3EB.

Narcolepsy

Deep Inside Of You

I Want You

How's It Going To Be

If you don't already love Third Eye Blind, now's your chance to start.

48.

If we were to meet on the street today, in a bizarre chance encounter, you'd probably comment on how I am a spitting image of someone you once loved dearly. I'd stand motionless on the pavement, deliberating over an indisputable thought; that after 12 years of not seeing each other we would, in fact, be complete strangers.

You'd still be my 36 year-old frizzy haired dad, of course. A quiet and contemplative man to untrained eyes, but a fireball phenom that never failed to fascinate me. You would be fixed in time, impervious to change.

But I am no longer that doe-eyed, curious little girl you once knew. I don't look like her, I don't talk like her. These twelve years have taken its toll on me. I'm not your dazzling ball of sunshine anymore.

To my 8-year old mind, you were as mystical as a parting sea. I wonder how much that innocent perception would have changed had you lived to raise me. One can never be too sure of these things.

But there is one bitter truth I'll always be sure of- no one lights up when they see me as wonderfully as you did back then.


If the cosmos intervenes and we meet each other as strangers today, I would give you a hug and tell you how much I love you. Just for a second, you would recognize the strain in my voice as the same one you used to hear from your little girl who called her Ayah late at night, begging him to come home from work.

I'd wipe away the tears from your confused face and with that, we would part once again.


Happy Birthday, Ayah.

Three Apparitions.

i.     A long time ago, the balance scale in my head tilted its rusty arms and I was overcome with a harsh realization that I wasn't cut out for the russian roulette world of music. So I went cold turkey; no performances, conjuring up third-rate melodies or even weekly practices at beat up studios. I gave up under the pretext of diverting my focus towards the messier parts of my life. From then on the only outlet for my musical frustration was a bleak Youtube account.

      I've always tried to find a different way back in. Right now, the most conceivable idea sledgehammered in my noggin' is to get involved in the tech side of the scene. I can't see myself doing anything else, even after years of trying to shake it off. It's my Fermina Daza, my Tereza, my end to all ends.

ii.    I'm tired of the cyclic hula hoop dance of the dating scene. We're so held back by by our unwarranted need to multiply. Once the facts are laid out straight, that's all there is to it: a biological obligation.
So then why am I willing to contort my thoughts and actions into finding a competent -if not complete- match?
Why do I let myself fall for the archetypes of toxic males when there are plenty of quintessentially good-natured men who would do (quite possibly/close to) anything to "make it work"?

Two contradicting questions that bounce off my bedroom walls late at night when I have chills in places my blankets cannot warm.

iii.    Today, the mom-ster commented on a newspaper article about a well-known figure who recently underwent a dramatic physical transformation. After listening to what she had to say, I imagined a different reality (in a purple house, 600 trillion light years away, where I am named Avtryssia La Lune) wherein the same figure was spotted with a plump jelly belly instead. I wondered if my alternate mother (different name, same attitude towards life) would have commented on this person's appearance as my mom-ster had in my reality?

I believe that all of our conversations/actions each have an equal possibility of going in different directions. Sometimes I think God tests out all of His combinations in this expanding legoland of a Universe to see what fits and which butterfly's wing flap would cause the hurricane on the other side of the world. Just a late night thought.