Sometimes it bugs me how literal mood swings can get. Especially mine. Like those irresistible dangling metal balls you see in posh offices and quaint little charm shops, once the momentum starts, it doesn’t stop. Lest you tell your fingers to behave and just watch the flow.

I suppose it would help if one isn’t so mood dependent. I can’t count the times I’ve felt envious at how impersonal some blogs can get, as in, how the many good posts don’t trail into the detailed roller coaster rides of emotions my writings seemed to have a penchant for.

Perhaps it’s partially because I can’t seldom work up any way to write as well otherwise. As in, to really write without hating what I wrote.

I tried blaming looking at the genetics. Could my impulses be a result of two species that run on personalities of both ends of the spectrum? My mum is often as jumpy as addicts on cold turkey. Her emotions can change as fast as switching audition candidates in Idol competitions. She may be your best rival in winning Korean drama marathons. On the other hand, wise old Yoda dad never understood the beauty of modern emotive dances. The only time we had a heart to heart talk (because I knew my mum wouldn’t wait until the end to impart great wisdom) was the time I told him why I was upset from the possibility of losing my then best friend and all he said was “So what (are you going to do about it) now?”

Bloody Virgoan engineer.

Then again, I don’t know. In the past, I’ve been pretty impressed with how quickly I can get distracted with a good story or two, or some sexy good looker with the brains to match. It’s still quite a mystery as to how I can easily disregard rest for discourses on the prospective demise of civilization and what-other-mindfucks-have-yous.

But there’s only so much books and movies can do. Even those over-dramatized feel-good tales, which are supposed to make you grateful for the dramas you have, wouldn’t pull you far away from the fact that they’re just that — stories.

There’s only so much consolation that close friend can give. And even then you know that despite all those sympathetic nods, kegs, and hugs, they never really comprehended the pain that infuriatingly nagged your heart since day one.

So maybe nothing distracts better than good old flings. Yet, somehow, after all that torrid passion in between the seats and sheets, something doesn’t quite sum up. Emptiness looms. You might not even be able to throw a “I’ve been swell” to your best mates without feeling the burden of all those sordid details you planned to keep just at the back of your head, for that’s all a fling is good for — a distraction.

Because in the end, you’ll only be reminded of your pursuit of happiness; that which you secretly miss.

And then you remember that you were supposed to have a break; to be on a break. A break from the drama and the depression.

What was that supposed to mean anyway?

-

On a different note, for the record, as intriguing as it is, I hate astrology. Fucking coincidences.