White Noise

       I couldn’t shout.

            I couldn’t raise my hand either.

           I could only whisper the chorus of the song and balter to the bass-drop from the DJ. The truth was: everything was pointless. I couldn’t even save myself from the alcohol that had set in, dubbing my senses out of their duty. What grazed through my fingertips wasn’t only the sweat that had prickled all over me, but my mind drowned to the people flooding from the door, to the beer tucked behind my lips, to the heaviness slid under my eyelids, to the white noise in between; I wanted to snap that faint light so I could finally disappear to the darkness.

From a distance, strangers looked the same, act the same: chin up, heads were thrown, lips sought what could possible brush against them. They smirk. They fake, dance and sneer and jump, and then do the same thing again. Their eyes past eyes lasted less than a second, glance and then veer. They would smile their best, perhaps they would keep their gaze, and perhaps, I was one of them.

            Despite the haze, my eyes scrutinized them, from their posture, to the poison they wrapped with their hands, to the make-up breaking on their complexion, to the grin they did their best to fake, and to the things I couldn’t find authentic, and then I realized, I am fake, too. I’m just another narcissistic twenty-something who has half-baked proposals; we’re drunk on the idea that make-believe could pull people to like and accept us in order to satisfy ourselves, in hopes to get over the hangover of rejection. We’re strung out and addicted on using someone to validate ourselves, when in fact, you can’t allow someone to destroy you, and call them a heroine.

            But then, I stood in the dark as rays of red, green, and orange pass me in a random sequence, concealing the water beads in my eyes disguising as sweat, and as they roll down my cheeks, all I could do was clench a bottle of beer. All I could kiss was a cigarette, pressed to my lips. All I could watch was the guy I learned to like make out with a stranger.

            Who would have thought: love is pain on queue.

            Do they look romantic to a stranger’s eyes? I didn’t know romance could be so painful. But then, it doesn’t matter anymore; pain is only the consequence of holding on.

I didn’t know why I couldn’t feel anything at all when there was so much to feel. Maybe when emotions overtake us, we get numb, we become irrational. Maybe this could explain why alcohol could make us frozen, too. The idea is: white was the only thing you could see at full intensity. But somehow, even if I close my eyes, I could only see the red, green, and the orange rays against their faces—their lips, and despite my weak vision along the dim neon, I could see them.

I’m so sensitive. I need to get a little bit numb in order to bring back the enthusiasm I once had as a child; now I kind of understand why Kurt Cobain wrote that in his suicide note. Sensitive people are overthinkers.

I wanted to snap that faint light so I could finally disappear to the darkness.

I like the idea that alcohol and emotion were vodka and vermouth for a martini, bitter yet strong. Probably this is why I’ve been drinking, letting the alcohol sets in before the parade of emotions; both numb you, but in different ways, and most of the time, only alcohol could make me happy. It doesn’t decide. It doesn’t ruin anything. It only sets me to sleep, and when I woke up, everything will be okay.

            People wouldn’t stop; they shoot their hands and jump and raise their glass. I should’ve been raising my hands, too. Instead, my thoughts rose; drunken ones, drowning me again, and no matter how much I raise my hands so somebody could save me. I always fall short; their eyes run past me. In truth, I only needed some noise, real ones. I just need to distract the white noise ringing in my ears, or perhaps I just needed to wake up.

            Perhaps.