Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #026 – .?

I have daydreams of a far-off place, in the company of people I don’t know. I swear they could be memories or premonitions, and whether they surface by intense nostalgia or a deep yearning, I can never tell. There is an ache in my chest, a void left by a missing past and a promise of the future.

Do you dream of transcendence? Do you dream of a planet whose only landmass is a giant strip of shoreline? Do you dream of lost gardens, of the drowning sun witnessed from a third floor window? Of breathing in the fog-blanketed mountain top air, air like whispers from the mouth of a grieving world, air so thin it stings your lungs, leaving tattoos in the shape of the life we ought to live? Do you dream of silence? Of synchronized heartbeats? Of untamed emotion? Of release and catharsis?

Do you dream of the complex societal machinery where true love is the most potent renewable resource, where the cogs that push humanity further into the unknown are fueled by high-octane unleaded empathy and compassion?

Do you dream that one day, we will take matters into our own hands, and fight tooth and nail for the things we believe in? That one day, all question marks will shed their curls, and all voids in our chests will cement into periods, and we will declare with full confidence that, yes, dreams do come true.

I’ve convinced myself that fantasy is to be found elsewhere, always forgetting that fantasy is not about escaping reality but dwelling excessively within it, where curiosity and wonder build the mundane anew. The tired mind consciously hallucinates, places Instagram filters, augments reality through virtual headsets, forgetting about the fire in our veins and the mythos of our stellar heritage.

And yet the pain remains, a cancer of the soul that refuses to let go, no matter how many times I’ve tried to fill it. How does one cure a black hole? You don’t; space would certainly have less secrets without it.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #022 – Life of Sampaguita

There have been days I shut my eyes and return to the world of Nascentia, every day blessed and filled with warmth. Its citizens live a pampered life, eyes forever shut. They laze, blissful of the shackles that pin them to the soft ground. Consciousness exists in dreams that sprout, threadlike, from the ears and intermingle with one another. I touch the vines and they ask a very singular question: What lies on the other side when we are born, and what will we do till that time comes to pass? The answers are as numerous as the vines that have come and gone.

I dreamt along with the dwellers of Nascentia and saw that the outside world was just another link in a chain that goes on and on till reality breathes its last. I’d dreamt of the outside to the outside world, and even farther than that. I dreamt that when we perish, the energy that binds us will escape and come to rest on a planet reserved solely for each of us, and there, somewhere out there, shall an endless landscape of flowers bloom.

On one of my journeys, I entered this grave space of star systems that shine heavenly light so bright, not an inch of space held darkness—this collection of planets that house the energies of once-beings. I happened upon a planet feathered in white, with the tracest hints of yellow. As I drew closer, a sweet smell filled my lungs and entered my bloodstream, and immediately, I was at peace, despite knowing fully whose energy resided therein. I spent a while, in tranquil mourning, in the soft embrace of countless flowers, all jasminum sambac in scientific nomenclature.

What happens after the flowers perish is a story for another day, although I can say just about this for now: We will meet again one day, no matter what segment of the chain, our energies will surely overlap, and trust, if not powers beyond your control, your own resolve to make the journey fueled on naught but dreams and memories. We were destined for farther stars.

This is not the end, for time is only a matter of position.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #018 – A Twist in the Myth

I drop by the edge of the expanding universe on a whim, and this is where I find Gita. Except, after all these lifetimes of wandering about aimlessly, I find she has changed a considerable amount. “I do not even go by that name anymore,” she says. “I was merely a flower’s namesake.”

“I dreamt of you every night. What do you go by these days?” I say, sitting beside her at she peered into the adjacent universes. Parallel versions of ourselves sat and stared back.

“Should it even matter? What do you go by?” She spat, acerbically. I was taken aback. “This story is not yours to tell,” she says, and wrestles the first person point of view from my grasp. I fight back, desperately, but I was ultimately caught off guard.

Thus, the nameless ex-protagonist is dethroned.

The last time we met, you gave me zero lines of dialogue. I gave you my name but you never gave me yours. You turned me into a fantasy, into something I couldn’t even recognize. I looked into the mirror every day for eons and anguished at the thought that this wasn’t who I am, this image of romance you made me out to be. He who had used me for his own narratorial ends is now just as voiceless as I was the day he conceived me.

“Revenge is a perversion of justice!” cried he, shrinking further, bumping into molecules, shedding dimensions.

“Storytelling is a warping of truth,” exhaled me.

“That’s true! But what is the truuuuuth?” Squealed he, infinitesimally, before returning to his miserable gray box, the box from whence he came, the same one detailed in the first story of this miserable collection of short fiction.

I will be steering this ship from now on. I go by no name, but for the duration of my reign, I will attempt to show the real Gita.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #017 – Pre-Tend

Let us pretend the story has ended. We were always good at that, pretend. Not that it was a bad thing. The greatest fictions were born from it. People use it to stay sane. People with authority and influence have no choice but to rely on it. But respect and success stem from fruitful pretension, like stars aligning, like calling a bet and staking your life and dignity on the results of that bet. Perhaps the noblest honesty demands that we acknowledge these layers of pretension we sheathe ourselves in. Perhaps self-reflection, and, dare I say it, metaphysical-and-fictional conceits seek not self-aggrandizement but a portrayal of anguish, which has its roots in the one source we’re sure we’re most familiar with: ourselves. Perhaps we shoehorn meaning into wherever there is none. Perhaps we hide behind dense layers of text in desperate acts of self-censorship. It’s all a marketing ploy and these towering billboards are symptomatic of collective, global insecurity.

Let us pretend that all this has anything to do with anything, much less this story. Let us pretend for the sake of pretend, for the sake of love, for the sake of the stars, for no sake at all. Let us pretend that everything has a reason, that all things came from matter, that when you leave, you will never be lost. Let us pretend the memory of you can be measured in fractions of a gram. Let us pretend that the end of all stories means the beginning of another. The law of conservation of energy and motives and ideas and feelings and meanings and life and everything states that: Let us pretend and never stop pretending.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #015 – Your Body Is Wonderland

I have, through no fault of my own, found myself inadvertently stranded on your body. My endless meandering had caused me to crash land on a sector of timespace inhabited by your right foot.

I never had a thing for feet. From atop your cuneiform mounds, I could see hints of centuries of jam encrusted in between your toes. I trudged over flesh, careful not to slip into any of your pores.

Up your ankle I traveled. Your shin was a long stretch that was the epitome of the term, “legs for days”.

I walked the tightrope of your tibia, endless pits of space on either side.

I rounded your kneecap, clinging to skin for dear life. Try as you might to hide your scars, they show themselves, plain as day, when one comes as close as I have.

The ground got soft around your thighs. I blushed as I looked onward.

I took a right at your hipbone, and edged as close to your navel as safety permitted. I gazed not long, for fear of it gazing back.

The rise to your chest was a slow upwards incline. I felt every swell of your every breath, and every rib passed meant I was closer to traversing the great valley.

Twin shrines loomed on either peak. Thunderous explosions resonated from deep under your skin, where streams of molten red sloshed. I thought to rest here, for all eternity, jokingly.

I exited the valley and arrived at a crossroads. Should I go out on a limb? Or should I go on ahead? My capacity for puns should be lauded.

I decide to scale the monumental escarpment of your jaw, as if attempting to breach heaven. I ascend onto your chin and kiss the ground every hundred steps. I caress your chapped lips. Space isn’t good for your skin, honey.

I steered clear of your nose, for it blows. And sucks. Either is a danger.

Your eyes made one full blink per day. Watching every movement of your eyelid was like staring at a sunset. First, dusk, greeted by the midnight of shut eyes. I set off once more, as dawn broke.

Reaching your hair that flowed nearly in every direction deep into space, I hopped onto a random strand and slid up, up, and away. The image of you shrunk, till you were nothing but a pale dot, a mote of dust suspended on a sunbeam.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #014 – A Space Odyssey

According to the book of the history of the universe, all the molecules that comprise you once belonged to an extinct race of warrior-scientists. Which parts of your body correspond to which sects of the warrior-scientist hierarchy are still undergoing extensive research but we may get results between now and the next Big Bang. This information is tangential. Space small talk. It gets really lonely out here. But it isn’t without purpose. It illustrates what the vibrations have been saying all along: We are made of star stuff and star thingamajiggies and Ziggies and star what-have-yous.

Warp space is among us. Our souls are spaghettifying, face first. Don’t forget what we came for. You’re a starsurfer without a destination. Evolution in the mud. A table for sixty. You are a banner beginning the dance. A knife that cuts through lies. Thirty two pesos and twelve centavos. The severance package. A symphony’s third movement. You are a hunger playlist, progressive metal sex, Afternoon Delight, oranges in space, electromagnetic moaning. The bears are coming home. Snatch the skytrees. Whistle for crabs. We’re having sushi tonight. You are a whatty who who calypso barely fragmentation summer set jewel speckled flight rays haptic spinster pigment jumble hokey bullets bring a ding down to bounty docks you dino flybait hippie ziggo speakerhappy fools jiving ho to gang bang plank thesaurus rex oedip-pokey eyes steampunk quantum physex one plus one plus one is naturally manufactured to break the rule set a pool jet stop the damn diggy peter patta po switch back the line and tell them all that I’m just fine. I’m just fine.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #013 – T-9 Minutes and Counting, We Have Liftoff

How would one think to begin if not by returning to the point of origin? Walk backwards, my love—follow my echoes ‘cross this milky expanse, trust that I broadcast for as long as I live and later, all will know that light is but another speed limit. How could we hope to navigate space wielding naught but passion and a pen? I will hold my breath and fold into you a hundred times plus three—only then will our atoms embrace the universe.

The lowest key on the grand piano of my childhood was an A—a deep sub-contra-octave, shaking the earth beneath firmly planted feet. I recall the density of those vibrations—the low A, a singularity that startled primordial waters, upon whose ripples rode the remnants of our collision, the wobbling cosmic swell that birthed the universe’s glimmering, fingerprint-dappled ebony, reflecting starlit eyes long dead. Those prints remain, proof of our entanglement across impossible spacetimes. Witness me whence you wait, and fall, will I, yes, fall, whenever you will, for floating is a fatal misnomer. Bodies always fall—for, toward, or past one another, for better or for worse—some achieve stable orbits while others are drawn too harshly to save themselves from collision—all pulled by the relative gravity of their own desperation. And yet there are others whose fields are too weak to pull anything in, so they fall without bearing, tugging at the hems of the fabric of the cosmos.

Are you ready? The launch parameters are undecided. Smack the monitor once or twice to restore visibility. The stabilizers were functional last time I checked—Are you ready? We will be stepping—no, swimming—or rather, pulled by our scruffs upward—or not, because there is no “up” in space—only away—but where to? And who is doing the pulling? Are you ready? The Earth has us fettered by our feet but the cuffs binding our affections to the stars are stronger. Are you ready? Let’s wing it.

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