and in turn, the wheels of reality reimbursed me thoughts of annihilation once again. It was difficult to engage myself with innocent fun. Thoughts of the days I spent in Las Palmas reverberate in my head allowing me no refuge from undesired thrusts from assertive ideals. It was as if the pain and suffering of six days worth of walk was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I still have yet to scratch the surface, but I fear that the adverse effect of this is that I become attuned to the physical toll, and that once all is said and done, I then will become overly reliant on it. I do miss Ainhoa a lot, and it is indeed a struggle to pretend not to be so, but she is not the sole reason why I feel the way I do now. Yes, she permeates my senses daily, a voice whispering inside my head, but she is a great force of posi...

"Never come near me or my sister ever again! Asshole!" Mati's voice echoed loudly at the long street. Jake walks away, about to burst into tears. Maia, 24, squats in front of her sister, apologetic for the ruckus that had just occurred. Maia was bawling her eyes out, but was able to blurt out something coherent to Mati. "He's not coming back. It's over." "Fucking of course, Mai! I warned you, didn't I?!" It was only then that Maia realises her sister's high-pitched voice has not been used since they were in their teens. Maia remembers it very well. It was during a family friend's wedding. Mati was mad at Maia because she broke the expensive camera their mother gifted Mati only weeks before then. She loved that camera like it was her own, and Maia clumsily let it slip from her hands when trying to take a photo of her sister pecking a kiss near the wedding cake with Mauro, Mati's first boyfriend. They were together for a year. Mau...

The air was icy when the sun had shone. Too soon, I thought. I had barely gotten anything productive out of the long post-midnight solitude, frozen on the chair where I sat for hours, staring at the computer screen entertaining myself with two, three-minute clips of material I had already seen before, all while waiting for something minutely interesting to happen. Perhaps I had been soaked here for too long in this abyss that now it kind of becomes second nature. Long have I been alone and long have I been thirsty. The sun is up, meaning it is high time for me to choke the chicken before heading to sleep. I wonder whether to be sad or be happy for the mundanity of it all, but either way time waits for no one, including me, and I must away. As I lie on the bed wondering what to do, I feel a pang of anxiety slowly growing from behind my neck, slowly gaining awareness, and I start to wonder if it is exactly what I think it is.

It was a fun evening that did not last long. Old friends had congregated together in a pub once again after ten long years. Most of the people there had forgotten what my face might have looked like. When I was first asked, I was quite hesitant to go, knowing that the last time we had seen each other were not exactly in good terms. It was a heartbreaking ordeal, and it was saddening to me that we had parted in such a tumultuous end. As I entered the pub, I worried that my clothing of choice might not be appropriate for such an occasion. The others had always been quite typically quaint British. Thrift store preppie babies with a mild taste for cardigans and tweed. Once I stepped into the garden where they had cooped up, not much has changed. Before I could voice out my opening hello, everyone had lit up and screamed my name in unison after seeing me with such a boisterous hurray. I admit I did appreciate the surprising reaction. It had been quite some time since anybody had felt such j...

Maia, now 23, slapdashes towards the gate where she had assumed the scarf she had fell off while hanging on her shoulder. There was nothing there but the brusque wailing of the arid land. She stood there disappointed for a minute or two before she decides to call her friend Jake, who is waiting for her at a café they frequent to to grab coffee. She tells him she no longer was in the mood to meet and drops the call before he could even get a single word out. She walks away with her feet stamping at every step. She starts shedding some tears with a frown, and looks at everything around her with a cursive tantrum. She arrives home, tears dried on its own. Her mother looks at her with only a slight hesitation. She knew. "It's just a th--" "Don't," Maia interjects. "I won't say anything else then, only that Jake called." Maia was already gone, locked up in her own space wherein she was alone with her thoughts. Mati comes out of the kitchen and asks ...

It has been over a week since I first and last saw her. That earthshaking nervousness I felt back then feels like a lifetime ago. Now all that fills me is the trembling fear of a foregone conclusion, waking me up every single day with a recurrent nightmare, twitching with a migraine as I gain consciousness, reminiscent of moments where I dare not tread. I am on the verge of being unhinged, losing myself to total dejection.  It seems to me that while that hour of bliss echoes in perpetuity as one of the most exciting moments in my recent life, the same sentiment could not be said for her. It turns out that perhaps I have done more wrong by following my heart, that I have somehow lost her in ways I never thought would be that bad as a result, and that I should not have done it instead. Perhaps I am merely overthinking this, but the manner with which the situation has resulted has turned out to be rather lacklustre and lukewarm, even cold to a degree, and maybe she has found a reason ...

Trying to wrap my head around this... If only I had the answers... The echoes are dying slowly and the void opens up widely, embracing its wide gape to me with solemn charm. Hello, darkness, my old friend. Every passing minute hurts, every second, sweat dripping all over under London weather. I have so many questions in my mind. Do you really even want the answers? Now the smell of melancholy weighs upon my nostrils, suffocating me in intermittent rounds. No warning whatsoever, no heads up. There was nothing subliminal about it. It came to me from the get go, and I kind of just ignored the signs, hoping that the ends justify the means. It was a foolish thing, that, to play with your heart.   No one is to blame but you.  I knew, then, that the place where I was exactly a year ago now never really left. It was always beside me, transmogrified into a cursed bracelet I wore since that fateful day, and why I remain to wear it to this day remains a mystery. You should have left Ros...

Vilifying a supposedly wonderful sentiment that once bore me warmth and positivity in my daily routine yet now represents my deepest horrors is indeed a massive demotivator. There has been no inkling of any great and tragic loss, and yet somehow the lingering feeling of mourning occurs within me nonchalantly that is representative of my deep-seated insecurities, now intermingled with the deluge of many unknowable entities of causality, what-ifs, and regrets. Have I done any foolish misstep to deserve this heavy weight imposed upon me by mine own shadow? Does it truly represent that same great evil that once uncovered me for what I could be under unfortunate circumstances wherein I have no control even over my own whims? Or it by some kind of transcendental law or cosmic comedy that submits me into this outcome of inevitability? It seems to me that there is no end to the weight left upon me by the albatross that has found refuge on my shoulder. There is no reprieve to the madness, only ...

It is time to bid adieu to this great place. Time here has been that of fruits and emotions. Overall I think it was okay for the most part. This was necessary for redemption. The land is prime and beautiful and warm, and so to are its people. And of course, Ainhoa. I could write at length about how I feel, but overall there is a nectar of bittersweet flavours bursting forth when we talk about whom we talk about. Another chance perhaps when the opportunity wills it. Although I will say just one thing: she is splendid. Moreso than I care to deny. Too good for this world. Too good for even I.