Ara took this photo

plant begonias, and orchids in your hair.

Just got back from Anvaya with Xavi, Giulia and Braulio. It was a much needed beach getaway where we basically ate, laughed and relaxed. I hope we get to go again sometime soon.

There's nothing more dangerous than an Idea.

Its risky that I post this somewhere so public for people to see, actually, the only person I'm worried about reading this is the person it is written for, you know who you are. Hell, everyone knows who you are. God forbid this actually makes you feel good about yourself after reading it. Oh well, I'm slightly protected by the knowledge that you don't frequent my blog, even though my know how much it means to me. Here goes nothing ..


I hate to admit it, but I'm lying in bed thinking of you. I know, I'm a cliche. It's 4am, the borderline of the fifth day of no talking, or is it sixth? I've lost track of time. I imprison myself in assumptions I know are false, in thoughts that are corrupted by my own self, playing the blame game and directing hatred onto people who are not the problem at all. It's you, and it's me. I don't know where I went wrong, and I'm definitely not blaming myself for our collapse, but I always wonder why I wasn't enough. I can list down all your problems easily: Chronic liar, fake-personality, etc., but it's easy to point fingers and let yourself go un-assessed. Though it does bother me that you don't try to contact me whatsoever. No apologies, no explanations excuses, nothing whatsoever.It's both a disappointment and a relief. But I do wish you had a legitimate explanation behind your actions, so that I can finally stop inventing my own.

Watching from rooftops.

It was a rusty morning: grass dew-laced, air thick. We sat cross-legged in a transfixed state of a blurry sunrise, of gaps in our memories, overtaken by nostalgia of days unspent, of places inexistent. Cigarettes stubbed out on the grass, grey ash scattered under my bruised-knees. The surrounding homes pulsated to the heartbeat of the neighbourhood, street-lamps switched off on cue and dogs stretched out on lawns, spines curving dangerously low.

I really should've been in bed by then, but alcohol never induced me to sleep. Instead, I chain-smoked my way into daylight, chatting idly with the others. We all had our own quirks, and mine was reacting to the unspoken thoughts in my head; a laugh, a shudder, a sigh, all mysterious to those around me. Households were awaking and weariness was creeping into our bones, a sign for bed, but the risk of losing all fatigue as I hit the mattress, of tossing and turning to the soundtrack of my depressed thoughts scared me back into lucidity.
Lighting another cigarette, I soldiered on.

Monuments.

I'm trying to purge myself of the internet, of my cellphone, of any device that provides communication because I cannot fight the urge to try contact you and disregard the wishful thinking that you'll actually reply even though I know you won't. So I'm left browsing through photographs and artwork that never fail to remind me of you. Its like dynamite, the single spark of an idea ignites this long chain of memories that leads to the explosive concept of you. I've been taking deep breaths and sitting in secluded corners of the house, thinking of what I can do to distract myself. The neat and orderly lines in every book I open don't interest me right now, but at least I have my music. At least I have my writing. I'm proud to say that I scribbled down a page-worth of thoughts, which is the most I've done in a while.

Isn't there a saying that goes something like, the best inspiration for an artist is heartbreak?