+ -

At this very moment it's 11:10 pm, October 31st.

Yes, it is Halloween.

And I am here, at Rina's apartment, alone. 

Earlier today I had class. We were let out early so that was a plus. 

I ended up hanging out with Charles and Nando until 7pm

after which I went to watch a shadow play in the blackbox. Another plus.

My napkin was overflowing. Not a plus.

I realized my mother has instilled the fear in me. Not a plus.

My mother thinks I don't care. I don't know if I disagree anymore. Not a plus.

It's October 31st, and there has been no clear sign of its passing. Not a plus.

It's October 31st 

just another day 

where I'm here sitting in front of the screen

with the realization of the harsh reality that I am alone.

Not a plus.

You do the math. 

Looks like I'm getting more trick than treat tonight.

Maybe

Maybe you're right.
Maybe I don't care.

But then again,
maybe you're wrong.
Maybe I do.

But that's what you do,
don't you.
You blur the lines.

So maybe I don't know anymore.
Maybe I don't know how I feel anymore.
Maybe I don't know what I think.
Maybe I don't know who I am.

But that's what you do,
don't you.
You blur the lines

until what you think becomes what I think
and what I think doesn't matter anymore.

Maybe it is.
Maybe its not.

I don't know anymore.

I just don't know.

still

There is a disparity between me and the world.
I let the world pass by without a witness.
I sit down, still and silent
and I stare
and stare
and yet I see nothing at all.

Nothing.

Nothing.

the world is still to me.
and I am still to the world.

self_____

I have found myself in a compromising position, though I'm not sure compromising would be the right term.
As each day passes I find myself being more self-absorbed. All I do is think of myself. Oh the woes of vanity, or in this case, lack there of. My insecurities has piled on me thus. So much so that all my thoughts are attributed to the single notion of self-loathing in the hope that in the future it may lead to self-improvement. There lies a hope in the future, whilst the present is in constant escapist mode. With each passing day I find myself disliking myself even further. From the physical down to the very core. My sleeves has been battered to jarring proportions. I beg to question, will there be any sleeve to write on?

I am at a dilemma. I want to stop thinking of myself. Yet how does the self ever stop thinking of the self? The question itself sets off cringes. But it is, nonetheless, a question asked, a question that will inevitably have to be answered. Oh how I wish I'm not as self-absorbed and selfish as I think I am.