And yes, it does take a genius to be pragmatically competent. Seriously and literally.

I'm still trying to get over this ridiculous madness. I've stopped myself from uttering your ordinary but nerve-striking name. I remain hopeful I'd succeed. Meanwhile, as this disease exists, I can't help but still contemplate how you move(d) me. I know that I'm not being fair to myself, but how am I supposed to get through this? Just wake up one day and become sane again? If miracle were indeed for real, I badly need it right now so that I could forget you. On second thought, if miracle does exist, I'd pray that we'd be together. But that would mean witchcraft, black magic, potion interception, sorcery, evil. Maybe to be happy is to be evil.

The heart knows no hiatus. It grows in silence. It is unaware of succession. It doesn't question. It helplessly beats for reasons unknown to the bearer, or it may be devoid of reason at all. Hence is associated with insanity, madness, blindness, folly. But something so beautiful and transcendental would definitely not be a product of stupidity. It is there. It exists. It is felt. It tries hard not to deceive its bearer. Resistance and denial only make a moron out of its bearer. It doesn't suggest profoundness. Happiness ought to be simple. Otherwise, only a few could afford understanding the meaning of joy.

(Originally inked on September 17, 2009, Thursday at 9:55PM @ a coffee shop somewhere in Araneta Center)

"Tonight, I realized I am dead in love with The Voldemort. When I had looked -- no, when I had stared at the nearly-celestial creation, I realized how magical the feeling is; no sense of volunteerism from within my system necessary to initiate such an adrenaline. I am in love with The Voldemort, effortlessly. And yes, I am drunk."