come closer, baby

I tried to leave behind thoughts and feelings of emptiness while I closed another Murakami book I borrowed from the library. Of course Murakami’s effect on me did not permit me to do so. These never-ending thoughts lingered in my mind like liquid cough syrup. I hated the way these thoughts stay and do nothing there. They just stay — much like the pungent smell of a coworker’s perfume.

“Is it possible, finally for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another?”

Rather than wondering whether this is possible, the question of whether anyone would care so much to really try to understand and get close enough to me — my essence is bugging me. I know I’m a difficult person to uncover and much more, to understand. But that’s not the point. I’m not scared of that. In fact, I am completely aware of that. What worries me is whether anyone would even put an effort to try.

Would anyone get so close enough to knowing that I don’t like pineapples on dishes but would kill to have that ice cold pineapple juice? That the smell of fresh laundry comforts me as much as a cup of warm coffee. That the sound of the neighbors fighting or arguing gets me anxious or that I do not like my hair being touched.

I can go on and on for a long time… but would anyone even care enough to ask or even wonder?

“Would I ever see the rest? Or would I grow old and die without ever really knowing her?”

イサベラ

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untitled 01

Dear 愛,

The music is unchanged and yet our dance feels different — like palms that catch smoke. Stubborn smoke nestles in our air spaces which sends me gasping; while you remain indifferent as if your lungs have always been burning. I never set them on fire. It wasn’t me.

I miss the way you pluck out seeds in your heart and blow them into my insides. The flowers aren’t hiding. They have long been gone. Even weeds do not find it worthwhile to even try to exist.
We are dead.
You and I.

The fire did not kill us.
We are less fire and more dead-ice.
Yes, we are.

イサベラ

(c) image

perspective

I watch her carefully as she studies the scene from the corner of her eye. Everything about her is well calculated – the way she angled her chair and the way her feet were positioned. Everything around her were purposely placed for a reason. This is a game she’s used to playing. I watch her with amusement as she observes the scene like a lion watching its prey.

She waits for the line to dissipate and counts the seconds silently — a desperate chant to the heavens. She waits a few more seconds and tries to secure the pattern. She gathers all her courage to attack. Wait what? Attack what?

I stare at what she’s keeping under surveillance. I see a guy in white long-sleeved top with huge-framed spectacles and a spotless apron. I see awkwardness and coffee machines. I see… I see what she sees and I am awed.

He moves away from the counter and goes out the door perhaps to take a break from all the brewing, and staring, and watching, and falling in love.

And almost as if on cue, she stands — her dress ruffling from the swiftness and abruptness of her movements. She walks over to the cashier and orders a sandwich to be eaten here and another cup of cold coffee. She blurts these words out like song on repeat and heeds the other girl to follow her pace. But the heavens are not pleased. This much I can tell.

“May I have your name ma’am?” chirped the lively cashier.

“Isabel,” she whispers quickly. From afar it sounded like an old magic spell; like a word forcefully forgotten and unspoken of.

“Do you spell that with two ls?” inquired the young lady by the counter.

“Yes,” she says. The way her hands fidget and her brows cross tells me that she really means no.

“Is there an e at the end?”

She nods her head and tries to smile.

By this time, the door opens and the man returns.

I see Time in slow motion. I see him pass by her and everything else. I see her bow her head slightly and tap her shoes in agony. I see everything and nothing.

She returns to her seat flushed and beaten. I glance at the man who is as innocent as a tiny sprout. He calls out her name.

イサベラ