I have been in a plight where it’s as if my GI tract is twisted and contorted into angles once thought impossible; where the only temporary remedy is to proceed to a fetal position. Who knows what is churning up within my stomach? It has been continually grumbling, nagging, and groaning. It would be a breath of petrichor if even for a while it takes time to consider giving me a rest.

Recalling the events which lead to my predicament, I cannot pinpoint one instance. It frustrates me to not know what caused this ailment. As far as my memory is vivid, I remember not having eaten any meal yesterday aside from a heavy dinner. But even before dinner, I felt something sinister lurking inside my entrails. Dire, ominous, and imminent.

I do have one culprit though, the acclaimed C2 tea drink that I imbibed even without a single bite of anything edible. As far as I know, teas are laxatives, and without anything to dispose, my poor old digestive tract got confused. Talk about gullible. And now, I am suffering intermittent contortions, exacerbated by my inability to digest food into its simplest component. I’m hoping I’m over this when I am once again touched by the sun.

Constipated. Life has been throwing darts at me, at random. I’m virtually out of room to maneuver myself, and what little space that is allowed of me, happens to be occupied by other things. I’m dying (this is a metaphor, by the way). Constipated by incessant bombardment of frightful choices, and lose-lose situations, I am traversing a dense thicket of forest where even the canopy is inept at absorbing light. I am walking in darkness. Foraging for sources of subsistence, I die every moment of motion. But the paradox of it all is that the rascal of my slow death is my lifeline. An inexplicable paradox of living and dying.

Love is a paradox. The more you have of it, the more you doubt its credibility. And I do believe that love feeds on doubts. For without you questioning its trueness, you never get to learn how much you need to patch it for it to remain afloat. Love is never enough. Never adequate to keep two souls afloat on the sea of petty cataclysms. It requires a steady amount of effort, of coincidences, and of trust. Trust that amidst the whirling storms you face, land exists.

Love is a constant trifling argument; a cynical outlook for something as wondrous as love. But I’m left with little alternatives. Love has been cruelly generous to me. But I am still passionately in love.

Constipated. Emotionally and physically. All happening to snap me back to awareness that I am alive and I am in love.