Prose before hos

A friend from the past life would offer the sauciest running commentary whenever we'd be swiping on dating apps at work. She'd often say how men will upload photographs of them working out and claiming they love to trek and scale the next big thing after their trek to Mount Everest. You'd see this in every third bio, ever so often men sprinkle their prompts and bios with the most absurd and extreme ideas. However, when it comes to talking to the girl on the app or sharing their dating goals and ideas, they hesitate and low-key evaporate in thin air than ever admit or say anything on their chest. 

Turns out, absurdly changing lifestyle overnight by cutting corners with sugar, working out when I can barely move or breathe, and journalling every night is my descent of becoming the dating app man and is analogous to climbing Everest and building a six-pack. 

All of this—because—I can't man up enough to admit I'm hurting so bad. I'd rather do obnoxious things and embrace uncomfortable lifestyle changes than text a man I miss him bad. I'd much rather take all my feelings—bleeding heart and open wounds of losing a friend I genuinely cared about in the pits of hell where I'll be shopping my heart out because capitalism and cis-het men hurt in waves and one leads you into the embrace of another (it's a long topic, best reserved for therapy). 

Here's hoping I can see myself through a kinder gaze than how men see others on my way out. 

One of the big reasons for picking up the bass at 15-16 was pretty much avoiding a 9-5 life.

That notion of coolness at 16 ruined the next decade and a half for me. Well, ruin is a big word so let's just say, in order to be cool, I decided to go ham at whatever life threw my way.

Three months into this new lease of life, I feel like I've settled into the routine. Things that seemed too far fetch are normal. I am no longer a starry-eyed 16-year-old who's finally learning what the 9-5 could potentially look like when the chips align and you get to do what you have wanted to do all your life. Okay, to be fair, I'm not sure if what I'm doing exactly qualifies as what I wanted to do at 16, but again, I'm still clueless. At 31, I find myself still wondering, if this is what I want to do all my life. The good thing is, I'm not screaming, crying, or throwing up at the prospect. If I had to do this all my life, would I mind it? Not one bit. I like what I do, which is a rarity if you're me. I don't think I have been in this space since I was 18, a space that I worked so hard to be in that every minute within it seems rewarding. Trauma shapes experiences and this part of my life is all about working hard and giving my whole youthful exuberance to building what I'm hired to do. 

I fucking love a 9-5. I won't be anything without this. 

Historically, a lot has been written on the subject of decay and intangible endings. I won't be the first, and I certainly won't be the last to derive that analogy and fixate on it but I can sure as hell make it mine. 

When I got the two bunch of flowers I did the weekend before last (my 30th), I didn't imagine, I'd co-relate the process of decay with the longing of a dead relationship. I had no reason to believe that either; for the first time in my life, I felt absolutely secure, safe, and allowed myself to be a whole and not put out to be like an old loaf of bread by the sun. I was absolute, not crumbs of eaten bread left by people over the time. Yet, here we are. 

I thought the whole pineapple can bit in Chungking Express was rather funny. A man pining for nearly a month and OD-ing on cans of tinned pineapple makes for an absurd tale of love and longing. But that's the thing about longing, all of this is absurd. The heart wants what is unavailable, what is no longer accessible nor acceptable. Yet, a juicy bite is all it craves. 

Similarly, in The Last Leaf, O. Henry attempts to visualize pining with withering and decaying of self. It's wholly powerful, potent enough to take your life. You think it's a work of literature and thus, the storyteller has put their imagination to test, and taken you for a ride. Yet, your own hopes are pinned on the bouquet of flowers blooming for just another day. 

If the flowers can outlast their natural span so can you, my love. 

Never mind, the bunch I had to discard cause much like us, I went all in and did my best to rescue it. Sometimes it's best to let things be, and allow them time. If they survive, they are yours to be and if they don't, atleast they brought you joy for as long as your lives intersected. 

I can't say I know what I'll do when I discard the last bunch in the bin; do I be hopeful that we still have a chance or do I celebrate what we had and move on as you had wished for me to do?