I wonder if I have some sort of Electra complex.

For all my life, I’ve been channeling my energy towards strange places. Y, for instance, I was madly captivated by him. And as I pledged to myself, I was insanely in love with him. I thought dumping all my emotions into the relationship would bring forth endless joy. Strangely, it did nothing to eradicate the emptiness in my heart. I continue to stare into space and question, “What is it that I’m doing today? What have I accomplished?” And the answer to both is more than obvious.

Did nothing. Not accomplishing anything. Does sex count? No it doesn’t. Of all the ‘productive’ activities that one can be doing, sex seems to be the most base. I don’t have anything against it. I enjoy it of course. But it does not lend meaning to Life. I want to make love, not have sex.

However, given my present emotional makeup, it seems that all I can do is to have sex. Making love is still miles away. I think that I have a habit of creating imaginary goals so as to distract myself from the life that I actually have right now.

Perusing some child developmental pages the other day gave me some insight about myself. Clearly, I am a victim of disassociation. The role of a victim, is once again, debatable but it seems as though I am indeed forcing to undergo the eighteen stages of hell day by day. Am I the protagonist of Catherine Lim’s paperback colonial romance? Of course, you will be sharp enough to point out to me that it’s not even reciprocal. A word that has special meaning for me.

Dullness strikes at my heart. My brain feels like a brick of lead. Over-saturated yet malnourished. Or maybe that’s my heart.

Floating

Suspended in mid-air
I look around me
and think
this must be heaven

Indeed.

blood drain from my fingertips
come Rushing to my head
thumping
like solid lumps of chicken feed

kind of beautiful up there
no sound

and i fall right through
webs
nets

and the world that i’m looking at
looks right back at me

silly me.
i’m just bouncing on a mattress
wait
all sides are mattresses…

whitespace.