i am ken and i am meant to be alone


i could still remember my dad as he wanted me to sit beside him. i was 10, so i was eager to learn about carpentry and gardening, before that day he told me about bird grooming, that i need to brush their feathers with the palm of my hands backward, they love it, he said, they would make flushes, they would scrub their beak onto your hand like they’re telling you to brush nonstop. that day, it wasn’t tailoring nor fishing, it wasn’t what i expected to know. i sit beside him as he touched my arms with his huge hands, squeezing them until i said, stop. it wasn’t loud. it was the same stop you speak to the cars whenever you cross the street. it hurt me, more force was added. 

"dad what are you doing?"

"now, son, today i’m going to teach you, how to hurt."

i saw him kissing someone else. or something else. the water bottle i gave him last week. it wasn’t delicate, just a normal plastic bottle with sakura petals scattered all over its cylindrical walls. there were japanese letters or words or phrases scribbled vertically in the middle. i don’t know what it reads. hell i care.


i thought he was just drinking. but then i noticed that it was empty, or if he was just imagining it filled with lemon juice. or soda. it was weird. his tongue wriggling on the bottle’s head like a maggot scavenging a carcass of a rat. his pupils turning white. i heard him moan. it was soft. 

the next day, i saw the water bottle in the toilet’s doorstep. i felt like there’s something inside it. i saw nothing but sakura blossoms, and the words were crossed out and replaced with another word or phrase. i think it was spanish. 


bought two bags of chips, one flavored beef, one ham. i didn’t see the difference. i thought about butchery. meat and cow. i started eating and the thoughts of bulls are still in my head. intestines and hooves. ox tails, their eyes and long tongues. their moos and crying. their upheaval and moaning. i continued eating while imagining people killing the mammals, skinning them, their flesh in machines. in cans. in these bags. the flavor of beef danced salsa in my taste buds. it wasn’t calming. neither depressing. it was a so-so. the thoughts didn’t leave me. they’re still here, the ghost of the dead beasts. hiding, concealed against the shadows of my imaginations. i threw the bag.

i plucked the dragonfly’s wings one by one as i settle its body onto my palm. i felt its cold thorax, its unmovable legs. its abdomen was soft, i tried to point it to my nose. i didn’t smell death, instead i sensed an approval of afterlife. its eyes depicted that it wasn’t sad leaving. i detached one wing and put it steady on a white pad. 

Dear 1000th Post, 

He is given to me as a karma. A tease. Life’s gift to constantly remind me I am living in seclusion. I was lonely, and I will always be, he made me lonelier. He’s the reason why there are storms, same reason of catastrophes, the cause of my illness: a sick mind. My hypothesis: the sadness that is camping inside me doesn’t want to get along with happiness. It is there all alone, along with darkness and hidden secrets. Buried dreams, forgotten self realizations. 

I wonder if he knows all these. I wonder if he knows I am hoping. I wonder if he knows I have emotions. Feelings. Dismay. Anxiety. 

I was a ghost, an unseen entity camouflaged through whispers and accusations. Three months before, he appeared and took me out of the blue. Tickled my fancy. I thought that maybe I am not really alone. That I can still see the concealed laughter in every little things. That I really need to have an eye. He helped me opened those, and he was the same reason why I need to remain them unopened. I am nonexistent. 

He was the reincarnation of all the bad ideas I told to these guys: Patrick, Paul, Travis, Bobby, Terry, Brian, Ken, David, Dustin, Hugh, Max, Alan. Created to make me suffer. The pain that is inflicted in my mind is excruciating. 

A part of me wanted to forget of him. But I still want to keep talking. I still want to speak lies, derive fallacies over unseen reality. 

I want to be reminded of the things I shouldn’t have done. 

i watched a soccer match earlier. women’s soccer. more like 18 year old dolls chasing a ball. ladies in sport uniform, i noticed one has a bandage of olive pasted in crossed on her thigh. another was a black girl, her hair was kinky, she was galloping across the border like a female horse, tossed her pussycat outside the field and yelled let’s get it on. let’s get it on. one team has their shirts striped of morning atmosphere and white, their foes were royal blue like mistresses during night parties. i can tell they are learning, i can tell with their kicks, their feet running on the grass like astray kittens. i can tell with the way they shout, the way they hug each other, the way they raise their hands and say booyah. they’re learning. people circled there, watchers, cheerers, students, parents, kids, and those who learn from watching. their noise covered the yard, their gestures were eye catching. almost all of the girls wear orange shoes, i wonder if they are not distracted. but i did smile while watching earlier. i think this is what i really need: one of life’s simple things.  

fuck you. at least i’m talking to him.

and i don’t want to talk to him but i am talking to him. fuck you.

and it is not friendzoned. i havent confessed yet.

and i won’t do that.

and i know someday he will leave me or i will leave him.

someday we will part ways.

and someday we will forget each other.

this is the reality of things

- i thought it is okay to care 

Aug. 12, Tuesday

1. I dreamed about being in a social group. I reckon it was me who built it, people with blank faces, chairs of yellow and khaki. The room was fresh, vintage but fresh, like decorated by autumn and summer. We had codes, mine was Khal Drogo, yes, that guy from A Song Of Ice and Fire//Game of Thrones. There were lasses and big guys, geeks and nerds and those who read books. There were those who stay in the corner, those who just stare, those who read minds. Joshua was there, his codename was Pineapple. I woke up after knowing his alias. 

2. I opened about Patrick to Hannah. I saw the dismay in her eyes, the truth of my words against the lies revolving inside her head. She told me that I don’t have tits, I don’t have a twat. I don’t need them, vagina and boobs, love grip. I don’t need to be someone I am not. 

3. Saw the guy I admire, working in a Network Company, inside a shopping mall where I was headed straight to the toilet to wash my paws. Spotted him along the mannequins wearing long sleeves, tuxedos, and pink, leopard bow ties. He was with a lady who prefer high heels over sneakers, his left hand on her back, just an inch above her butt. I tailed them as they reached the undergarments with Hello Kitty as designs. I noticed the red mark on his neck. The woman’s lipstick was cherry.