To that 21-year-old

Break his heart.

Break him. Shatter it into a million pieces.

Let him pick up every tiny fragment and break his back doing so. He will cry for each stab of pain when he bends over. Let him.

Ignore his howls, even when they hurt you too. Steel yourself against his will, turn a blind eye. Be irritated with all his moves.

Keep walking forward and drown out his noise. He will cross you in his desperation. He doesn’t trust you. He might not have even known how to trust all his life. Forgive him, but walk on. Shed whatever power he has left over you, if there still is at all.

Break him further. Find peace and happiness. Break him further. Crush his haphazardly-repaired heart. Make him pick the shards up again.

For each time he bends his back and reaches out to the floor, painstakingly finding each piece to put back together, he becomes stronger, little by little. The time spent hunting is time spent reflecting on what he was, where he went wrong, where he was never right.

Every time he puts a fragment back, he will learn how to be what you always needed and wanted him to be. Except he cannot be that for you anymore, nor should he be. Keep moving forward, without looking back, so that he knows all of it, so that he knows he must take it elsewhere.

Make him realize, once and for all, that all he wanted was for you to be happy, even when it hurts him the most. Make him realize that he doesn’t deserve the one who breaks him, nor does she deserve him, for she will always deserve better.

He will understand. Trust me. It may not seem like it now, when his world is all bloody red from the pain, but he will understand.

He will understand it when his heart is finally put back together.

Up for air

Hey. I’m alive.

Time sure does fly by when you put your nose to the grindstone. But is it there because you lean in on your own, or because someone’s got your head in their hands?

A little bit of both, I guess. Hope everything is fine from where (or when) you’re reading this.

The wrong people

My bro Monching, as part of a challenge he posed for himself last year (heh), wrote me a poem to be given at the turn of the new year. It’s awesome and I’d like to share it to ya.

“The wrong people”
by Monching Damasing

Dogs bark at night with no around, and the wind bites back when we apologize. But what can we give—our grief (lower, condolences—even lower—respects) 60 years late, touch the walls and the wrong people. The many of us imagine those Sunday afternoons those mute, bowing people, from afar a mass of butt cracks and hair, our prayers wind on their backs as they head in. And after? Hours later, the soldiers are playing football and sunbathing; we are drinking German beer at the street side. We’d be told our meals would take longer to cook. The walls fall short echoing footsteps and cameras. They open the chambers after lunch, and the counting takes a while; we were around 35, excluding children, the pregnant Korean mother getting on the bus first, regretting this day. No games on the way to the city.