Reclusion, Thy Name is I

I feel like one of those old, sick, dying book characters tormented writers write about.

I got the old feel in the pockets. My environment, it seems to me, is antique. Some of my "friends" have faded into the background of an old 50's movie that will presumably be forgettable. My previous "passions" (can't believe I just used the word in plural form) have dissolved into a new (old, actually) kind of impasse...one that I can't explain thoroughly because I don't understand much either. I feel like I just lived and excruciatingly survived 9 lifetimes.

And my birthday is fast-approaching.


So yeah, I feel old.



I am a human disease stick. My life energy is currently getting sucked up by random whirlpools that come in the forms of "friends", enemies and ... internal factors (like too much anxiety, paranoia and hypochondria). Literally, I AM a human disease stick. Today's just 4 days since my high fever bid adieu to my body...and I've already relapsed. Right now, I'm coughing. My throat feels as if a meter stick of a rose with bloody thorns had stuck to it. And there's an overall feeling of dizziness. Alas, my vertigo attacks!

And I feel like...puking which is as rare as Mowgli's syndrome. (Mowgli's syndrome is rare, right?)


So yeah, I feel sick.



I define life as an equilibrium of...things. Now that my social life has gone off the hook, I'm dead. Or at least, part of me is dead. Or maybe dying. Truth is, I don't really know. I've got heaps of problems again. I vow to anticipate the first few weeks of January from now on. Something tragic always happens weeks before my birthday. The weighing scales of my life have either burst because of obesity or anorexia. I know, I know. I could get sued for my choice of words. But getting sued is actually better than facing drama that my "friends" have bequeathed me (let's just substitute the word "bequeathed" with the word "BETRAYED" - all caps) with. How big of a fool am I, anyway? I've had let these "friends" betray me before and I've done so AGAIN. I should be awarded for this!

And this is the part where I hate them all for being so defensive for something wrong they did. They should be condemned for doing this to me. I should be hanged for being the most used person in the planet.


So yeah, I feel like I'm dying.



I always tell people: "I have a life!" ...which translates to: My life is near bliss because it's packed with a social life, a family life, a spiritual life, a career (life), a whatever life... you name it, I'm too old, sick, and dying to type.


...but I guess, sometimes, it's actually a plus to not have a life.


Still...


I HAVE A LIFE!

Revenge is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)

Mark their words: Nemo me impune lacessit "No one harms me with impunity." Yes, that's The Cask of Amontillado to you.

Never have I ever found myself thinking about vengeance...vendetta... revenge...I'd always thought that anyone's (given that he did wrong) conscience would avenge the victim.

But sometimes, revenge gets to you in the weirdest way possible.

Are there two kinds of revenge: good and bad revenge?

Is doing the right thing revenge?

Is it revenge when it's justifiable (logically and rationally speaking)?

Is it still revenge when you're doing "it" to protect someone, say, future successors?

I don't know.

But, seriously, who knows?

These things are beyond dictionary's definition. Moreover, these things are beyond juvenile experiences.

But, readers, if you hear something in the near future that relates to ME, the thought of revenge, the thought of righteousness and morality (like a scandal), refer back to this little post.

The scandal's gonna explode like a tiny bomb. Let's just wait and see.






Only time will tell.

Disturbia (A Story Not for the Faintest of Hearts)

If you'd look at my Shelfari profile, you'd automatically grasp the idea that I'm semi-anti-Chick-Lit now. Semi, my friends, semi (thanks to Twilight, of course). And if you want me to expound on that semi-anti-ism, well I wrote the whole deal on this vignette-esque thing entitled: "The Override of Chick-Lit" (may be published on the 2nd Issue of The Quest which is to be released on Feb '08).

That is not the point, though.

The point is, since I'm all semi-anti-chick-lit, I don't limit myself to Chick-Lit anymore. Yes, that's liberation! So now I'm back to my old self - the one who writes all kinds of stuff.

Here's a semi-gothic work (I use the word "semi" a lot these days, don't I?):

WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINTEST OF HEARTS. PLOT MAY DISTURB YOU. (well, if you're a chick-lit girl, then the plot will definitely disturb you. I THINK.)

Disturbia

If you know me, you'd call me passionate, driven and determined - even to the extent of obsession-compulsion. But in spite of those three virtues, I had never known what my true calling in life is. That is, until tonight.

It's raining and I've just gotten home from my friend Rebecca's house. There's nothing between us really. Just friends. . . if you're thinking we're something more than that. Although I must admit. Sometimes I succumb my manliness to her beauty. Fine features. Fine, pure and striking. She is a mixture of all races, colors and nationalities. Though I know there are instances when I yearn for the pleasures of the flesh, I know I'd never get to have her as a girlfriend, a lover or a wife.

I'm a tired, sleepy and paranoid man. I say to the bearded face on my mirror. I'm growing old, too. Going 30 but still loveless. I inspect my face. No wrinkles, no lines, no traces of old age. So why do I think I'm growing old? Is it because even though I am a handsome man, no girl comes into my life? What is the basis of handsomeness, anyway?

Something tuggs at my insides. Yes, yes, yes. It's one of those things. Those unpredictable, unexpected things that happen in stories and movies. That tug-tug thing. Suddenly, I remember my fetish for books - Gothic books, to be exact.

And as the clock ticks 11 PM, I rummage through my small, library. Pretty rare to have a library at home in the 21st Century, now, right?

As the clock ticks half past 11, I read.

And as the clock ticks 12, something in my head disturbs me.

Oh, this is going to be a long night.


~0~


It's 1 in the morning and I have gathered nearly all of the ingredients and materials for my experiment. I see a silhouette in the dark. A man approaches. It's my friend Daimler.

"What brings you here at the the dead of the night?"

"The tug of the soul, my friend."

"What are you talking about?" He asks, painstakingly scrutinizing the plastic body bags on my hand.

I wave at him with the hand free of the mysterious body bags. "I'm doing an experiment that requires me to be passionate, driven and determined."

"Do you want a smoke?" He asks and brings out a pack of cigarettes.

"Tempting offer. But I've quit smoking already. Remember?" I regain composure and stand straight, like a poised male model, if I may say so. "How about you? What brings you here - such a daunting place at night?"

"Ha ha see, I'm just passing by. The workers at the firm... we, uhhh... decided to have a great night out. You know. Have it with the ladies."

Yes, typically you. Typically modern. You all just hit women like that. Chivalry is dead. You don't know how to treat them right.

"I bet you should be off now, my friend!" I say in such a manner that made the small hairs on his arms, nape and back ... tingle.

And with a nod and a smile, he's off!

Time to get back to my lovely business.

As my pocket clock ticks 6 AM, my ingredients are all complete.

~0~

Like pieces on a puzzle, my ingredients for the experiment, I lay on the table. I begin to question why I started doing this experiment. But then again, this will only prove my three virtues. And as soon as I complete this, oh, I'm sure my life will change.

One tiny bit of problem.

The body bags. Where must I hide them?

A place that will not ignite sparks of curiosity...

The loft? The chimney? The garage? No. No. No. Too simple. Too easily noticeable. Too... boring.

So... for the thrill of it all...

I'm hiding the bags under my bed.

-to be continued-