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.
…being this tired, this early in the year? I feel like I’ve worked twelve months already, and that’s even with last month’s vacations.
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.
Today I learned you were getting married.
I’m happy for you. I don’t miss you at all, because you easily get past what you’ve never been allowed to have. You’re young–if there’s even an ounce of truth to all this; it’s bizarre, but not implausible, I guess–but you’ve always been smart. I trust you know what you’re doing, and even if you didn’t, hey, it’s not my place to judge or tell you what to do. Maybe it was once mine, but I prefer to think it was never like that at all.
I just wanted to remark on something. You don’t know this, but even if we never happened, I kept looking for you. I found that all the best ones were shrouded in the same mystery, the same pretty fog you hid behind–enchanting, beckoning, but in the end, unpierceable. It’s not like I actively sought you out, though; I was just drawn, mesmerized by God knows what behind the mist.
And I don’t know if I should thank you or blame you for it. Maybe the former, should I ever spend the rest of mortality with the close-to-perfect you. Or maybe the latter if that doesn’t happen, which is the likelier possibility. Either way, none of these options’ll change a damn thing about you and me. Words thrown to the wind, I suppose.
But congratulations. And for your sake–and perhaps, in some small, outwardly inspirational way–I hope it’s worth it, that you truly did find the right one. I hope he makes you happy for the rest of your life. The stars may yet align for the broken like us.
There are days and nights when my mind digs deep into the crevasses of the subconscious, pulling out everything kept hidden down there. The worst things you pile on with other trash, a Pandora’s box of different ills and madnesses but with no golden, shining hope to find.
Sometimes lucidity is a curse. A fucking traitor of a curse that I jones for most days.