Psuedo Convos: BamBam and Pebbles

Pebbles: Does this mean more sex?
BamBam: If that's what it takes I'm willing to make that sacrifice, for you.


Ese guey. Sacrifice. Whatever jaja

topic: helping out a friend under depression

Death of a Student

This isn't death of a family, no, there lacks a coffin and a body, but there still is a funeral.
Into the pit crashes all the sweat, tears, all the money wasted, all the pages elaborately falling thus creating a mountain of white.
Into the pit falls all the debt, all the loss, aspirations, dreams.

There is a rising.
Out from the depths of the grave rises the worries, the fear and sometimes even the glory.
A strike of happiness may cross the face from time to time, although it's overtaken by the other sinister aspects.
The idea of sale.
The constant need that plagues the mind, an ad spinning in the brain, its image SALE stamped across a naked body.
Could this be it?
Is this where all the corpses come to rot?

The silence.
A deafening blow approaches as the last item spirals into the pit.
There is no dust. No remains fly freely, all have been entombed.
This is the pit. This is the grave.
This is the end, or perhaps the beginning to a perilous climb.

The Baggage

There's a suitcase on the doorstep.
It arrived here about a week or so ago.
It's not big. No, it's on the scale of medium.
A brown, leather bundle, with green stitching and golden handles,
rests on the doorstep.
It hasn't been moved much.
People use it, take it out for a stroll but always return it to its "proper" place.
It doesn't belong but it does.
It's stuck, in between.
People move around it. That's the usual way of things.
Things weren't always like this.
The suitcase use to be used. It use to move. It use to connect with others. In fact, it use to be part of the house.
Then it arrived on the doorstep and now, it just rests there.

Free Write: Cat Like Thief

Am I concerned? That's a given. Am I mad? Yup. Do I want to smash my fist into anything? Yup. Am I going to suck it up and pretend that I'm ok? Fuck no. You'd be an idiot to think I would do such a thing. Irvine, I hate you. You kill everything. You suck the life out of everything that I have left.

Fuck you,

ChesterYaYa

streets

With one candle, two feet and an umbrella.
Oh what a lonely path to tread on.
With this comfort of my shadow, with the hymns of my heart.
Does sorrow come forth?
The walk continues and grows.
Does the darkness elope?
With nothing on my side and everything to gain.
What is lost is to gain.
The walking of hundreds, the path of one.
Alone forever, to come to none.

I

• Sometimes I think these eyes are glorious landmarks
• Sometimes I think these eyes are a portal to an uncharted land
• Sometimes I think these eyes are nothing, just a forgettable organ.

But in reality these eyes, are balanced in an asymmetrical face. With asymmetrical eyebrows and a crooked nose to compliment them, these eyes see everything there is to be seen but never enough.
They are beautiful and rotten.
They above all are fragile. These eyes are the entrance to all that is me. These eyes are magnificent.

Con

Con.
Confiada.
Confidente.
No. That's not the word. Confident.
The feeling that something will happen, that something will happen because you caused it.
The power. Changing something that seconds ago was engraved in a mural.
I am confident.
There is no fear.
There will be....
Tu y Yo.
Con.
Together.
Just us. Juntos. A union. Complete?
Indeed.
Excuse the arrogance.
Yo estaré contigo.