Swan Song

Everything was strange at first. But after a while, the feeling of strangeness wore off as things stopped revolving around a particular point.

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Time wore on.

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Whether you like it or not, it’s part of this vicious circle, sometimes you’ve got to give vent to your emotion in formality—a tear here, a smile there, a smirk in between.

Nobody is a victim of circumstance. It’s just an act.

An act or one little mischief.

Life has gone too far. Time has gone too far. Humor in existence has gone too far. It is getting more and more than I can bear.

My patience has become so exhausted.

I no longer want to be in this circle.

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At one instance, I was in the Colorado River. You couldn’t imagine how cold the water was. Icy cold. Water coming from those frozen mountains.

And it’s getting dark. I could say that because I noticed the sun and the moon being together, almost touching each other, not really, but almost, you know what I mean?

And all that I could think of was the fishes in the River. Fishes might or might not be swimming with the tide across pebbles. Fishes whose eyes were as wide as my own eyes when they got a glimpse of what’s going on around them in this world. Fishes with no fins. Fishes with broken fins. Fishes with some sort of self-preservation. Fishes eating fishes. Fishes making out with fishes. Fishes just being and wanting to be fishes.

All of a sudden, something nudged me in my back. Oh, it might as well be a fish.

I longed for you. So much.

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You.

You are a thorn in my side. You are also the one I can fall back upon at any time.

You and I must reckon with everything that would undo us. You and I must press for fair play. You and I must stop trifling with our feelings.

Don’t I say that enough?

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I don’t care.

As long as I live, I don’t care why Gregor Samsa transformed into an enormous bug when he awoke from troubled dreams one morning. I wake up from troubled dreams every morning and I find myself limping towards the face of a new day, without a slight sign of metamorphosis.

This is poison to me. Too much of Kafka is poison to me. Too much of this and that has worn me out in a way that I’ve become my own swan song. I don’t need that last breath.

Just let me go. Just let me go. Just let me go.

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Sonnet 16

Long have I long’d to see my love againe,

Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;

Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)

Would I desire my love’s sweet precious gaine.

Yet in my soule I see him everie day,

See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,

But (ah) what is of long continuance,

Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?

Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,

(As love is full of foolish fantasies)

Weening to kisse his lips, as my love’s fees,

I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.

Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:

Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.

--Richard Barnfield (1595)

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In every sense, you are me.

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Arigatoo ne.

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