She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.
Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

(Source: fleurishes)

Now I remember why I took a break from this Tumblr. It makes me sad.

You must learn her.

You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.

You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.

And, this is how you keep her.

― Junot Díaz, This Is How You Lose Her 

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house

When I first met you, I felt a kind of contradiction in you. You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore 
05.08.14 | 03:08 AM | To R———

While in the process of falling out of love* with you, I was falling in love with the remnants I carried from the ruins. The war was over, but after so many battles, how could I walk away with nothing to show except the scars carved into my skin? There wasn’t much left to be desired, but I suffer from the weakness that plagues human nature. I looked back. Lot’s wife was punished by becoming a pillar of salt. I am punished by the memories that now perpetually pierce my skin.

What I remember about you, about us, is so fragmented. It’s very much like a kaleidoscope. With each turn, the pieces fall into different corners and the canvas changes. But no matter where the tiny shapes tumble, there always remains the constant existence of blank space. And it feels so wrong because I know something was there before and is there no longer.

Incomplete memories can yield mental maladies. First, you look back. Then you are tormented by the partial hollowness that has somehow crawled inside of you. You start retracing your steps back to the beginning, only to find that your footprints have eroded over time. You look back. You look ahead. You are lost. You go insane. The only comfort you find subsists in the scraps that you have carried with you all this while. Soon, that is not enough, and you begin to fabricate pieces to fit into the voids of the puzzle. Finally, you become so increasingly gifted in your ability to cut and feign the reminiscences that you cannot even discern which are real and which are not. 

I left you because I became painfully aware that what we had was merely fool’s gold. Retrospectively, I suppose it was fear that kept me from ever questioning the authenticity. But we had reached a point where reality could no longer be ignored. Your feet were about to travel 2,760 miles away from mine. Your heart was never even in the same trajectory as mine.

The kaleidoscope turns. I fill in the blanks with all of the ways you wronged me in our five months together. I plastered my vexations all over your body until all I could see was a selfish, simpleminded asshole. You dripped with my hatred. I wanted you to suffer.

The kaleidoscope turns. Months have passed and we are on opposite sides of the continent. The saying “out of sight, out of mind” persists to be one of the most obtuse notions I have ever been told to believe, but thinking about you doesn’t hurt as much anymore. Not negatively charged nor positively charged—neutral. 

The kaleidoscope turns. In a dream, I turn a key and walk into a dimly lit room. You turn around in a chair and look me straight in the eyes. Stunned and silent, my mouth cannot conjure up a string of words to say. You smile and say, “hi.” You came back. Fast forward a little, and I’m on your lap with your arms wrapped around me. I feel warmth. I am happy. I wake up.

Presently, you are no longer an object of my adoration. Paradoxically, it is the abstract collage of our past together that I am now fixated on. But in the end, it’s all just memories. 

(* for accuracy, replace “love” with “infatuation”)

I am accused. I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the
world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
― Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices 
At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise 
04.09.14 | The Economics of You and Me

I had slipped into a cruel cycle of trading in markets dictated by monopolies—corrupt and greedy, devoid of feeling and incapable of giving a damn. And yet, over and over, I always gave and seldom took.

Exhausted of my resources, I would sever the strings only to fall back into the pattern. 


Men in my past have taught me that exposing my sadness is a first degree felony. To do so was to burden them with the notion of empathy and affection, nothing short of a crime. Have you ever been held by someone who chained your words and tied them into a noose behind your back?

Adoration becomes synonymous with execution. 


That is why I supply silence when you demand words. 

You can use your hands and fracture my jaws, but not even your fingertips can crawl down far enough inside me to reach the fragments lost within the crevices. You can use your mouth to part my own, but not even you can breathe substance into these ghosts silhouetted by silence. 


In another dimension, another universe in my past, I plummeted into the orbit of too many black holes who ultimately swallowed my light. You, my dear, are not a black hole. You are a sun. But suns are still stars, and stars can still implode into black holes. Falling for a star, investing in risky stock—it’s all the same. Who can predict what will become of us? Perhaps, I will fly too close and burn my wings like Icarus. Or perhaps, you will collapse and gravity will pull me in to be devoured. Or perhaps, just maybe, we will find equilibrium.


I don’t know what will happen to us. But even if we end up on a trajectory towards collision with tragedy in this dimension, that just means we must have landed on success in another. Theoretical physics and economics may not make sense all of the time, but you and I make sense most of the time, 

These are the words I can supply to you in earnest: We make sense.