The afterparty thoughts.
I wish I felt nothing. Neither feeling dead or alive makes no sense. It makes no difference. Everyday feels like chemotherapy day for cancer patients. Happy but sad, hesitant but sure, loved but betrayed, alive but dead. They undergo the same operation over and over again just to kill the deadly cell, the cancer cell. Until their hopes began to disappear. Until they become numb to feel the needles, to hear the mourn of their loved ones, to smell the scent of medicines and syrups, to see their hair slowly falling out. Until life meant nothing but cruelty to them.
My cousin died of bone cancer. She was only four then. It took her youth, her joy, her Barbie doll, away. Away. Away. From her. From us. I remembered when I used to stay up all night just to pray for her. Last time I saw her moving, breathing, was 2 days before her death. She was irritated, angry, mad, devastated, crying, because of anticipation, of disappointments, of wanting to get everything over with, of us. We didn’t blame her. Because we understood. I understood. She cried not because she’s afraid to die but because she’s afraid to live and suffer forever.
It’s like being alive but dead. Like being me. Everyday, I wished I were the one who had cancer and died. I wished I had a rheumatic heart disease or HIV or emphysema or tuberculosis, or leukemia. Nobody understood why I chain smoke. They think I smoke packs per day just to relieve stress. I smoke because I want my lungs to suffer, so I can die young. I don’t want death by default. Dying of old age is sad. Depressing. And ordinary.
I never was a fan of suicide. I tried it before, but didn’t work. When I was a kid, after my father left us, I tried cutting myself. In the ass, stomach, abdomen, at the back, anywhere in my body where no one could see. Then it healed. But left no superficial marks. No scars. Yet I can still remember the same spot where I incised. I can still remember the amount of blood that poured down to my legs. It didn’t hurt. It never hurt. But the departure did. It hurt like shit. Like fucking spasms. Like stiff neck, locked jaws, third degree burns, like fucking toothache and turbo headaches. And I thought then that my only cure was to see my father again. So things would be normal like it was before. I now realized I don’t need a cure anymore. For my tumor is now malignant. No certain drugs or painkillers could heal it. Only death could.
I grew unstable, inconsistent with my opinions, which I think are two of the symptoms of substance abuse. I thought, if there were any dopes or coke or angel dusts around, I’d probably would have taken two of more sniffs. Or if there were a pot hidden under my brother’s audio player, I’d probably be a pothead. But it’s the availability that kept me from being one of those fucked up hallucinating dope junkies that I wish I were. The only thing available here is a cigarette, the thing that my mother despises the most. My best friend, my buddy that I can buy anywhere once I run out. Better than a living friend, better than a pet, or than a car. Cigarettes are my best friends. They have lots of names, Virginia slims, Capri, vogue, Marlboro, dj mix, etc. they are always available. They don’t have strict schedules to follow, or a class to attend, or a lover to fuck with. They don’t hurt you but rather satisfy you. But there is a betrayal that will surely come. Maybe not at this moment, but soon.
This is how unstable I’ve become. Jumping from one issue to another then another. From cancer to my father’s departure to substance abuse. Inconsistency. Insecurity. Fucking words I hate the most. That’s why I think I could never be a good writer. I suck at essays. Sometimes I fuck at my grammars, especially those past present future past participle shit. Plus I have a habit of jumping from this topic to that out-of-the-topic topic, when the topic that is supposed to be written is all about this and not that. Poor English. Fucked-up grammar, logic, imagination. If only I spent my junior years at a well-known school with high fucking standards of teaching, I may not be this bad in English as I am now. Regrets. You’ll only realize it when the work is done. Take a finished painting for example, pastel colors, seashore, coconut trees, sunset. No one looked at it except from the painter himself. No one bought it, until he realizes why. “I should have used earth tones than pastel, I should have stroked the brush gently, when I could have in the first place.” As obvious as it could be, the painting was already done. Remorse. I should have believed my mother when she said friends are like kangaroos jumping from one land to another. I shouldn’t have bought his I-love-you-I-will-never-hurt-you bullshit. I should have continued my piano lessons even when my father left. I should have. When I possibly could have in the first place.