My pimples never lie. They burst out like an angry Arab mob out of my greasy pores when my unconscious falls into anarchy (though the unconscious is already in a constant state of chaos). They burn. They itch. They make me want to grill my face with a red-hot iron and condemn the whole world for its infinity of sins and cheesy religious rituals.
My unconscious never lies.
I smile calmly before friends but deep inside that black hole, I am wasting away at the bloodcurdling truth that she will leave me in a matter of weeks. If you’re curious about how an utterly lonely man feels, I’ll tell you how. It usually feels like deliberate indifference and forgetfulness, which it IS exactly in every single way. One cannot smell right or see right; mostly just a haze of colors and scents in a crumpled day. One cannot remember.
Some two nights ago, I dreamed we were chased by vampires. Brown vampires, not Meyer’s pretty pale vampires. We were running down a flight of stairs we painfully hike with our mouths agape everyday. We were hopping, skipping, careful not to trod on something and crash. It was a losing battle, so I woke up.
It doesn’t take a Freud to see that I’m running away from the future, which has recently synchronized its meaning with the word “failure.” Future and failure mean almost the same thing to me now despite my efforts at fighting back the clouds of doubt and the bloodsucking vampires. Though I love her with all my heart and soul, this darkness has blanketed my sight with the sleekest, clearest blindness and I can’t see beyond.
Friends say I should apply for a scholarship. In Canada. Or Japan.
My mom just wants to be assured of the monthly rice allowance.
Gates have to be opened for “wire cutters.”
It’s hard to get a fuckin’ job.
The axe is nearing my neck.
She’s leaving. Perhaps forever if I can’t make it out of this shithole of a homeland.
All the while I’m forgetting things, succumbing to an illness brought about by years of paranoia.
Did I say my love is leaving?
It’s nice to shop around malls for things she can bring on her trip. She’s careful not to buy clothes she can’t use in the merciless cold of that country. So basically, I’m helping her get out because I’m the best man to do that. It’s always the greatest irony and tragedy when the guy who doesn’t want to let go helps the girl to fly away.
And she sells things ladies love. I joked that she’s selling our memories. Every dress she posts online is invested with days and nights of experiences engraved in my mind and my skin. Funny how customers fight over them like wolves under a juicy piece of meat dangling from a tree, blood trickling. Had they known how precious they were, they will probably stay away from them and bow to them, like they were sacred temples.
But they have to be sold. They are of no use to us anymore.
Chemae’s friends know she is a special person like I do. From here on out, her Facebook wall will just continue to unroll a kilometre of farewells, sad jokes and goodbyes. I’ll make sure to add my own bits because in the end, I’m just another guy in the crowd who will wave at her from underneath the plane. Not even literally ’cause she won’t let me be there on her departure. God, we all love her. But please allow me this — I love her the most.
Fuck, this entry is gloomy.
And that’s why my pimples are here to stay and they never lie.