Now let me start by saying there have been so many false starts. Say (1) A cloudy summer in the middle of failing undergrad thesis (2) Right after a major fallout a year later (3) the it’s time phase (4) post-hermetic 2018 Redemption Arc, and (5) finally getting that ticket out of Cebu. Now that i’m three months in on here, i can safely say that yeah, Charlie Don’t Surf– but at the end of the river, at the mouth, where all my fathers’ dead bodies bloat and pile up, there Charlie rises up the water- does a bit of catching up and then we know he knew how to swim. Brando lost his mind after that. A steel of a man. The Chao Phraya is no Jordan, there are no redemptions here, like the black Guadalupe that swims right through the core of my numerous layers.. I’ve never had a friend in a river and I only speak in waves, it’s hard-coded in me since the days of hunting boars. To assume that across the salty water there’s always another shore- a new life – and that the crossing closes up all the old wounds. But it ain’t true cause i’m still pus-yellow bleeding in here.
I tried to squeeze a poem out of that it’s been zero visibility since. I live in the first floor with a big sliding window facing a wall. I can’t tell if it’s day or night and the gradients seem to just mesh into one. Maybe I should give the rooftop bars a chance. Do the touristy things. I never talk in full sentences since jeez, i dont know, ive been told that i explain things too much and too often. And I tend to not finish any thing. Just a different kind of depth to it, that.