hypertexted ellay-centricity venti

it's never about the obvious that makes you mad about me but rather about something that seems much more remote. and you don't want to think about that because it seems absurd, when in fact it's right here between us, trying to pull us apart, and we ignore it because we try to distract our senses from recognizing it, this thing we think can destroy our dignity if we give just a part of ourselves for the sake of self-lessness and generosity. i don't want to try it first and you won't try it either, because all we can give each other is what our bodies want us to do, to satisfy our animal instincts in the name and rituals of unbashful sensualities and savage eroticism. we love skin, each other's skin, and simply skin, because our love for each other is notoriously skin-deep. are we less than human because of this? have we breached some godamn bible of moral values because the depth of our love for each other is perhaps less than divine? or is our brand of mutual erotic cravings for each other the very heart of religious experience itself, the very foundation of elevating our humanity to that plane of consciousness we think can only be occupied by gods?

Too many choices on those aisles, rows and rows of merchandise you want to buy.  I know I just want to buy two bags of sandwiches and a can of coffee.  But I end up checking out other stuff, thinking if I need this or that, that or this, to stack my shelves.  Now and then I'd put the merchandise I don't really need to buy on the grocery truck, but then I'd take them out and return them to the shelves.  The idea of buying something and not buying them becomes a critical dilemma.  Sometimes these momentary dilemmas become accidental metaphors about how I make decisions in my life; they can almost tantamount to smaller versions of decision-making processes that made me what I am today.  But what I do try to buy all the time when these minor indecisions start to fade is a piece of bran muffin.

I don't feel cozy in there but feel like I need to leave immediately after ordering my drink, this place called Starbucks. And like a lot of places around, the people who are taking your order(s) there are nice to you if you look a certain way; as in, you look like a stereotypical Starbucks costumer, somebody who appears or looks like they've had some formal or college education, perhaps preppy in a techie kind of way, college students (of course), or anybody who doesn't have the look of being part of, say, the lower class...somebody who is, say, bourgeois. I don't know if they're habitually snotty or class-conscious; I suppose I'm the one who is. I suppose since the price of coffee is jacked up a bit, the people behind the counter have the right to think that one must have some sort of disposable income to buy expensive Starbucks coffee. In their mind, these peeps are probably thinking, well, if you don't want us to look at you like your trying to be uppity, then why can't you buy coffee at the nearest 7-11, they don't care how you look like when you go there.'Or perhaps what I'm suggesting is that the people behind the counter at any Starbucks cafe have a more professional attitude towards their costumers...and I'm just deriving another implication about that attitude to voice out  my own initial observations about some people serving their costumers a certain way.

You're in your car and you suddenly think about the contradictions in your life and the funny feeling that somehow you're blessed (or cursed) to still be breathing and living. You turn on the music in your car a little louder and let your ears be overloaded with the thumping bass in the music. You float in that music for a while and feel the eternity of that moment.  And then up ahead the freeway you're on, the cars ahead of you slow down. You know it's not rush-hour time.  And you can almost assume there's an accident up ahead, that two or more cars have found a bad memorable event because they're over-speeding or didn't have their mechanics check their brake systems.  Your car inches slowly until your assumption is confirmed that, indeed, there is an accident.  The wreck in the accident scene is bad and there are two cop-cars already taking care of this. You sigh deeply.  And somehow, as you press on the accelerator, you forget quickly that that accident back there could've been you. You float in the music in your car and continue to feel the eternity that today, this very moment in your life, is like no other.

There's always that desire to connect to someone special, that natural desire to be part of someone.  But the act of connecting, the process of connecting itself has an emptiness to it that is hard to explain.  The need to intensify that process is suppose to banish this emptiness and give the act of connecting with someone a sense of gritty reality and not glossified virtuality.  Somewhere along the line I missed something or perhaps it's the consciousness that I missed something that I shouldn't be entangled with.

It's this sharp silence that I musn't try to ignore, because of an intriguing echo in its core, an irresistible set of ever-expanding waves of echoes.  Of course, we can always say that the source of this echo is an element of the sound of death or of God's voice; sure, why not.  But I'd say this core is the immediacy of life itself, the now-ness of doing something without any preoccupations of a never-ending tomorrow.  It's never easy to hear that silence, because of the kinds of imposed worries our very own imagination would like us to think.