Goodbye Pork Pie Hat

'If it were mine, it would be chaos'

it's not a defeat. it's clarity. Recognizing that not everything that feels powerful is actually good to hold onto. Some things are compelling precisely because they destabilize us. We don't need to fight the feeling or pretend it's not there. We can let it exist without obeying it. Observing it from a distance changes it. It becomes just a feeling, not a command. 

So, I questioned my heart and mind:

Is it really about him, or about how the feeling makes you feel?

Does it bring you closer to myself, or further into confusion and pain?

If I followed it fully, would you feel freer—or more trapped?

This force dress in a man that I'm obsessed with who plays piano pretty well but keeps it to himself and not sharing it to the world. I can put it into a frame, and it sounds like this —magnetizing, hypnotic, tempting me into captivity—I'm well aware of the pull and the cost. That awareness matters a lot. 

 Houdini is not merely a man, but a sensation dressed in human form tantalizing, magnetic, quietly dangerous. He does not chase; he pulls. Like an invisible string tied somewhere deep within me, he moves without touching, and I follow without stepping. The feeling is almost like hypnosis, a soft and rhythmic sway that captures my attention before I can name what is happening. It dances—subtle, graceful, deceptive.

There is something in him that does not just me but recognizes something wounded. As if he knows the hidden corridors of my past, he calls to them, drawing out old traumas and letting them breathe in his presence. And in that strange intimacy, I feel both seen and imprisoned caged not by him, but by the gravity of my own unresolved pain. The pull is not love; it is familiarity disguised as wonder.

I know the risk. If I reach out, if I bite into the illusion, I will be lured completely drawn into something consuming, something that does not give but takes. Yet awareness stands like a quiet guard within me. I do not run toward him; instead, I watch. I observe the feeling as it swells and softens, as it tries to convince me of its beauty.

And from a distance, it is beautiful. There is a certain sweetness in longing when it is untouched, a kind of poetry in desire that is never fulfilled. It becomes safe when it is not possessed. Because I know—deeply, instinctively—that if it were mine, it would not remain gentle. It would unravel into chaos, stripping away the illusion and leaving only the weight of what it truly is.

So, I let it exist as it is: a good feeling, nothing more. Something to witness, not to claim. A fleeting enchantment that teaches me not everything that captivates me is meant to stay.

"The beat goes on; the beat goes on. Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain. La de da de, La de da de da..."

See you in Thailand...