on being defeated

I am not very sure how and why most bad things tend to coagulate before me, thick like a glob of black tar, but there’s this one thing that I am really certain: I have been running in a race I constantly loses.

Due to the dreariness that emanates from me for the past months, which unknowingly affects some people around me, I crudely devise a few ways to solve this out: I disappear from everyone’s radar, or deliberately push my mute button, or just continue playing with what others are playing. I even thought that sleeping the problem away is the easiest solution to wipe all issues. At some point, I thought these were successful but then I was wrong. For some indefinite reasons, matters that cause inner turmoil just keep on coming. Unfortunately, I am very fragile and weak (as what this someone have said) to counter them so I let them be. And there’s even one matter that I couldn’t escape because, idiotically, I wouldn’t let it go away. This matter deals with the mushiness of that organ covered within layers of skin, muscle, other tissues, and bones. Maybe I am now experiencing what my poetry teacher have experienced: "The terror of being unloved." This does not mean I have been enjoying this wrongness I am forever yearning; it’s just that I’m really not that wise and well-learned of the craft that I usually get myself tangled in the loophole of things. Perhaps, “imbecile” is my middle name.

But I have idealisms of my own, though: I love everything perfect although flawlessness is impossibility. I adore cycles of which I do not want to get into the bottom of the wheel. I relish the cold bite of a frozen yogurt. Yet, no matter how idealistic I am, my pessimistic being outweighs the last positive thing that I could muster. Therefore, I gain the title of being a pessimist idealist hiding under the euphemism “bullfrog.”

In all honesty, the capstone of being a confidante of all losers is that you get to know how things work without receiving any bit of reward or whatsoever from what you have been doing, or what you are trying to be doing. This is the ultimate visceral emotion I usually find my self having. This is the turning point of all turning points. This, I tell you, does not feel good—it does no one any good.

To end this, I better stick my thumb out with my index finger pointing the skies while the rest of my fingers touch my palm, put this unique symbol formulated by mankind on my forehead, and absorb all the shame of the world in all its pathetic and apathetic glory. I am a flop, a defeated lump of excess fat, a loser.

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