Month: April, 2015


“…come on, dude. You’ve jumped places in greater heights back in your parkour days. You were twelve then, man. Twelve! You’re older now! It wouldn’t hurt as much as it did before. You’re a bigger boy now, kiddo! A little jump wouldn’t hurt ya.”

“Shut up. I haven’t even jumped yet but I already feel like I’ve fallen from a twenty-seven storey building.”

“Twenty-seven, huh? Very specific. Do you play some music? Did you place a white lighter inside your pocket already?”

“I’m still too young for that shit. I’m just eighteen.”

“Hmm, no bother. Starting out early wouldn’t hurt. Besides, maybe jumping two floors ain’t so bad as you think, son.

“Maybe, but there are still things I value in this world and there are still people I hold dear. You know, I may be hurting but I’m not giving up.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. In time, every single thing you’re keeping close to yourself will vanish and it will destroy your soul. I’ve seen various cases like this and it doesn’t really end well. Heck, nothing ever ends well. But don’t you worry about the mess your corpse will be leaving though, I enjoy cleaning those things up. Hu-hah, tongue oooouuuuut!”

“Shut it, Death. I’m very much aware of everything you just said. Just because everything will come to an end doesn’t mean I should give up already. I’ve already wasted too much time searching for it. And now that I have found it, I managed to ruin its original form. No bother though, I may not have been here since the beginning but I’ll sure as hell be here till the end to fix what I may have damaged and keep it alive and well until our very last breaths.”

“Hmm, what?! Uhhh, I wasn’t really listening. I fell asleep during your boring-ass speech. You know what? Fiiiiiiine. I’ll let ya slide for now. Go forth and love blah blah blah I forgot how it went. Kill ya soon, bud! Don’t make it reach to ‘-if all else fails.’”



I always looked up to those outgoing, friendly kind of guys you meet at a certain point in your life, because one, they’ve got a lot of friends. Two, they’re fun to talk to. And three, everyone loves them. I mean everyone. They’re basically gods of human interaction! What more if you added some brains to them? Or money? A great house? A wonderful family? An artsy mind? Man, I’m pretty sure someone could swoon daily if one finds a nest filled with these Perfectos. (Yes, I will be calling them that.) Well, good thing there’s no place like that in this world right? Right? Ha ha, I know a place. Or two.

I grew up in a place I’m not particularly proud of, although I do keep it very close to my heart either way. I mean, not like I’ve got anything else to look back and hold on to, right? As a child, I knew that I was sensitive and irrational. It’s a good thing that I knew, but I always found out when it was already too late. My cousins would call me the “quiet one” or the “emo kid” or they wouldn’t even call me at all, much less avoid me completely. That being said, I didn’t really get along with most of my cousins because I was afraid of them. I was four years old then and I am eighteen years old now. I am still afraid of them. Although I did have some cousins I got along with, all of which flew to the Land of the Maple Leaf. They were all I had then aside from my generation gap siblings and killer neighbours. They were all I had then and they vanished. Proper goodbyes weren’t even given in the departure of the four. It’s not like I wouldn’t see them for good anymore but those days will never fail to bother me. I found out my flaws but it was already too late. Now I spend my days surrounded by relatives and cousins I am not fond of. I’m afraid that if I had gotten close to them, they would eventually fly away as well.

This tiny house is another thing – the bamboo walls, the dusty desks, the horrific wall filled with decade-old papers, the cheap tables, the cheap chairs, the pin light of hope, the stack of books, the stack of dust, the smell of sickness, the smell of laziness, and the smell of limited resources. Back when I was little schoolboy, I always overheard my friends inviting people over to their homes to play, or to have a sleepover, or to have some kind of fun people get to do with wonderful houses that I do not know of because for a fact, my house is not wonderful. I was always so envious of them because I knew that inviting people over would be a great way of strengthening relationships with people. Back then I barely had friends, and all my favourite cousins left me for Canada. I wish I had friends. I wish I had a great house. I was eight years old then and I am eighteen years old now. I wish I had a lot of friends. I wish I had a great house.

Another thing that always bothered me was my body. I always received unwanted attention because of it. I was called a “skeleton” or “anorexic” or “breakable” or “big eyes” or “asthma boy” or— Erm, you get the idea. And all of this wasn’t really good things to hear for a young boy, or even an adult, but he heard them all anyway. Those days when we were first introduced to fancy clothing and everyone had the appropriate fit for the shirts they’ve had except for mine. I was twelve years old then and I am eighteen years old now, and that gray Topman T-shirt only just fit me about a year and a half ago. In school I would always compare my arms to my classmates and my friends to see how bad my body really is and feel crushed by it. Schoolmates would tease me to eat or if my coffin was ready and I accepted them all. I was fourteen years old then and I am eighteen years old now. I am still alive. Still thin, but still alive.

In the latter years of high school, I slowly realize how much I have to catch up on in terms of books to read, films to watch, math equations to memorize, and vocabulary words to remember. It seemed like everyone already knew what they were doing with their lives. With the basics mastered, they move on to the next challenge. And here I am, still working on the basics, while everyone else had already successfully made it out from my heaven’s hell alive. I was seventeen to eighteen then, and I am turning nineteen now and I still haven’t gotten myself together.

You see, I am still far away from being a Perfecto. Billions of Perfectos already exist and are celebrating their greatness from all over the world and it scares me tremendously. It really scares me. I’m nothing. I am really nothing. I am just a friendless, reclusive, fearful boy with the ideas of someone who could possibly change the world. I want to help you, I want to help my family, I want to help myself, I want to help every single human being on earth but I do not know how. And I fear that the day I become a Perfecto (if ever I do become one), I would be left with no one to share my quarter second greatness to because they have already soared higher than what I could possibly ever see. Jealousy is a fucking bitch. I mean to do good. But obviously enough, if the taxing process of getting to where you want to be remains absent, your desired outcome will remain absent as well.


We are human, and us humans are incredibly different from one another. No one in this world will ever fully share the same wavelength as you unless that person is yourself. That being said, no matter how “connected” you are with someone as far as the idea of wavelengths are concerned, there will always be static that will scramble the so-called “shared wavelengths” that you two have. Same music taste, but different families. Same level of appreciation for a TV show, but different sex. Same family, but different music taste. The closest to being the same is being almost the same. We are human and we may be sane or insane at times, together but never all at once. We must not forget that it’s okay to fuck up. We are human and conflict is omnipresent.


When I was a little boy, I always knew that someone out there in this world is enjoying the pain that they are currently faced with, whether they know it or not. I never really understood how the world works way back in the day and even up to now, I still do not understand it. All I knew as a kid up until this very day is that everything is possible – that some men prefer men, that time travel really is possible (we just haven’t tapped into the Speed Force yet), and that some people really find pleasure in pain.

Why is it that they find enjoyment in pain? In drama? Is it because it can also serve as a statement that something is happening in one’s life? That one is actually “going through something”? Or are they really just suffering and nothing more? For a huge fraction of my teenage years, I was plagued by insecurity, anxiety, fucking unrequited love, and a truckload of misery. What a wonderful thing to be felt by a youngster, yes? Although right now, as I sit on this cheap stool and being eighteen, I look back whether I really felt sad back then, or if I fell in love with the feeling of feeling sad. Am I really in pain, or am I finding pleasure in it?