Rock. Paper. Scissors.

When you thought it was all over.
You could feel it all around.
Dont let it drag you over.
Hope that everything’s not lost.

4am Dubai, wide awake and staring at an open tv. Barely could understand what they were talking about, since most of it were in their own language. But before all that, I was watching this movie called Phenomenon.

Outstanding. I wish I can do what most he could do at that movie. I wonder how is it like to be on the writer’s brain, be able to think the way he did when he wrote it. Imagine a normal guy from what place suddenly becomes this genius… One having photographic memory… Its so amazing. I wish I have it. Im not saying I am anything like that guy from the movie, but we do share something in common…like not sleeping…its not a choice, i just simply cant. I read when i cant sleep, i write when i cant sleep, i stare at nothing when i cant sleep. In as much as I want to break morse codes like he did, im lazy.

Magnetic pull… Static electricity… Science.

I wonder how far can science prove everything. I wonder if things scares them when they can’t find answers. They give names to almost every little things, naming it after people who finds it, but never did they once thought of giving it to the first person who survived the ordeal, or who died from it…. They just get a page from the book saying that they were the first people on earth to get it, the first person to died from it, the first person who survived it.

Sometimes I think science is selfish. Sometimes they give you hope. Sometimes they break your heart. Everything must be black and white. Nothing is ever grey. How could it be? They say, because its about a life….nothing has gradient on it. With everything they know, they can’t give me answers. With everything they’ve seen, still no answers. The only consolation they can give me is that after im long gone…maybe in the near future, can they help other people who got what i have and cure them. It may not cure me, they can’t cure me, but it may cure someone someday. I wish more doctors are like George O’ Malley. Human. More human.

I want to have doctors who doesnt see me as just a test subject, i just want them sometimes to see me as ahuman being wanting to live as long as I can. No more questions about why, how, where and what. i’ve been answering them since 1997 and I’m tired. For all the times Ive been tested and read my medical files, I have yet to meet a doctor who simply just believe that theres things in their life that medicine and science can’t answer…not simply because there isnt an answer, its because were simply asked to have faith. Faith in the possibility of everything. 

A Chinese proverb once wrote…

“If you want to know your past – look into your present conditions. If you want to know your future – look into your present actions.”

My present is this. Hospital Bed. Hospital Bed. Hospital Bed.

Hundred different reasons why I shouldn’t complain, and I only remember a few reasons why I should. 

The doctor had told me once, having MS makes you forget. Makes you stop doing a lot of things you used to… 

Having MS doesn’t scare me. Like having to get a new organ in my body, there isn’t a room for discussion that I will let fear take over my goal to survive through this. But when you do forget they reasons why, and when you forget constantly… thats when the fear comes in the most. 

I’ve never been scared to be blind. Somehow I know, when it happens to you, sometimes you can ask, but most of the time, you just learn to accept it. Its always a matter of acceptance. 

The fear you have will be forgotten. Just like i’m forgetting things now, and yet theres no fear. Theres no strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Just a headache that keeps on happening when I try to open my eyes. 

I am sad. I’ve never been sadder. I never felt more sadder. That’s how sad I am. It’s just weird. I know. Writing stuffs that I might not even remember tomorrow. It’s a chance of luck when I open this application, it went straight to its dashboard. And I’ve read everything, and I can’t seem to understand. 

I want to feel happy for a change.

I want to remember. 

I want a box of donuts.

I want to listen to all classical songs and all PINK songs I can get.

I want to play the guitar. 

I want to be able to see all the colours again and really know the difference with its hues… its gradient… 

I want to play the piano.

I want to eat Popeye’s chicken. 

keeps my heart heavy

keeps my heart beat faster

keeps my head light

keeps my head feel slower

keeps my hands shiver

keeps my hands stop moving

keeps me wishing awful things

keeps me wondering why aren’t things normal.

fuck this sickness. 

fuck MS.

fuck my fucking bleeding heart. 

It doesn’t matter how vile or messy or lazy or spoiled or fucked up we are. Life is still life. And either thats meaningful all the time or it’s meaningful none of the time, schmuck, no qualifying. No picking, no choosing. It either matters or it doesn’t. Life has a value.

Her life could simply be seen as a series of things she had failed to get over. And now it was over. And who’s left here, to rail and rage and scream and kick and fight and cry at the loss of Dahlia? Who will be irrational and destroyed? Who will think of her, late at night, early in the morning, in their happiest and worse moments? Who will think of her? And think of her? and think of her more?

She didn’t want sorrow, she wanted grief. Sorrow is perfunctory, grief is the real deal. Whose life destroyed, whose sense of security in life itself gone? Whose chance at any complete happiness ruined forever and ever?

A lifetime of colloquials rang true: So lonely I could die. So hungry I could die. So tired I could die. So mad I could die. So happy I could die. Feeling all those things so intensely equaled, yes, theoretical death. And indeed: when you’re as full of feeling, good and bad, as you’ve ever been… think orgasms, think the funeral scene in Steel Magnolias, think rape, think stubbed toes and root canals and kittens and childbirth and kidney stones… that’s when you’re closest to understanding.

She understood now, everybody was alone… and they would, every one of them, ultimately, be well. Dahlia will wish them all well. Thinking having nothing whatever to do with thinking. 

Would there be light? Would there be warm white light? Please, fuck, no, let there not be anything so expected as that: would be the point, after all this noise, of something everyone could predict? Would it be torture not to tell anyone what she saw, what she felt, what it was? if it was warm or good? Or if it wasn’t? This awareness, this voice, these memories, these banal and typical and boring and singular memories, the being she herself understood completely and honestly. 

The question now is how could you let go of a life you saw live, on the person you love more than your life itself, and how could you deal with her death.

It was exceedingly simple: just a matter of release. 

Although she wasn’t ready like any mother to let go, she felt hesitation like at the end of a phone call in which important things has been left unsaid. She wasn’t ready. It occurred to her that lots and lots of people had died before this, though: like, everyone. Still, the panic rose and subsided, rose again before subsiding again, a kind of pull, steadily, firmly towing her out, sort of a song in itself. Confident, unhurried. Two steps forward, pause, one step back, and no looking down at her feet, now. It rose again, then subsided… she wasn’t ready, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to let go of her Dahlia.

And PS. Happy Birthday to me! 

I just want to see clearly.