something about the number three, and dead-ends

so i dreamed about this; i better write it down and let you know what i think. there’s something special about writing down one’s dreams. you feel like if they drift away, you lose a part of yourself. i’m trying my best not to lose anything now.

some 3’s were meant to live, and some 3’s were meant to die.

some 3’s can grow forever, so the world allows them to be watched by generations and generations of men, women, and children, as they spiral towards infinity. no one knows, though, how colorful it feels like to be  one of the rings in their trappings. we should look into that and savor the sensations of living in this earth. who knows if we can plant 3’s in mars? i once thought of writing a series entitled A Garden Of 3’s.

some 3’s have long lifespans, but eventually die. case in point: the usage of the 3/4 time signature. the waltz. they say the waltz is timeless but when applied to different songs, can die. the application of 3’s in the original waltz piece (the one that people dance to when they feel socially superior and romantic at the same time, or when they just want to fake it)  is something that won’t die. on the other hand, Copeland’s use of the 3 in their song Testing The Strong Ones is an indication that their waltz will soon perish - which was proven true this year as they kicked off their farewell tour. how they made it die is a mystery to me, and people should look into that, too.

some 3’s are perfect, therefore meant to last forever. 3:00pm was the time when jesus christ died. 3:25am was a moment in eternity when you left me as i sat outside the starbucks in greenbelt 3. 3:00am is witching hour. 2 out of 3 i mentioned are rituals (earlier and latter), while the 2nd one i mentioned is still mourned up to date. there is a sense of perfection in these events involving the number 3, and people should look into that.

then i was thinking about dead-ends and stuff. did the creator of modern cereal packaging ever think that his invention was an evolutionary dead-end? decades and decades and decades have passed since the first release of, i don’t know, corn flakes maybe. and up to now, people still slice only a quarter of the plastic’s top part to ensure safety and cleanliness while pouring their cereal into the bowl. didn’t the people in kellog’s ever think of a more convenient packaging? evolutionary dead-end. whoever invested in inventing that plastic-and-carton design: if they saw it coming, i hope i knew what was in their minds, investing on a dead-end.

we touched each other where we needed to be touched.

the market was full that night and the streets were dim. i was walking in the plaza, feeling the cobble stones drift through my slippers, just walking. then i saw her. i held her hand for a while in the restaurant as we met up with some friends and it felt like reading an old, favorite, worn-out book. after dinner, we kissed. we touched where we needed to be touched. it felt so natural, like the words to a poet, or strokes to a painter. my eyes got lighter. i closed them and she felt high. i did, too. i asked her if she wanted to go somewhere else, to continue the touching, and perhaps, to make it more than touching. to open up ourselves like we did two years ago, in private places.

she said, “it’s not gonna work out.” i said, “you’re right.”

i watched her go back to her current lover, her current love. i smoked a cigarette, and felt guilty. other people watched.

in which i was a mute passenger, or as usual, a spectating writer with teary eyes

i hopped into the car with you on the passenger’s seat, and your boyfriend on the wheel. i was sitting beside a cruel stranger, your boyfriend’s bandmate, who was a very unforgiving guy. i mean, i expect a little more propriety from a stranger. we were driving fast in the sidestreets, it was night time and i think you were drunk. i’m sure i was drunk so i managed to fit the passenger-half of a taxi cab into the passenger-half of your car. it was a ford expedition anyway, so it was perfect fit. then, your drunkenness took over as you kissed your boyfriend passionately, while he was driving at around 60mph, until we crashed into the glass doors of a chinese restaurant. it was cold. i really blame that kiss for the car crash. so your boyfriend went in and checked to see what he could do about that stupid mistake. i think the waitress said he should just contact the manager, and then gave him a series of notes. while this conversation was happening i was browsing through the faces of the people, they didn’t seem to care about the accident. a european-looking guy marched on with his conversation, and smiled, and so on. i checked what they had on the menu. while doing so, a lit-up display tried desperately to describe what this restaurant was about. i only read the last words, which said: “it was either black berry, or custard cake.” or something like that. the font was futura. then, i went back to the car. your cruel friend was smoking marlboro reds from japan. your boyfriend didn’t want him to, because he felt like the imported cigarettes were being wasted on such an uneventful event. i secretly took a peek at the bunch of notes the waitress gave your boyfriend, before we left. one of them said something like: “i’m sorry.” they were letters. i still think you shouldn’t have kissed him. there’s no turning back when you do things like that.