When i met you the first time,
I fell in love with one smile,
I said hello and I thought you were fine,
maybe, oh maybe someday you'll be mine

I'm captivated by your eyes,
one look you got me hypnotized,
they tell me your story as you shine so bright
baby oh baby can you be mine?

Can I fight this?
When I long for your kiss,
they tell me I'm crazy and gone insane
but all I know is i'm falling again. 

Excuses by NAdal, Jaizer Jim R

And it was there in the pages of loss where the embodiment of 'what should be' wrote itself like uncoordinated syntax. it flutters in and out of a singular subconscious. That collective thought we call 'us'. it matters not whether the audience looks at a theatre and sees masks and costumes or if they give in to its charms. the only absolute it that they are experiencing an emotion at precisely the exact moment. So is the idea of being.

Being here, or there. this is the only true absolute. existence is a painful reminder of what is and what could be. it lies in the belly of every mother, waiting for the infant inside to swallow. Birth is merely a side-effect. Sad, how it is short lived. i wonder how children react to their first glimpse of the world. Was reality more exciting when it was still a thought? Is sight their first disappointment?

As they grow, however, they learn. it becomes common knowledge that there's nothing truly exciting. As soon as an adolescent indulges in his first taste of virginity, he becomes numb. That night, ever he will look for the same lie. All in vain. "It's not my fault!"  he screams. As if the universe is responsible for his lust.

Soon it encompasses him. Denial. Suddenly it's all about how the world is unfair. How every cigarette (the sweetest kiss) is a metaphor for life (death comes soon). Blame is a game only i know how to play. Why is time so elusive when we've memorized its cruelties? Is it that sweet a sting that we have to celebrate by embedding it in every phone, every laptop, every classroom?

I am bitter. It's not my fault.

Even near the end, when silence is better heard with someone else. When the friction of years past has bleached my hair white. When the all powerful statement of 'I am' withers into the fragile 'i was'. When you realize that everyone is like everyone else.

This is your story. It's not my fault.