SCROLL DOWN PLEASE...stupid tabulas changes...just when my journal was already so perfect...damn it...now there's a giant empty space and it's taking up-what else?- space.

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 >>>>> .-:: I WILL BE UPDATING MY PAGE AS SOON AS MY NEW LAYOUT IS FINISHED (oh, lazy me...) SO PLEASE BEAR WITH ME ::-. <<<<<

 

merci, mon frere.

 

until the new beginning.

 

written 12:06 AM// June 12, 2005 // Sunday

[ station ]

In your surreal desertion, wherein I did not even deign to return your farewell, my insides jostled obscenely; I feel mangled, gouged, yet incredulously contemptuous. I am the word SHATTER, yet all there is is but a dent in my heart; cream, I am, creamed, melted from a sardonic paranoid steely egg into an impossibly soft foamy mass, so different from this flesh whence come all these emotions. I feel like the word RELISH; a creeping stain, a slow yet impudent ooze, a rather vulgar phosphorescent blur slightly in the line of your peripheral vision eating up the floor without even stepping away from this single tile. Impersonal, lurid, I lurch glibly towards lush hysteria as I cradle the last vestige of my mutilated dismay (that I feigned innocence of) to spare you being bestowed it as a parting gift.

All of a sudden I stumble on my unnatural goal, and I feel a frivolous urge to weep, break, explode; the leash called Shame is the only thing that keeps me from mutating into a swashbuckling blitzkrieg, followed by a sheer surge of toxic lassitude.

Of my own volition I loosen slightly; my eyes gleam strangely in the fluorescent light, then glisten fully with liquid glass. I have been claimed by inertia; here I stand (or, more accurately, wobble), trapped in a futile attempt to betray myself, wantonly recalling the unreal hush and the mad rush of pain as you said goodbye. With a hefty amount of vertigo I begin to wonder whether all those wild jabs inside left scars—then I remember that there was only the infinitesimal dent like a crease on silk, marring almost none of the sheen. I mourn, as unfeelingly yet onomatopoeic as possible, for this inimicably disastrous crossfire of thought and emotion ripping my sanity to shreds and causing a repetitive metallic clang to echo in my ears.

Brutal, this love; what a travesty. We are utterly lacking in pizzazz, in glitz, like a tawdry whimper lurking in the shadows. Oh, how to purge this from my system, how to rid myself of this sordid bathos? Passersby gawk, I realize with a jolt that I must look stupid; but then again I am. Archaic, the feeling of the moment—does anyone feel this word this way anymore? To be a kamikaze pilot, what luxury; to speed through the skies then tilt and whizz down to the final liberating thud below.

Sudden silence; then again oblivion is what I crave. In the distance I hear the train rushing into the station, so fast and already too close for something so full of weight; with a sinking feeling I realize that I cannot stand the whooshing noise—why must it sound so? As I try to ignore the sound of the slipstream blackness seeps into my vision; the train hurtles into the station and in this final moment of consciousness the tracks tilt dangerously close and the rain pervades the strangely shrill lull like a talisman of obsolete synthesis.

~ copyrighted. please do not steal works, especially now that i'm losing touch with myself. i rarely get to write anything with sense. sigh. -_-' 

dream.

in a house i do not know, with people i am almost a stranger to. The phone rings; i answer. It is the person, asking for me. Words; i am hit rather strongly. stupid me.

house is rather familiar; i've seen a picture.

i see this person everyday, but it's just weird because...well, just because. "Familiar Strangers" is the term; i know him, yet i know him not.

dark room with many beds; a mother fixing the sheets.

shadows.

this person arrives and watches me in the dark. i leave the room, going out onto the landing, and the person follows me out. in my head, a repetitive prayer. please, leave me alone.

out on the landing; other people are there that i am not very familiar with but likewise we are "known". a camera; i am "shot", once, twice, i grab at the little machine and seek to eliminate myself.

is this me? a twisted yet accurate image of who i am is in this little thing. click, click, click, and i have deleted myself, my little parody. hi-res and all, gone.

i go downstairs. darkness, coldness, blueness.

there are three beds (or four?) in the downstairs room. i grab my blanket and huddle in an empty bed; the sudden warmth overwhelms me. i recall the beds upstairs, and i hear the mother speak. she said...?

the person. he does not sleep upstairs where all the other beds are. i hear the mother's voice again..where?

i look around, apprehensive, but then a deep sleep kicks in without my getting a good look at my surroundings.

dream within a dream?

none.

i wake, and the others in the room are not there anymore. i stand, stretch, and wander out--only to find myself in the park at Philam Homes, wearing not my slippers and pyjamas but clothes i barely know.

a disguise?

pink is not my colour--neither is baby blue, though i love most blue shades like the colours in the dark room where i slept. i do not wear pants like these, shirts like these, trinkets like these, the rest of these. this is not me.

i walk down the road, wondering where my clothes went; and suddenly i am wearing them again. what comfort--my sneakers, a rather dilapidated pair of pants, a comfy shirt. my beads and bangles. my stones. my long hair blowing free, messy in the wind. my face unpainted, unmasked.

this is me.

i catch a red jeepney that looks more like an average "masang pinoy" family outing vehicle, and it parks outside this place on West Avenue that isn't really there. free junk food by the sack, but i do not get down.

i am handed something; what's this? a rather crumpled but neat enough bit of smooth pink paper--no, it's a cd's liner notes. i flip it over, unfold it, but it's nobody i know. then i see writing on the side.

it's from the person. wear it inside your shirt, it says, but why? kisses, love, what's this? i hardly know you. and there is already someone in the place you wish to fill.

i feel my insides go blank; blackness and whiteness flare.

these, whose are these? i notice that my clothes have gone again. i am once more in the odd not-mine clothes.

not me.

a delusion, these clothes. to deceive? to hide?

i don't know.

but the name, the name is mine.

i am saved by the knowledge of who i am.

but wait: how come i am called by my real name, Gabrielle, by this person? he knows naught but my nickname, or does he?

strange...or does this person know me in ways that even i myself do not?

Mary had a little lamb Her father shot it dead Now it goes to school with her, Between two chunks of bread! (ha...and i'm vegan, too...you can tell i've got issues XD)

i belong to nobody
i am nothing but history
a vague shadow of a memory
of your life before she came.

gabrielle is the name
loneliness is the game.