Farewell Antithesis

June 12, 2006

This is one of those days when you wake up with a jolt like as if you were dropped from a great height unto your bed. For two minutes, your mind is empty, no recall of its most recent state of consciousness.

Your eyes survey the four corners of the sedate ceiling, a warm squeeze of orange sunlight suggests it is a fair day outside.

Then your brain roll calls the things that have happened the day before:

Call and Answer by Barenaked Ladies, that stupid Powerpoint, your first confession of one true love and the irreparable rejection thereafter, and this dark angsty pit of loneliness you fell into.

Suddenly, you wanna throw up. You hug your pillow and smother your face with it. There has never been this much bitterness in recent years that wants to come out from your stomach. You groan, partly because you’re sick and you knew about it all along, and partly because you made another person feel sick and knew about it only now.

Your room is dead quiet. The sparrows are fidgeting playfully on the palm fruits right across the window. You sit in silence against the wall on your bed, deciding whether to go out of your room and face the world, or to stay and get some more sleep. You crawl to one corner, covered your face with your two palms, and mumbled an incoherent prayer. You asked for His enlightenment, for His indomitable presence to win back your self-worth. You feel like crying now. Something is really really awful.

You lie down. Sometimes, love can be really really sick. You smile, no you smirk— a smile between guilt and pleasure. But who am I to know? I was wrong, but it was wrong too to categorize my matter as right or wrong. Oh God, fuck love.

You stand by the window and light the first stick of the long day. The painful spasm of nicotine on your lungs somehow resolves the hurt of the heart.

Nobody said it was easy. Two fucking week worth of tears maybe, and a weekend of pot session with high school friends will do you good.

You strip naked, almost dreamily, and wrap your waist with the towel. Maybe, just maybe, the cold gush of shower will make things better. The thought of it makes you want to die again.