It is summer but, I yearn for it to rain. I feel so much closer to rain. When clouds start to regroup after a period of  bright and unperturbed stroll, looking down the earth with little or no trust at all. The clouds ejaculate and pounce the land with immense dissatisfaction, regret and adversity as if demanding an answer to a question that was tossed aside single-handedly. For so many years rain kept the side of the bargain, coming back whenever the earth forgot. The seasons change four times in other parts of the land. And in others just twice. All this under the same sky. To be sheltered by this, some parts of me wanted to revolt against it. How in this world I was able to experience both phenomena as a transient occupant of an eternal cruise? Should I be grateful? If I may I would want nothing. To live is such a pain that even ending it in an instant would be an infinite burden. I don’t think the world will end though. Even if it does, my life will have ended first before it does. Life is short or long. Good and bad. Happy and sad. Why does any of it matter? To hope? To live life to the fullest? To believe? And when one has achieved everything, what would it promise anyone? True happiness? Really? It seems happiness is too much of a work of the self. A goal–that if one does or fails to do, one may not be truly happy. A scapegoat, a reason for one to continue to suffer alone in most of the time in one’s treadmill. 

Perhaps I know nothing at all.

When one ceases to exist, this world or even the parallel worlds will continue its natural course. If I were fortunate, my future-self may have already existed in another version of the world. If parallel worlds were true, I did not think I had even the slightest reason to regret or fill myself with anguish as I soon, will have met my other self somewhere, somehow. Still, I wonder if I leave one world, would the other versions of me in another world, feel the same emotions as I have in one of the many worlds? I wonder if my other-self has rejected or ignored these feelings and just strive to continue as is in those other worlds. How many versions of the world are there? How many versions of me in them? How many of those remain connected? If I had the answers, would I have preferred the first over the latter? True happiness. Will each version of the world promise us this? I wonder.


Looking back. The afternoon breeze spilled like lime to a memory ever so distant. People, meeting people, being a person around people pejoratively poked a distressed wound of the past. How long? How did I live for so long so out in the open and yet, so open they could not recognize at all? Always finding an empty seat in front, brawling on the side like a troll, wearing, fitting in, dismantling, crocheting, trying to conform to the regular expectation or was there ever an expectation before I began to live for my own? Life is a bet. They placed their bets in haste they ran out of chips, theirs never reached mine in the roulette. There was no way to advance but an empty seat awaited behind my back–always that was rather comforting.


Going round and round, flowing, descending into the abyss, to cease doing business to the self, no way can this be a good life.

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