Are We Ashes And Wine

I'm bereft of anything sarcastic or witty to say. And all I can think of are the words of Jack Gilbert:

There is always the harrowing by mortality,
the strafing by age, he thinks. Always defeats.
Sorrows come like epidemics. But we are alive
in the difficult way adults want to be alive.

I have never felt less alive than I do right now. Probably because I spent the week racing after Father Time while it looks back at me and chuckles at my asinine attempt to fit everything in one day. 

And my hormones are wreaking havoc. 


I can't get over the fact that I was a pain in the neck today. Okay. I meant to say I was a bitch. But you know where I stand. And at the very last moment, particularly that moment when I stepped off the jeepney and looked back and took my laptop while simultaneously avoiding your eyes, I was hoping you'd tell me you understood and it was okay. Little did you know it nearly killed me to ignore you. 

But I was making a point. And I didn't want to make a muck of the effect by turning into milk toast right then and there. I was hoping you can see past the bluster. It chafes so much to know that you apparently didn't. And up till now, my heart is still smarting with unshed tears. 

So forgive me if I'm overworked and hormonal. I, at least, made an effort to see you. You could have pretended you were okay with just that.