I always ask myself why I tend to over-analyze things and why, even after so many tiny sparks that failed to catch fire, I still insist on hoping that maybe this one might be different - that maybe this time it's going to roar into a blazing pit and consume me entirely.

  Maybe it's not really that one person that I truly love, but my idea of love; my expectations.  The "other" is just a medium; a victim of circumstance.  He just happened to be there within my periphery.

  But isn't that how it always starts?

  The perfect timing, the perfect setting, the right mood, all sums up to create the illusion of the perfect person.  It could be anybody, right? (This is me being cynical.)

  But no matter how I rationalize things, and regardless of all probabilities, the heart will always want what it wants, defying reason and even unfortunate circumstances.  
  Will I ever learn?  Perhaps never.  This heart is too stubborn.  Or maybe just too optimistic.

I miss the beach.

My girls and the boys.
Drinking rhum with ice tea.
Games.
Spin the bottle.
Jamming with a guitar.
Playing punk rock on stereo.
Keeping our hands warm around a bonfire.
Talking life.
Watching the sunrise.
A morning swim.
Laughter.
Hot soup for breakfast on a long table.
Beauty in the simple things.

Opportunities foregone are lost forever. God, I'm so remorseful of all those that I've let pass without making so much as an inch of effort to just try. I could've been an apprentice of a great sculptor whose works have been exhibited in reputable institutions - like the freakin' national museum! But my idiot self sadly let go the opportunity. You know why? Coz i was chicken shit! My stuck up, pride-blinded self refused to be reduced into someone's sidekick! No, really. I was scared shitless to discover myself. I was a coward. I wish I could turn back time, but no. This is what I am. I have to accept it and move forward. this time, the coward will no longer be...

I wrote two love letters today. One for asking forgiveness, the other for letting go. I've been carrying a whole load of baggage, and I hadn't even noticed until I let them go. Who knows? Karma might be nicer to me this time. heheh

What I pray for the most is peace of mind. I hope I'll come closer to that now that I've come clean with the skeletons I've been keeping in this dark closet of mine. I hope the sun shines brighter for me tomorrow.

I've got dumb, crippling issues. Here's my confession: I hate it when people look over my shoulder when I'm making sketches or drawing. I hate having to endure whatever they have to say about my work, coz then I'd have to think of what to say in reply, and I'm not sure I'm any good at taking compliments. And to think I took up Fine Arts for two years! Maybe that's the reason why I didn't stick with it and graduated. I mean, I loved it over there! I loved all the things that we made in class, and the people that I've met were crazy as hell or at least were absolutely cool as a glass of ice water. But I clammed up. I got scared of showing a part of myself out there for everyone to look at and observe, and judge. I was such a coward! And so I slacked off, and went to my classes less and less, until I didn't go at all. Like everything I've ever started doing, I quit. Gave up. Gave up and stamped out the fire. Got scared... Now there's a sad realization...

I love this painting. It says it all.

Kafka on the Shore

When you read a good story, you just keep reading. You turn your phone off, put yourself in seclusion and forget the rest of the world... until you finish reading that story. It's been a while since I've read a book that made me wanna just sit and escape into my imagination. It's surreal, nostalgic and melancholy mood affects me the way the warmth of your own bed unties the knots in your aching bones after a long day's work. The familiar smell of the cushions release you from all restrictions, and lets you sink into deep slumber until you explore the depths of your mind through your dreams. Kafka, the main character, is a 15 year old boy who runs away from home and discovers himself in the process, and comes to terms with the past that has molded him into what he has become. I love it! The journey to face the truth about one's self, one's weaknesses, one's strengths. In the end he got a little too sentimental, but overall it was a fantastic ride and I'd recommend it to anyone who's trying to look deep into himself. (Isn't everybody?) And the weirdness of it entices me! Murakami is a positively crazy person!