Portraits




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Homeless

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  I moved from my hometown to be with someone from another place, and I have spent two New Year's celebrations here. The decision to move was not carefully thought out. I rarely think life through, since I spend most of it dissociated, romanticizing my battles, or just being a human being no one can be proud of. My mother and sister were, when I was at a prestigious university pursuing my PhD and teaching, but I believe my other decisions far outweighed their pride and eventually they just - were there. I chose to be at a work from home job when dealing with people became too much, and have continued to feel never good enough for anyone in my family, my few friends, or the world at large. Sometimes I just put it in the back of my mind and pay bills and debts, sometimes, in the dark teatime of the soul, I just sleep with my uselessness as my last conscious thought.  It's the first day of the new year, and since I just turned 43, I found myself thinking about what I have become....
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Of finding something again

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I just sleep. I sleep to rest, to be away from the world that has given me so much and that I am not a part of anyway, to reset, to die. If only for a while.  I wake up and look at my phone, as all of us do now. The world painfully worlds, with no pauses and preambles: it elbows you in the face with all its glory, its vapid bitches, and all the iterations of the Andrew Tates of humankind. In everything we have a choice, save for one: this world. It is the ultimate given, the ultimate, ungentle, fact, and that we are in it. It doesn't stop. It can't; it doesn't have to. Immediately upon waking I close my eyes and dive deep into the recesses of whatever that was young that's left of me to desperately hunt for reserves of a desire to get up from bed, to work, to be . Two days ago I joked with my lover that I had been tired since 1984, and I think I mean it.  If not for him and another friend that gave me the time of the day in the MMORPG that I returned to, I would have ro...
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The fish

It’s always the fish.  One time, a time of happiness, perhaps, or hopes of a normal life together, my partner and I bought a fish, on a whim.  We were eating in a cafeteria, and while waiting for our sisig to grace our table, I told him I’d visit the pet shop next door.  Whereupon I laid eyes on the usual wares: fish, birds, Guinea pigs, rabbits. I remember my nephew, as always - he had wanted a rabbit in our previous home, and I was adamant to say no every time, since I would be the one to end up feeding and cleaning after it, knowing how he kept his hours. Plus I think stressed rabbits eat their young. That rabbit would have inherited all my stress and eaten its own sperm.   I spot the betta in their individual tanks, and my eyes delight in their colors: one was pure deep red, maybe like the color of the most beautiful flower in Sir Pratchett’s ocean; several were cobalt blue. Then I saw what was eventually to become christened in my house as Sisig - a betta so var...
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