(note: I saw a crumpled paper at the library months ago, in it was written in pencil and some erasures. gave me that Dosteyevskian chill and disgust as well as pity –Telmah)

I’m into BLOOD recently. It’s so strange because I have this strange tingly feeling and I get goosebumps and shivers, then heat rising up my neck whenever I think about blood on someone getting tortured. In the past months or weeks I have been spontaneously imagining strangers, passers-by, friends (and rarely some family) to get punched in the face—hard—until their noses would ooze out blood, sometimes, I would smile with those scenes in my head. I’m not angry at them or anything. . . I just find it funny. Most recently, as I was fixated on the gridlock, I even wished that there’d be a collision action from somewhere, like those big cargo trucks and hot-headed drivers anxious to get somewhere. And I was just right there, almost in a trance (and almost drooling), with the spectacle in my head where the attention of all the hypocrites around me are in the big, invisible vehicular road collision in front of me and not happening anytime soon.

On my way home, I was in the bus. Again, in a gridlock. It was raining, the road was slippery. I had my earphones on blasting either “I Keep Mine Hidden” by The Smiths or “The Ghosts That We Knew” by Mumford and Sons, but I (along with the hypocrites) heard the screeching of tires as it bumped into a sidewalk. Everyone turned their heads as if they were concerned—stupid hypocrites, they should have their eyes poked out by their dinner forks right then and there—not me, I looked a little later because it seemed at that moment the most natural and social thing to do since they were all checking if somebody got hurt. Even our stupid, old driver was looking back in feigned concern; stupid enough to not notice that another car changed lane and took the space in front of us. So I looked briefly and saw that it was a motorcycle; the stupid motorcycle was clogging the traffic behind us as his wheels seemed to be stuck in the gutter. Ah. . . even writing it down here is such a waste of lead and time. Why are those people hypocrites? Because they were expecting blood , they were just as thirsty as for some road action as I was that morning, only they guised it with the mask of concern.



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