Moment...

The boy was startled by the on-goings of his world. He had thought he would fall asleep after his fall on the drinking. ARE YOU TOO AFRAID OF LOSING YOURSElF? (consider 'too' in any sense you wish to)

The world was silent except for the curtains moving to the mechanical blow of his air-con. And perhaps, the throbbing of his thoughts. But that was enough to wake him from his semi-drunkenness into the reality he lived in. All he thought about, was an escape, an escape which would exclude him from his vanity and perhaps the rest of the world.

The rest of the world? He thought silently. It was but a mello-dramatic impulse on his living senses. Whatever else that prevented him from his writings were the rest of the world. For that moment in time. For that moment in drunkenness. Where he could speak, not as a species of a homo-erectant, not as an averagely shaped homo erectant, not as a floating signifier of virtues and expectations of a university going homo erectant with an economics degree to pursue, but as a homo-erectant. The regression into our barbaric self. Was he merely a double.

It is at moments like this when he wanted the tenderness of his classmate, J. She was deliciously seductive, playing on her dressing and make up as an over-tone of what she really was. The boy had become dubious. Was he even making sense? Was he even speaking in grammatical construct so highly stressed upon by the academics? Drunkenness and Literature were truly perfect complements. Why….why did he have to even introduce an Economics term? The very jargon of materialism and consumerism he had so violently objected to?

Both conflicts were tearing at him. If not for the word processor, his ramblings would be but unstructured, un-liberated and un related pieces of writing he could never find solace in, given his nature of perfection. But from a philosophical point of view, perfection, is in itself a certain climax of imperfection.

Deliciously, he thought about the girl. She was his feast of optical pleasure. Just a simple ‘hi’ at the bus-stop would make him re-chart his original pleasure. Yes, she was beautiful. She possessed a beauty which needed to be share by her male counterparts in different measure. Goodness, the boy thought. It was more than a game of lust. Yet he refused to be specific on the topic of Love.

She was much like a sizzling pan-cake just out from the oven. Sizzling hot, a bit crisp on the sides, but none the less, a good candidate for his gourmet. He was cheap. But not in the monetary sense. He required a certain degree of cheapness to feed his own appetite for beauty. She was not beautiful.

And so, after a three digit drinking bill, he told himself, he would lie to cartograph his way into her pants. Like he would do with any edible girl on the street. He was overcome by his raw, almost primal instincts of reproduction.

But there she stood, oblivious or unappreciative of the attention she is getting. She was not just a genderless name or a passing shadow. She was like that undeniable midnight supper one just had to eat---which had just sold out.

The boy gasped at his own writing and thoughts. Surely, this was unbecoming of his social morality which he had been shouldering and anticipating. But there was no Perato optimal point in the conflicts between lust and love. It was a fluctuation of which he felt most at each time. For now, it equilibrated at Love.

But Love was exactly the last strand he was holding on to. If you knew that you were holding on to the last strand of hopeful straw before your trust-worthy camel finally gave way, would you give it up?

He was thinking in a staccato fashion where his thoughts were religiously broken into the breaks between paragraphs. Although the ‘highness’ of alcohol abuse had left him in a moment of clarity, he still felt he wasn’t making absolute sense. But why make sense when the challenge upon him was making love to the girl he awfully adored? The girl whom would be more gratifying than the lotus roots of a hence-named soup?

Cling on to the moment, before the dehydrating effects of the over-consumption of alcohol hits you…before you start to 寝ます. Oh…if he could forget the burden of the knowledge he had so acquired.

His head is spinning now, and his words appear to him no more clearly than the preceding vehicle on a road during a hazy morning. The emotions of the moment simply could not be captured in a printed media. The obsession of a breakfast before the glutton could not be made more comprehensible with words. It was a personal achievement of sorts, but a failure in part of the education.

The boy drifted off to sleep, seeing the stars of brandy and beer hybridizing before his very own eyes.

A moment. A moment of supreme confusion and yet clarity.