this city holds too many memories; too many that the emotions that they evoke begin to take a life of their own. certain spots in this city throb, like a swollen wound, and the ache takes a hold on you and doesn't let you go even if you already have gone way past those places...

in a few years that i have been in this city, i have made it my home; half out of convenience, and the other out of necessity. my roots have died sometime after i came here, what remains is no longer what i can call home. that may be the reason why when i look at my hands, i do not see them reaching up, but burrowing down; thin tendrils that try to hold on to what it can grasp.

and then came december.

this is when things again take a turn towards those empty avenues of uncertainty. this is how the seesaw of pleasure and pain swings to the darker direction. in between the ground littered with unanswered questions and backpack of unuttered words, the prime purpose of breathing curiously also becomes the sole reason to stop.

it is the month when a spectacular display of how days are made or broken revolved on the words that you said and the things that you did, trying to pull out strings of messages of hope out of hopelessly disparate things.

it's the sheer stupidity of having so many words to describe the feeling, but too few actually break through towards your direction, and all of them the wrong ones at that.

even if i close my eyes when i happen to pass by those pulsating places where memories take shelter, its blistering venom still hits me in that spot that wreaks havoc on my capability to control tears. funny how once-cherished things can bring untold agony.

and i want to destroy it. there's this impetus behind rage, the motivation to annihilate things that block my line of sight, an urge to flatten the whole city just for me to look directly at that face that i have been wanting to see, that i have been wanting to touch.

yet no matter how strange it has become to my eyes, and how strange i have become to it, this city is my home now; there simply is no other place. it was not soft soil but spikes and stones that met me when i tried to set down my roots into this city, into your heart.

this is a december for memories. this is a december of many things. this is a desperate attempt to punctuate everything, knowing all too well that, like so many similar attempts before, it is doomed to fail.

yet at the same time, this is the last of a series of posts that spell what i have been trying to tell you all this time...

i will be looking for synonyms for the word wait. januaries always come after decembers anyway. i hope it comes for me.