walking under acacia trees with T


- Heidegger said, to choose is to choose not to be free. Because every choice we make precludes other possibilities.

- I wish I could have it all.

- Then life wouldn’t be precious, would it?



- We’re always doing so many things, always running around, trying to prove ourselves worthy. It’s often not about needfulness, but ego and self-edification. But still it makes me so happy to achieve the things I work for.

- I didn’t have to work for what most makes me happy: my mother, my girlfriend, my friends—the love they give so generously.

- I also feel that way, but—the things I work for take time, take so much of me, that I hardly have anything left for people. I know it’s not okay, because people aren’t things or titles. They have hearts and legs. They can get tired. They can leave.



- I haven’t seen my mother in a while. I don’t even remember when we last had a proper conversation.

- My friend, his mother got dementia. He couldn’t see her for a couple of weeks because of work, and when he finally visited her, she didn’t know him anymore.



- I keep waiting for him because I believe that if I am patient, things will fall into place. But maybe I’m just kidding myself.

- Maybe you should stop hoping. Expectation will cut you. Let things unfold with indifference.

- And if things unfold in a way I don’t wish?

- Let them be. Let him go.

- But I don’t think I’ll find another like him.

- You know, that’s bullshit.



- I don’t think I can ever let go of attachment.

- We are all works in progress.

- But what would I hold on to? I’d drown.

- You could flow with the current.

- I’d sink.

- Then you might know peace.

some nights

I am listening to a particular Sugarfree medley on loop to fall asleep, I have been listening to it every night for the past three weeks. I find it sad that nobody expresses love like this anymore, and when I say “nobody,” I mean, of course, “not you.” I am thinking of adopting a dog because I feel lonely. I feel lonely because I am aware that I am replaceable. I know that I am replaceable because nobody needs me, I don’t mean what I can do for somebody, I mean as I am (then again, do we ever like people for who they are, or only for how they make us feel?). I find it funny that I wish I were needed, when I also wish to never need anyone. I don’t think this is a contradiction. It seems strange, doesn’t it, that I sound as if I wanted to give and not take, but I know better, I want to take, but only as much as I like and never more than I can give back, and only from those whose love I desire. I try to temper my desires, I disregard anyone who doesn’t want me. Somebody told me that we all need to belong to someone. Someone else said that we can’t make homes out of people. Then could I pitch a tent in your heart, if I promise to vacate the premises when you lease it to somebody new? My own heart is an empty room that only I visit, and all I ever do is sit on the floor and stare out the window. I feel like I have been staring out of and into windows all my days, looking for sky, looking at people. I want to be sky, beautiful and without feeling, far and above the mess of life. This is how I deal with mess: by sweeping all the clutter into trash bags and sending them to outer space (I bag and bin my emotions with words). Sometimes, this makes me stoic, sometimes hysterical. These nights I am more prone to hysteria, I think it is the heat, I never liked summer, I always get depressed in summer, I feel like I must take a vacation away from myself and my stupid feelings. When I was a teenager, I used to sleep through the long, sweltering days and only woke up at night to read by lamplight, so no one else had to deal with me. I am no longer a teenager, can no longer lay claim to such luxury. But still being young, I feel entitled to my selfishness, only I call it independence. There it is again, the needing-no one—have I convinced you of my self-sufficiency? I wonder for how long I can carry on like this before disgust—yours or mine—creeps into my room, soiling the white walls, the burnished wooden floors, the immaculate cream curtains that veil my nakedness from the city’s sight. I do not open the door. You do not come to see me. I keep listening to songs that sound like crying, and post missives to a placeless address in another universe.