"If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it walls, and we will furnish it with soft, red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweller's felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does."

— Jonathan Safran Foer (Everything is Illuminated: A Novel)


3:20 PM

I must not lie in your thoughts as you do mine.
Because then maybe you'll wait for me once in a while.

8:36 PM
I want to jump off the cliff of routine.


7:03 PM

I write,
I write all this for you.


9:18 PM

There is something I must say
I am mad.
If I crush the leaves I've pocketed away for safe keeping,
Will the sentiments before be the same?
Or does it change for me, accordingly, to the nature of my action?


9:52 PM



10:24 PM

See, this is what bothers me: that despite my quick feelings mustered, I cannot quite settle it into words unless I jot it down that instant. It is afterward that the words, they lose me--in the thick of all the gray matter trapped in my head--and I cannot, for the life of me, gain enough thought to pull it out. Unless, of course, I write it down that instant. This is an instant I'm sharing. Once it's over, I would probably never find it. If, in a special case, I happen to come across it once again. There are many mistakes I find in my reasoning, as well. But I don't want to share them with you. Only that I am frustrated. With this and with myself and with all of us.

There are so many things I have to say.
But why I can't say it, I don't know.
Maybe because I think it will hurt me in the end.
Where my barriers become blurred--the one that told me when to stop--it is my superior.
It covers me from humility, from the pangs of Time.

I can tell myself to love less, but I just can't help it.

And maybe, maybe it doesn't matter. None of it.
Hi five if you give a damn, anyway.


Daily II


1:02 PM
Today, in which I pine over a long love affair will include daily email logins, the fancy for bike riding, and an excuse to go on the treadmill and daydream of better days in order to remain calm. An action that I am far too familiar with that can only lead to thoughts of unrequited passion and a bargaining for sensibility.

1:19 PM
Today, in which I regrettably sacrifice an ounce of trust in order to seek knowledge of what is not mine, but in return gained a new, one-sided, trustee bond-ship that has me worry less because there is not much to worry for but only comfort and the consistency of rushing ecstasy.

1:30 PM
Mon cherie, mon capitaine, mon amour!

12:01 AM
Forgiveness, I plead for thee! Though you will never hear from it.

1:33 PM
There is no presence of me here. Nothing to call my name and speak gentle gestures of affinity. Am I just a private folly? For a dear sir knows that only love is folly for the wise.

9:01 AM
Peter Van Raaij
I look at her and say to myself, she is too trusting, especially with a vicious cat at that.

9:03 PM
In which she broods for 1,000 calories instead of waiting.
Either that or skip breakfast.
I did none.


Daily I (7/7-7/12)

Reminiscent of a balloon flapping as it loses air expecting something amazing to happen but after a while you wonder, is that it?

All the girls are singing while the little pudgy boy tries to eat his ice cream as it drips down his red sweater. They pass by her, in a faded sound of giggles and running. She could only reciprocate in a blink.

I wonder what would happen if I mute her; if she would be angry or apathetic. But of course, she would throw a fit! I can see her raging now, desperately cursing at me through emphasized mouthing as she frantically wail her arms about, pounding at my shoulders--hysterically, even. I think I might just snicker.

After looking at profile pictures of couples kissing one questions:
1. Do they always tend to have a camera out for their convenience?
2. And is that gum in his mouth?

After clicking on the exit button, one is left slightly embarrassed for them, feeling awkward for trespassing on something that can only make you blush.

I've come to decide that I don't much prefer people. I even sort of detest myself.

To wish for someone to think me cute again in which there is an imprinted memory of me wrinkling my nose in a cheery, smiley fashion in order to remain, if not interesting, at least darling--I think I'd like that.


The Daschund

The little brown daschund barked into the night--at war with the wind. The lights around the neighborhood turned on and danced around this barking dog. His owners could not calm him, for no tasty snack could persuade him to stop. He yapped with a great superiority, as if he alone was there to defend his post. Oh, but he was quite incessant, making the city lights shake irritably as they tried to go back to sleep. He kept barking until finally the restless wind gave a low growl back. Taken aback, the little daschund whimpered in retreat and the wind continued on...


Daughter of a Rajah

In a hazy dream, she managed to walk herself toward the red cushioned ottoman and delicately laid herself down. Half expecting an Iya to appear, for she felt terribly ethnic in her harem pants, she waited and she waited only to find her mother passing by her, tickling her feet as she came. Giggling, she loses her balance, gasps, and falls off the ottoman, exhaling into a deep sleep as she did so.

(I'm not so sure about this.)


Cerulean Shadows Dancing on My Nightstand

"Oh, damn," she said to herself. Here she sat alone, in a room, forlorn by the mute walls which appeared to be run down as they themselves were taking a beating by the lonesome gloom. And the artifacts that lay about here and there and on the bed, a guitar pick, a hair brush, a fallen stuffed elephant seemed to stare at her in the most dreary appeal as if they themselves can understand the nature of an exhausted plea. The silence follows.



There was a little girl by the name of Ethel. She had an odd shaped head with hair of crimson and freckles all over her cheeks. When one day she asked her father: "Why must these specks appear as though they have been drawn on by the sun's rays, and why do they not wash?"
In regards to Ethel's inquiry, he father simply grinned and replied: "Oh, my dear Ethel. They are specks of gold, they are sunspots and--and they, they are very special, you see." In taking this in, she sighed with an expression of slight irritation, yet she could not get past what was so important about them. She knew her father had a tendency to make up fairy tales for her amusement, and though sometimes she grew tired of his nonsensical answers, she could not help but be captivated by his stories and so, she grew curious.

"Why, papa? Why are they special?" For a moment, her father began to question that himself since he only made it up just to please her. Her father looked off at a distance, trying to think of what to say next. He gazed around the room they were in. There were stacks of books covering the walls. Some looked as if they had been read in all sorts of occasions, for their bindings were worn and they had softer pages than the newer books. All around, this room was filled with the world. There were atlases from all sorts of map makers posted on the walls and artwork as well as trivial nick nacks aquired from past travels. It was heftily filled with foreign trinkets that if a passerby would walk into this room, he would feel nothing but lost in centuries of forgotten history; he would be mesmorized by how the world seemed to fit in this very room. But then his gaze stopped as he looked at a small figurine of a fairy. It was a small, frivilous little buy that was owned by his wife. It had porcelain skin with painted garb of blue and wings that looked almost frail. Maybe that is why it stays put, he thought, for the wings looked much too weak for flight. Then it came to him, the story for Ethel's inquistive heart, the story of the "sunspots".

To be continued...

Picture source unknown


And I am completely and utterly captivated by him.

Photo Source


A fairy. Now that is what I'd truly like to be.