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 – #025 – The Lover of Ma-Biru (excerpt)

Read the full story here:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/39202086-the-lover-of-ma-biru

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My head was spinning, and everything appeared in flashes. I squinted for clarity: The world was perpendicular and her face was the point of origin. Her Vantablack hair flowed nape-ward into a clip, from which it burst forth in wild curls, akin to a fire breather’s plume. Her eyes were dense and supermassive, and not even light escaped her gaze. Noticing that I’d partially restored my vision, she brought her hand up, revealing a micro-conflagration caught in between her fore and middle fingers.

“Do you mind?” she asked, as wisps of smoke wrapped about her.

“I didn’t even notice, manah.”

She studied me with a raised brow then took a slow, final drag and threw it backwards into the bonfire. “You’re a bad liar,” she said, her formality beginning to slacken, a change I was certainly not used to. She exhaled up and away from my face, with a simultaneous yawn that betrayed her fatigue. “And don’t call me that, at least for tonight. It’s the new millennium. We’re off duty. You have no obligation to me.” Something about that didn’t feel quite sincere.

“Then you have no obligation to me as well, manah. I’ll be okay.”

She looked at me, half-agape, like no one had ever the nerve to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. She looked like she was about to reply when a voice returned and momentarily ruptured my observable universe. The blurry image of a colleague handed her a basin, which she plopped onto the grass between us.

“Thank you. I can handle this; you may return to the celebration,” she told the blur, briefly reconstructing her rigid demeanor. “And try not to trick any more neophytes. I’m watching you.” The blur bowed in respect and headed back to throng with a larger blur on the other size of the bonfire. Her shoulders slumped back down.

“Just in case you need it,” she said, pushing the basin a little more in my direction. Then, silence, if silence was at all possible in a place like this.

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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 – #021 – The Ballad of the Three Asses

Once upon an ass, in a galaxy up my ass, there were three asses who were capable of nothing but living up to their description: that of being complete asses. The three asses had gone on a planned sabbatical to a remote ass somewhere in my ass. The voyage on their ass ship was a long one, interspersed with numerous periods of—you guessed it—exuberant ass-smacking. Little did the three asses know though, that the ass they were destined for had long been relocated to a significantly more assy neighborhood. What floated in its place was now a humongous set of cock and balls. Horrified at the apparent lack of ass, the three asses threw fits of panic and, ass fate would have it, ass-landed near the urethra of the giant cock head. Now say what you want about this land but some of my closest friends hail from giant cock and balls planets and they’re pretty cock and balls alright by me. But these three asses, being the asses that they were, did not appreciate all this cock and ball. “AAASSSSS!” farted one of the asses. “Ass ass ass ass,” farted another, reassuringly. The third ass did not fart at all, and held it all in. Days assed by in the blink of an eye. They would sleep in the folds of the scrotum, for solar winds on cock shaft and tip made their asses feel weird. There were no ass ships in the area and the three asses grew very hungry. Out of desperation, they decided to execute their last resort. And so they sharted, with enough propulsion to escape the gravitational pull of the giant cock and balls. Flecks of shit covered the giant cock and balls to the point that its cock and balls weren’t recognizable under all that shit. Thus, a new planet was born: A steaming heap of shit. In retaliation, the buried cock issued a colossal stream of piss, which erupted from the bowels of the steaming heap of shit, but a beautiful space piss-rainbow was all it amounted to. The three asses watched with utter fascination at this marvel of nature and slowly began to miss the giant cock and balls, as they hurtled toward farther asses, and cocks and pieces of shit and pussies and rivers of piss and vestiges of enemas and disease-filled excretions, ad infinitum. The moral of this story is: Don’t be an ass if you want ass but got cock and balls, just have a good shit and you’ll get where you need to go. Piss out.

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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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