Ilipiration

It is a revolution of chaos when the beauty of the night gradually distinguishes the difference between you and the rest of the world. I am very nocturnal and, as compared to anybody else who suffers from insomnia, I love sitting around, passively, with thoughts raging in my head as if there are little scarabs jumping around, making my brain its cushion while it jumps up and down with an image of you in its hands. I admit…I am very much trying to be less submissive to the thoughts of spending my time with you. I must also admit that my trying to do so can be used as a metaphor of a pilot’s attempt in crash landing his plane �" highly risky and possesses a very slim chance of success.

Somehow that night was peculiarly interesting, with your disseminated words and phrases through letters of mystifications. I find it bizarre, odd and strange that someone like you would, in all proverbs explained, take so much interest in the life of someone as chaotic as I. It is very philosophical that your life could fit into my cataclysmic life �" my life that somehow always resembles an empty can: at least to other people, but never to you. Come what may but you, someone so gradual but still rapid in your own way, someone that find so much passion in the existence of my infatuation; you, came up out of all randomness (or destiny) and took me by my neck, looked into my eyes and sucked up all my perplexity in this wild, wild life I am living in. It was magical; so magical that I am almost uncertain if these are all even obvious possibilities.

I would never question your undying interest in my wellbeing and your attempt to destroy my embezzlement in this life with meaningful gestures. I have always portrayed you, like how I would sweep my paint brush across a paper, as a piece of rare art; something more special than the works of Picasso or Vincent van Gogh; or even Leonardo Da Vinci. Though I have mystified you in some very improper ways, my intellect tells me that you are worth every cents and dollars in the value of my apology and my emotions agree that the merit of your accepting my act of contrition is worth more than the life of yours and mine combined.

It is my stigma to oversee your embodied pursuit of my happiness. How could I be so blind and point an accusing finger at you with no corrective or constructive thinking? My wish is not for your forgiveness or your forgetting of my despicable behavior, but rather your acknowledgment of my regrets. I will not attempt to send you roses or daffodils, nor will I attempt to soothe you by cheerily drugging your coffee with cinnamon. I will not blindly covet the fire of your ingenuousness to burn your zealous heart so as to turn it into beautiful cinders. My only attempt to correct my preposterous manners towards your being is to sit where my buttocks are now, to rest my bosoms against the table to where my arms and fingers dance as I type this monstrous, lengthy piece to commemorate my guilt and remorse.

Though I feel I need to go on writing this piece with a heavy heart, a ring to my ear woke me in all suddenness. I grieve for your presence, long for your voice and yearn for your words. I pine for your reaction and laughter and I wish for almost nothing but your usual fractious-ness that always seems to put me at awe. I shall stop writing before your eyes fall on your lap; before tears start its stream down the river of your face to the fountain of your chin. I will leave you with this thought: I despise clichés so I will not say I have accepted you for who you are. I would rather case in with more originality and say I have no choice but to accept you for you and it is a good thing because who you are, the real peevish you, have accepted my unconscious faith that somehow, willingly, chose you.