Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Noir, Pur, Superflu

“Your ex-girlfriend is dead.”

You hear this upon finishing your margarita. The sour taste of the lime became particularly strong, as if you ingested your own ill feelings toward her. It’s such an irony, really, that you heard this while celebrating with your friends on a fruitful gambling night.

“Screw her. She deserved to die in the first place.”

She was a harlot, who did away all her problems by drinking and by cavorting with rich men who overcompensate their tiny penises with their sheer wealth. I gave her all my attention, shared her all my thoughts, and provided her all the material things that she could ever want, yet they were never reciprocated. Her heart was so black that it resembled the starless sky in late November evenings, the blanket of soulless nights that envelope all your hopes for light. She died like the dog that she was.

You showed apathy and continued to drink.

The seemingly endless hours went on as your friend mumbled about her life. You notice that this year is particularly hot and dry, that the usual month at this time of the year should be accompanied by irregular drizzles and by cold air. You remember the feeling of shitting on toilet seats as cold as brushed stainless steel.

And while your mind was busy thinking of fecal matter, you heard one important word from your friend.

“Suicide.”

Like your bare ass kissing that ice cold toilet seat, it smacked you and made you realize that something’s amiss. No, not of the weather, but what really happened between the two of you.

The cloud of second hand smoke filled in the room as your friend continues his story of how she died, and you are becoming aware that your disbelief is slowly detaching you from reality. Every sensation is turning bland, turning mute, turning cold.

Deafening silence. From the ambient noise, and more importantly, from your friend’s voice. Even the sound of your thumping heart was muffled to a halt. You try to scream, and you yelled with all your pathetic might. You notice that everyone in the room frenzied to pacify you, yet everything is still devoid of sound.

They say that only deafening silence can accompany disbelief, and you felt like smacking guy who said that right on the face, for his words are a painful picture of the truth.

God turned off the volume of your cheap existential television. For half an hour you had to bear your distorted perception of reality (as if it wasn’t distorted enough), and for half an hour, you were catatonic.

Loneliness followed you all your life, like a mad, salivating street dog in unlit street alleys. And as if loneliness was not the worst thing that the cruel world cursed on to you, it is only now that you realize that its jagged fangs bit you and made you delusional the whole time.

“She left a note; it talked about you, only of you, and against you.”

It comes with so much pain and of catharsis that your love for her was nothing more of desperation, that the girlfriends you had before and after her were nothing more than patches, to cover up the sad truth that she rejected you for so many times, that she never really loved you.

Yes, she’s dead, but your love for her never really lived in the first place.

“Oh yeah, did you know that her name literally means ‘purely pure’?”

xxx

[Indeed, it was a redundant black and white love, one of polar opposites, one of idiosyncrasies. Dark black, light white, there are no such things. Yet ironically, it was then revealed that black was white and white was black. And more so, what was now white is purely pure. All of these realizations came in too late.]

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