What Does It Mean To Have a Heart?

It's been a while since I wrote. And that's probably because either I don't think anyone deserves to read this, or that my worries are petty and unwarranted, though indulgence of the former may make me feel better.

The impetus to write this piece came from me stumbling on a blog of a former crush of mine. He then opined his justification on being silent when someone else says that he misses him, because he simply does not feel the same. He feels that he'd rather not scathe the ego of another by telling that person that he does NOT miss him. Instead, he keeps silent.

When we locked eyes for the longest time before gently kissing, was that really just me imagining amorous feelings? Was it really all in my head? Did I misunderstand what it was like to kiss someone you really like so softly and passionately? Are these emotions merely bursts of serotonin and dopamine and nothing more? But alas, I do not have the answers , and I will never know if the sudden skip of a beat in my chest and heightened happiness is an illusion or can be justified or even worth investing time in researching and, and understanding. Was I stupid enough to even identify this as an amorous feeling?

What tore me and rendered my guts was what if he was disgusted all this while and just wanted to "get it over with"?

No one can make another like them. If spells and sorcery did exist to enchant the ones you like to like you, the world's utility of less heartbreak would manifest at the cost of making people like each other a commodity (notwithstanding that this too already exists on a scale vide Stockholm Syndrome, prostitution, and even to an extent, the social institution of marriage)

The world shows me no compassion, why should I then show the world compassion?

Is your heart something you can really trust? It's sad to know your heart is the only thing you can trust. There's no "on" or "off" button when it comes to emotions and feelings. I can't just tell myself to stop feeling, what I can do though, is merely put thoughts of you in abeyance through indulging myself with pabulum. But what can you do if the heart wants what the heart wants? I know how I feel. No one else can tell me how to feel otherwise. Or what I am feeling is merely an illusion I conjured up about another; merely a perspective, lacking details to the whole story, like a story without its climax/plot twist while very well knowing that that climax has yet emerged.

What pierces my heart even more is when I anticipate that whatever I do for another is met with snide remarks and/or disgust which he keeps to himself - whatever I do will never be good enough. Is this what they call a persecution complex?

He probably got it at the bullseye when he said that he didn't even know why he likes me.. Neither do I. On one hand, I'm pretty confident that if I try hard enough, I'll find that special someone who will appreciate me for who I am and I am good enough, on the other hand, I'm beginning to feel this to be no more than a futile exercise because I will never be good enough for anyone, I'm a monster.

They say if you fall in love with a poet, your love will be immortalized in writing vide his poetry. If you would then allow me, to immortalize our love on paper, canvas or any medium of your liking.

And if the well of my emotions overflow to the physical persona/mask I wear and people ask what's wrong, the only thing I can say is... " べつに" ("Betsumi", meaning nothing's wrong).

This Shadow Inside I Wish I Could Slay

This shadow inside I wish I could slay,
I wish I could drink my problems away,
If only not drinking made me so gay,
Tell me don't leave me, tell me you'll stay.

Can't Poor People Have Nice Things?

A dark-skinned man walked to the cashier holding a bag of  what looks like "siam super special" rice. He meekly asks the cashier - "Berapa?" (Malay for "how much?"). The cashier glared at him for a bit before snatching the bag scanning the bar code. 

"Emfatfuloe..", Gibberish was being uttered by the cashier with her head faced down and not the least bit interested in making eye contact with the man, it was as if deliberately not wanting to talk to him. From where I could stand, I could see the price - RM 42.50. Holy Grapefruit! - That's pricey for a bag of 10 kg rice. Then again, I'm more used to the lower price range of local white rice; the extravagant prices of "higher end" rice such as brown rice have little appeal to one who strives to thrift like me. 

"Empat puluh dua ringgit lima puluh sen!" (Malay for RM42.50) the cashier raised her voice, which shocked both myself and the dark-skinned man. It was as if she was annoyed. With the bag of rice in his hand, he retreats away from from the cashier. 

I have then begun a ride on a roller coaster of assumptions in his head - "Things are getting more and more expensive, and my pay is not increasing" - "Can't poor people have nice things?" - "I know I don't belong here, but do you have to raise your voice like that? Treat me less than human?" - "Well, at least things here are better than back home".