This is Jack Skellington Talking

This is the earliest I'm saying goodbye. People always find me "nice" or a "good man" but why do I often end up with empty hands? Or heart. This is no good time to go all-mawkish. It's crunch time at work. It's crunch time for a new chapter in life. It's catch-up time with dreams. 

I need to take a pause and reflect. I wanna be somewhere else. Zap out of this reality. Take a peek from the outside. Somehow, I want to do this with someone. Could be my mom who's still ignoring me lately (sorry, Ma. I promise I will apologize the biggest way I could). Could be my ex whose insights never fail to enlighten me. Could be a new friend whose wits rival mine and sensibility match mine with a greater grasp of a wised up life. Could be with my young self when I was still unscathed.

There's something about this new year that's both a blessing and a curse. This push-and-pull is tearing me apart and keeping me grounded at the same time. Lemons abound; so does poison. Daisies too and such piquant spikies. 

Thing is, I can't cry. Can't seem to cry. It's there and not. Have I gone dry? Definitely not numb. But it's right there. Deep, deep inside. Trapped. Unarmed and too weak to claw its way out. Can I use my lunch time to well up? 

It also doesn't help that I wanna sing my heart out yet I am ill. I am feeling something in my ears, nose and throat that's gravely alarming me. It's been preventing me to sing. To sing well in the gigs. I hope it's not cancer. I have been planning to consult a doctor. But I'm either fearful of the truth or of misery. Been going on for 3 months now. Maybe it's all these negative emotions bottled up, manifesting in my throat, telling me "you can't cry because you never wanted to. We will never let you henceforth." Or the other way around. 

I have a new book. I wanna get started with it.

I want a new book. To write one. 

Am I going mad? Because I want to keep talking with mere ears to listen, eyes to reassure, arms to comfort, and mouth to stay meaningfully shut. I am so weird I find barely no one to qualify. Probly because I am too picky with and sensitive to people's responses. There's a certain way I want to be responded to. Not that I detest a quick rejoinder or prefer an obtainable joiner.

I recently deleted a reply to a blog. Note that I never liked erasing comments. What's said is said. But I retracted out of respect for somebody's privacy. It's another first for me. Blogger to blogger. My current, old self to my young self in somebody's person. I must be going mad. 

I have a red wine at my new place. I wanna swig it during lunch till I return ruddy for work. But that's indecorous. I am tempted to have even a little taste of Bohae, my new favorite pal. It's not to rebel against propriety but to conform to healthy sentimental exhibition. I think. Or I'd like to think. I look cuter inebriated. And the "tears" inside seem to be as gratified.

This is "flirting with kristopersnickety's mind" at its finest. This is Jack Skellington taking over. But I refuse to concede. I'll desist from this mental disease and self-destructive decease.