Huhuhu. I cry. For the irony of it.

Sheilfa, some questions don't have answers. One of those questions is why people we think we love do not love us. I have asked myself that question too, and as I get older I ask that question just for the fun and irony of it - to get me going. It is such an intriguing question. There is no answer. There is nothing personal about it, yet ironically it feels the most personal of all rejections.

a seedy thing

I have thought it over. I think it is just my ego. Nothing to do with love. Grudge maybe. Gets back at you as a need. A seedy thing.

I may have never loved you. They are right, your friends. It will never do. It is not because I will never have the dollar bills or the car to purchase you with. More because if I had, it will never be for you. I will always leave and arrive at my own time regardless of what happens at the waiting station. Maybe they are really more loyal to you than I am or ever could be. I sometimes envy the love they have for you. It is enough to make a good decent burial when all this will be over.

Thank you for the friendship you tried to proffer to me. Coming from you it already meant a lot. Sometimes it felt like sunshine. It made me happy.  I still don’t know what you meant by it didn’t work. Like I don’t know what you meant by done or winded and all those retirement house words. I still hurt when I think of the words you spat my way. I hurt even more when I think of the words you chose to forget and not say. But I must have done worse. Besides, your judgments and morals stand on the wisdom of the century; I cannot really measure up to them.

I love you. I have to say it. Maybe it is not true. Maybe tomorrow it won’t be true. Maybe today it is not true already. It is not true. Just the same, I want for it to live, coming as it is from me. Perhaps my love is like the moringa seedlings I am growing in this dumpsite toxic with discards and rusting steel. Perhaps it is just literary, like what I am doing now, which is not the same as loving. Paper thin. Something you can make a ball with and throw into the garbage bin at your feet without you looking. It will find its way to the garbage truck without you caring.

Whatever, I just have to decide what must survive and what shouldn’t be long before you and I will be gone.

Happier with a hammer

Had flattened mounds full of garbage into a picnic lawn. Planted it with carabao grass. Now I’m into rocks. I should have been a mason or a carpenter. I’m happier with a hammer.