Once a Upon a Drunken Night in a Hip Pub Downtown

After 12 midnight you shouldn’t expect that someone

would be available to listen to your miserable tales unless

you’re out in a hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,

where everyone is friends with anyone who’s drunk enough

to take somebody else’s bullshit that stinks worse than theirs.

It looks easy to watch these strangers if you’re just right there—

sober, thinking you’re too cool to foster your despair with

a glass of vodka or a bottle of cheap beer.

So you would just sit and have a cup of coffee

right from where you could get the best view of these lonely hearts

that tirelessly whisper and whimper to one another.

And then you would remember that a few months ago

you were one of them—because after 12 midnight

you know that you couldn't count on your best friend,

for she is out of town with her lover.

You couldn't call your colleague because you know how fast

your sad stories would travel from her desk to the boss’ desk.

And for obvious reasons, you know couldn't talk to your parents.

You have no one after 12 midnight except the people in your photo albums,

the actors and actresses in the magazines, and the authors in your bookshelves.

Your bedroom has enough space for your tales,

But you know it's too cold to keep you company until you heal.

And so you would find yourself in the hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,

and you would become friends with someone who’s drunk enough

to take your bullshit. In the back of your mind, this person

who is so keen to listen to the drops of your tears,

and is so willing to watch the movement of your mouth

could be the lover you've been waiting for.

And yes, she is that person.

She is the reason why you were in that hip pub before 12 midnight.

Because after 12 midnight you would be out with her somewhere

where vodka and beer are for celebrations.

Somewhere where seduction is over

and the only stranger that exists is the word despair.

***I wrote and dedicate this piece for people who have a bottle of alcohol on their left hand, and a handful of hope on their right hand. Original piece, January 22, 2013.

More of the aftermath

I think I don’t trust myself enough to trust myself to someone who’s willing to hold my hand while I walk myself out of this pathetic shit I’m going through. It is a rare opportunity to find people who feel and understand your pain and obscurity and it’s a common opinion that when you find them, you must not let go of them.

But how you can keep them if you can’t even keep yourself together? I swing back and forth to despair and I am becoming a selfish, numb monster who doesn’t care about the trouble that she’s causing with her indecisiveness.

I need to find my way out of this vicious trap.

To a fruitful year ahead

It is possible to float with the random impetus of feelings inside and outside this body which somehow make her realizes that she doesn’t really need a hand to hold her close or an arm that she can hold on to whenever she’s scared. It’s actually natural and it’s perfectly fine to feel a little sad and feel the nostalgia at times, especially during those moments when she remembers how the sweet fusion of roughness and smoothness of skin to skin feels like.

She misses a lot of things as much as she let herself missed certain opportunities that promise her to take her out of loneliness. But yes, she doesn’t need to take chances—at least not now, to escape those nights of pain. She tries to endure everything, as she watches how that person takes his steps away from her… away with someone else.

She’s wounded but she’s healing.  And one day, she knows that she will be fully recovered—geared with hopes and filled with love that she will surely share to someone who’s worth the risk.