an Essay of Peculiar Feelings

 


an essay of peculiar feelings


the 20s, damn!, it’s such a unforgiving time of life, and it’s just seven full moons in.

apparently, i watch people moved away, far far away, ‘tis the season of great lost and i believed it is a temporary good-bye.

that was i why i  forgave and it’s not even jealousy, it’s actually just bed-ridden fears and anxiety. 

and it’s not that my tree bare less fruits.


You spoke in lyrics of songs you resonated with, my language was the songs I stimmed. 


To go on with life, walking past tree, whose leaves are forgotten cruel promises, hanging evergreen. I go on with life after ever-repeating unforgettable and enchanted beguiling nights, you go on with yours, the agony stopped in synchronicity to the time you slipped from my memory.

A precocious child grew up to feel worthless, I hate it here.


Face-savers, self-loathers, passive-aggressivers, people-pleasers, bean-spillers, narcissists, self-doubters, fake-laughters. 

Only once you’re out of your box, for you growth, do u meet these people.


PHNOM PENH………


I hate it that I have to make art, to go on vacations, to sit alone at the train station, to eat alone at bistros to cure me off of bullshit.


I hate it that I have to bury the eyebrows-tires at Kep’s beach. 



…one hell of a life…



At night I detached myself from my surroundings, so to know I hate it here and I’m feeling like my breathe is restricted without my consent.


I’ve been trying to search for clues with all means but I believe some good things that fueled my barren life has been abducted to some red planet light years away.


It is not these happy ever after dead-loops routine that makes me cry begging for the prophecy to be changed, it’s the things that I picked up along the way and I’m feeling so so dissatisfied with life. 

I hate it here, so I will save some money and some romanticism for me; I keep in my mind. It’s 1960s, floral, Art Deco, strawberry soda with raspberry cheesecake and rental beachfront apartment.


In this sphere of endless falling in spiral

The former never talked about the alienation.

Only when you sit in a desolate room, nicely furnished, with a shrink, do they tell you it is a part of the process.


Since acquaintances do not bond well upon trauma, they will tell you the feeling you are feeling is normal.


I no longer asked the question,

“When will it be me?”

As I’m feeling comfortable here and love it here and adjusted, I’m watching every one of them go.


They go.


And I fear will sealed my faith, with no sign of soulmate. 

I want to sit face to face with you, while the traditional orchestral band celebrate our day, against the world.

But I’m in my 20s and you got your life, one day, my fantasy is labeled expired. 

Lost to the time of me trying to survive, I forgive you my lovers, I have tried.

I’m so mad because in spite of these bullshitery, I love it here.


Now I wanna taste your lips again and I’m feeling like the flowers you gave me starting to  make no sense.



At the edge of my life,

I now understand F.Kafka

The agony while laying on a place that is your comfort zone.


To feel so six legged.

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