I am no Juliet; She Didn't Stone

I laugh now with ease. like saying, my life is a joke! and I’m actually laughing too.ü I say to you, let me go for now, literally, because of course metaphorically, I’ll always be yours. let me go and see the world, so that one day, when I come back to you I’ll tell you, I’ve been to the world and back, and away from you all I could ever think of was coming back. you see, if I decide to let go of my dreams instead, for you, I know I would be happy, yes, but my mind would keep on wandering still. what if? what if? and you will blame yourself for my unhappiness. and I would keep on saying, no, I am not unhappy, but I know, my subconcious would know regrets. but you see, I just know, after I get all the things I want, I would return to you. without you, something would always be missing. however grand my achievements, however great I become, none of that would matter more to me than what I have with you. our isolation from the rest of the world. the courage I’ve learned to have, even sans the alcohol. how I am because of you . . . sappier, cheesier, and definitely happy about it.ü so cliche, yeah, but what can I do . . . love is the oldest thing there is in existenceü I know I love you.ü

walking after sunsets, sleeping through sunrises

so this is supposed to be months and months worth of post. the biggest news so far, bigger than my current body mass, that is, is, well . . . i’m jaded, finally. that is something. i know that freedom slash relationship thing is only of the mind, and the other person does not literally bind you with “daisy chains” (cynthia alexander), but really, being involved changes everything. i’m thinking, wow, this one guy for the rest of my life? this would have been, for me, a difficult idea to swallow before, but now, yeah, i can honestly say i’m contented with just him from here on. why a difficult idea? well, for one, for some considerable amount of time, i’ve been haunted by this confusing push-and-pull between my great loves, two at the very least. yeah, when they grow tired of me, they push me to the other side, then just about the time i’m about to be finally completely monopolized by the competition, i’m pulled yet back again. and now, here i am, no more confusion, no more wandering . . . sweet, eh? don’t bother looking him up, he’s a nobody. that’s how it is. another cliche. he could be just some random guy to the world, but to me . . . *sigh* call it whatever, my everything, my meaning, yada yada, you get the drift, he’s all that to me . . . ü christ, i can really say i’ve never been happier. my god, some things are really overrated, but this one definitely is not.ü i’ll write some more later, here is a previous post i didn’t get to publish:
***
04-21-2008
Why do I think I’m most dumb when sober? For one, I can’t even give an answer to that question because the alcohol level in my system right now is incredibly low. So maybe insobriety to me is a kind of cure, and I was only afraid to admit that. I don’t think the afterlife gives rewards to people who were able to come out of this world immaculately free of any intoxicant. I can only imagine. “Here you go, for keeping away from temptation, a supply of _____ for eternity!” I think I’d only be interested if they give me a vineyard or something. In my case, since I’m from here, a tubaan would do. It’s like this, when I’m drunk I have an excuse for everything. Why I was able to come up with this idea and that, and why I notice this little detail and that little flaw there. You know, nobody would think it’s brilliance or whatever blah-blah-blah. It was the alcohol. Please, I’m not smart.
The thing is sober people are more accountable for what they do than the drunk ones. Yes, my paradise involves zero responsibility, even for myself. I can hate the very thing I love the most just because somebody started to push it down on me and turned my interest into a responsibility instead.
And I can be as obscene and as blasphemous and as gory as I want to when I’m drunk. Ooooops. Want, huh? I’m only talking about my words, honestly, and my ideas. I am a real lazy ass. Later. Gtg.
***

Half a Circumference Away

so there, another leap. a faithless one. i am laughing here. not the kind that makes the belly hurt. just a slow laugh, a whispered ha-ha. nah, it doesn’t even reach the ears. just a mild self-fascination. oh, i am crazy alright. and yes, the sane kind of crazy.
the tempting thing about the unknown is the sweetness of not having to think of what lies ahead. just now. "knowing there is only now" (cynthia alexander). and however the mountains of regrets come crashing the days after, you would know, nothing would ever compare to that moment when you just let it go, and your weakness gave way to something else . . . some courage that defied everything you’ve ever feared.
of course, always, i would go back to that hammock. a family of three, wearing cool shades. the shadows from the coconuts upon our faces. and the littlest one on his stomach, or on his back (see, he moves a lot in his sleep), lying between us. half yours, half mine.
i’ve done worse than you, but never better.ü

la libertà lo trova

i was willing to give up my freedom for a price, but it was freedom that won’t let me go.

So Long, My Ex-god . . . ü

back to my food symbolisms. i love pizza. say a newly discovered staple comes around. let’s call this new food zchiatz. don’t bother with etymologies; i made that word up. say i used to eat pizza every day, every week, every month. no absence. then zchiatz came along. if i then began to eat zchiatz more frequently than pizza, that means i only had a change of preference. but if i let go of pizza entirely and decided to eat zchiatz every day, every week, every month, without absence, that’s falling out of love with pizza.
so this is how it feels like. there is sadness too. i do remember some things still. i swear i never saw this happening. how can one forget forever? yes, i really did. no more future plans, daydreams . . . and i’m actually fine by it. well, he did break my heart. so maybe it had been on the horizons  all along, and the rain just blinded me. but yes, if i must say it again, i did love him. but yes also, not anymore now, at least not in the way of romantic love.ü
and oh by the way, i love pizza still . . . just symbolisms . . . but with the dude, yes, i’m over him.ü hurrah!ü
and by the way again, i’m not hiding my happiness because he’s happy now also anyways.ü

Strike One . . . Strike Two . . .

i’m liking my newfound nondepth. no more nosebleeds. just living moment for moment, thoughtless. for one, i can now sleep fifteen hours without my head hurting afterward. i’m learning to feel useless. insignificant. anonymous. no more megalomanias. paranoias. nah, believe me, it’s not less fun; it’s not boring. it’s easy on the mind, light on the heart. like cute boys.ü
everything can be induced. no more nice lines from boyband songs. like "sadness is beautiful." nor romantic oneliners from the likes of neyo and 50 cents. yes, i don’t know what i’m talking about here.
one day, i can eat three full square meals, the next i can have barely a bite to eat. my structure is my spontaneity. a conversation in bantayan returns to me. scorpions. if they don’t eat, they’ll just begin to shrink until they’ve metabolized themselves to death. nice, huh?
my home will have a big bed in it. i’m most solitary asleep.

I Think About Ten or So People Know . . .

my many mind deaths.
(there was another line here, i forgot . . . i’ll add it when i rememberü)
the gifts of the magi, reversed,
they give her an island,
she gives them a boat.
how fitting.
truths,
. . .
the difference between a discovery and a natio–err, an invention.
i have one.
it’s a secret.
he-he.
or ha-ha.
it’s ingenious.
it holds another meaning, to me, yet,
but it matters just the same, that other meaning.
like asking me, "should we watch them? we can draw closer . . . "
almost with disbelief, i told you–remember?–"na, let’s stay here, we go closer, they’ll be lookin’ at us instead."
you saw my logic. i didn’t mean it. honestly, you asked me.
ewwwwww.
"now you do it."
"wha–?" double ewwwwww. oooops.
ewwwwww. ewwwwwww.
i did it anyhow.
sliptyt.ü

Tunok Mo Lang

i knew. but still . . . yeah, it was all worth it, every single fragment of that disjointed happenstance. what to do now? be perpetually high. oh yeah. it’s like telling the world, "leave me alone! i have all the reasons to be guba." but deep inside, i’m smiling. oh yeah, at least my insobriety now is justified. welcome to the afterlife.

When Wonderland and Neverland Collide

so perhaps i would try making my fingers dance. i would be there. i . . . would . . . be . . . although, i did think perhaps another sacrifice. yeah, always, it should be, "i deserve this." i did something that made this now. otherwise . . .
talk about scatterings.
this is the only thing i’m good at. whatever this is. well, it’s with beer. that should be a little easier. so my happiness comes unnaturally sometimes. natural anger, you say. my good nature is but hypocrisy. yes, an artificial mind could only understand artificial happiness. have your fill of smiles, have your fill of forgetting. i’m having mine.
my limbs, used to the beat of your music, feel estranged. you are more difficult to reach than the heights and lows that my mind try to replicate. between a beautiful dream and a rather chaotic wakefulness, wherever you might be, all else matters less.
whenever i am somewhere new, what should i notice first before the absence of you. sane and sober, or the otherwise of the latter, i have no greater fear than this absence . . . prolonged.
see yah ’roundü

My God, We've Used Up the Sun

that was it? i’m not disappointed, though. i had fun. not to mention the few incubuses who came to visit me in my sleep. naw, man, i’m not talkin’ bout metaphorical demons. i swear, i got visited by these, man. oh, before you overreact, don’t. at most, their horniness only matched mine. hahahah!
no really, seriously, though, what did i miss? i’m thinking, it was a good one, but it ended so soon. oh well, yeah, i did spend half of it bumming around. that is, away from people i didn’t know not until after i turned eighteen, or twenty-two . . . i don’t think that should matter. anyhow, i get to go to my most favorite place in the world. then i get to be in the greatest wave-to-boat ratio i have ever experienced (big waves, big boats, no problem; small waves, small boats, no problem; big waves, small boats, say your prayers, kid, and i did, i did). i almost OD’d, i think. heheheh. well, i could be exaggerating that part a little. of course, need i mention the little romance involved? oh, you wish! hahahah! not here. maybe never. i’m thinking i might just actually be prude. hahahah!
i now understand why depression is a better company for some artists. it’s hard to be happy in this world. people feel like there’s a scarcity of happiness and a surplus of misery. i wonder why that is. well yeah, i can pretend i’m devastated and all, but i just am not. should i cry because i lost someone i love? or should i be thankful that at least at some point in my life i got to have someone to love? there are two people we look for the most. the one who loves us for all we’re worth. and the one we love for all we’re worth. if those two happen to be the same person, wow. if not, we’ll some cultures have polygamy. so i haven’t found the first kind yet. but i did get to know the second. and so i’m half contented with my life. not bad, eh?ü i’m young. i got time.ü
i think people think i’m this big-on-love philosophy junkie. well, i am a junkie. pizza junkie. potato chips junkie. beer junkie? heheh. i don’t know. so a philosophy junkie, huh? that sounds like a postmodern hippie to me. so shoot, i’m in.
only man is not man-made. therefore, all man-made ideas can be man-destroyed. the other way around, can man re-create what he has annihilated?  well, we cannot create energy, that’s for sure. but neither can it be destroyed. i saw this in NGC, about garbage recycling, and they turn trash into plasma. cool, huh? solids are within a certain temperature range, higher than that are liquids, then gases. think water, for example. the higher the temperature, the state changes from ice to water to vapor. above the gas state is the plasma state. like the sun. humans are geniuses.ü
there are as much wonder outside the self as there are inside.ü not a bad nonmonotonous here-there-then-here-again, huh?
good dayü i’m going to busy myself with confusion further on.ü

A Trip to the National Museum

i try to gather a lot from my head today, and none would just be good enough. there are thoughts of mild romantic desperations, and i know i will find some beauty in it, but i cannot. i cannot jump off the precipice of sadness anymore. i know i would only embrace dark sorrows again, and i want to stay happy this time around. my withdrawals from you are, by far, the most difficult. black holes surround me again, without a hint of ever leaving, except, perhaps, when you’re around. you drive them away. i had told myself before, i would then just fill pages while you are still away, wandering perhaps, looking for your high.
and i, again, will go through the half beauties of this world, trying to convince myself that there are still things above you. and i would not fail to disappoint myself, because i know, everything is better with you.
i guess it’s my constant delusion. that things would just get back to how they once were, that you wouldn’t have any evident effects on me, whatsoever. and i am wrong. i am not the same after your leavings.
so my stories might be alcoholic romances. euphemisms here and there about dark things. a best friend and i have decided on a best moment–beer and dark chocolate. bittersweet. and perhaps we liked the same song. perhaps we feel too similar to agree on a deviance. or perhaps we just like each other’s company enough to agree to agree.
he told the worst jokes. she couldn’t laugh, but everybody else already were . . . gggrrrr. i then took it to myself. I had to find my own amusement.  I just wasn’t in on his joke. that’s the thing. I often space out. some stories just build up in time  before they erupt into laughter. surprisingly, the melancholy instead in me seemed, to them, indiscernible. then i giggle, as though the sound delay of a laughter from me does not matter. they understood my misunderstanding. i wasn’t listening.
from a movie, the line she currently had in mind was a female character asking the male lead a rhetorical question. along the lines of him not used to being around people anymore. he had antisocial behaviors. he preferred some things over other people. like say, a choice between watching a movie or having company is not a difficult question. of course, it would depend on the movie. you think, what movie could take your mind off things?

mmmmmnn. i then smile some. i could always continue to write that book as my perspective is somehow different now. see, i can find amusement in that. my life having been on trippy distances lately, i have to say, cliched as this would go, I’ve gathered a thing or two. like, here, i have words from which you could gather preceding instances of memories. a friend did say, in the end, good things would find us–especially, the good things we did.
and yes, the bad ones haunt as well. and especially when you say bad, you mean good. heheh. and it continues. the cat-and-mouse of guilt and love.
hahah!ü gilok sa utok . . . ü ingon ana ang weedü hehehü chillax gihaponü good day, mga wanderersü

a haemophobic vampire, or slayer, i think buffy’s back on tv

"you aged. oh, then, so you must be real." so she gathers, her little truths must have been found in movie lines.  he looks at her, a little questioning, and feels for his chin. no stubbles. wrinkles? grays come a little later. they were young. silence.
my dreams have colors. yup, in that dream i was colorblind. i saw three, at the least. petals. leaves. perhaps the other was of earth. yes. she should have seen more than only three. but in that dream, she was colorblind. the others were made gray by forgetfulness.
they can never be reenacted, you see, dreams. realities can mean constant structures. dreams, they fall apart just the moment we wake up. the death in my dream, even if only teasing–but i knew a ghost in a dream could be real awake–was by far the hopeleastness. or hopelessnessest? exaggerated words. yes. of course she knows drama. it’s been playing in her mind. she just had to smile. he makes her happy, you see.
and you, instead, make her sad. you took the beauty of her melancholy. clumsy with cakes. the drama. she’s faking it. she’s happy. you know she is. but her sad eyes. when they are hiding secrets, they look sad. a joke. she was thinking of this joke. but a shy comic, she is. don’t pour anything in my eyes. he had asked.
poke a blind man’s eyes, and it will still hurt.
i laughed a silent one. we are asking the same thing. 

My Apology

I have ceased being a good drunk (there is such a thing). I might have
pissed some people off last night. I am sorry. It was the alcohol, and
yeah, partially my subconscious, but you know, sober, I would have had
the decency to be a hypocrite and kept my thoughts to myself. Really.
So the next time, before you hand me that shot of whiskey or brandy or
bourbon for that matter (I have issues with the hard liquors only; I am
mostly fine with beer, thank God), please be warned. I am a nasty
drunk. I speak my mind—my other mind, that is. The rude one. The
tactless one. Yeah, I still speak truth, but this mind cannot tell if
people around within hearing distance do not mind the unsolicited
information. You can say I have become split. Hyde and Jekyll. You can
call me crazy, I’ll accept that, so long as I’ll be forgiven. Man, I’m
really guilty almost beyond redeeming (oh God, please let it not be
so). Yeah, I am being overly dramatic, but I really can’t take it out
my system that I might have caused somebody to feel bad. Again, I’m
sorry. I’ll be stronger on the reins next time. Please let there be a
next time. I, honestly, am not that evil (to the disappointment of
some). Much love and blessings, all.

So Maybe Love Is Overrated

it never had been me, to wear my heart somewhere conspicuous, for the whole world to ogle at. it might seem so, though. nevertheless, i know i can try as much to articulate my thoughts into some perceivable art and still end up misunderstood–that is, if a consciousness did try to take effort to exhibit a semblance of interest. perhaps i would go back again and again to some of my previous epiphanies–those that did not change with time. they are not my structures. they’ve been here before, just that i decide to honor them with my agreement. right on.
i was being a smartass. i understood what you meant. just that, perhaps i was only toying with your rage–try as i can to snap your threads. then when i succeed in doing so, i may laugh at you. i can not possibly love an object of a joke.
yes. my words are hypocrisy. of course. i tell them not in a manner deemed for one such as i, in a language less composed, less elegant, of an ancestry lacking arrogance. we are not people with ambitions and plans goodnaturedly brainstormed over with divines. i tell you, to claim to have spoken with god is . . . controversial. on the one hand you have the knowned medical words they call for people who hear voices. on the other, you have people whose faith in miracles could never waver. semantics, my dear. we can call a thing with different names, yet it will stay one and the same thing.
perhaps there is in poetry things that incite fear. maybe a fear that what we have been standing on might suddenly fall. such as schizophrenic saints. but i tell you, my friend, your words and i cannot make less truths of things that already are. i am inasmuch a shaky stance as any mind i might possibly speak to even if unintentionally. is it not that this constant threading over two entirely different halves that very remaining thing that we so always fear to break? like saying , i am crazy, but thinking, since i am aware of this insanity, then i could not possibly have lost my sanity yet. then going over to what the people both from our time and before have collected regarding the workings of the human brain. knowledge is good. perhaps i am only one of those who think that trivias and you-know-whats contain pleasure. i am always in a wait to be awed.          
somebody accused me of telling tales about her. ha! oh, you wish, don’t you? this is with bitterness, my friend. you, unknowing of the few stories i’ve treasured. you mock the pain i told you, you caused me. it is real. so be it then. i’ve had had worse than the loss of you.
i can not force myself to tell of love when they have placed their hands to both their ears, shouting, "no more!" so be it. my love does not need approval. it is my right. and if you reject it, i will respect that. maybe i have lost my romanticism and have grown weary with the many images that could have come with many silent whispers. i feel like a starving child with fantasies of trucks of ice cream and a mountain-high heap of chocolates. if only i could go inside my head and join my imaginations for good, and leave the ugly reality behind me.
my humor stays though–although a sleepyhead it is. wake it up prematurely, and you’d realize your obvious mistake. but it is there, somewhere in a room. just waiting . . . 

Let the Sober Speak

alcohol! i need my alcohol!
from afar, there can be heard a sound as lightning through dry air splits.
sobriety is good. sobriety is good.
cut!
alcohol! i need my alcohol! please give me my alcohol!
a woman in black enters; with a small knife she cuts a wound on the mad man’s left palm.
i do not need blood, woman!
the woman lefts as though deaf, not even stopping to give the man another glance.
whoever hears, whoever is there, listen to me! sobriety is not a lesser evil!
splits.
there were many voices, both of men and women.
poi-sssson.
the voices start to become softer as though snakes hidden in tall grasses. poi-ssssson. give the man poi-ssssson . . .
then they became but whispers.
poi-sssson, poi-ssssson . . .
then suddenly the chorus became louder, though slowly, the crescendo becoming so loud that thunder had to quiet it.
poi-ssssson . . . poi-ssssssson, poi-ssssson, poi-sssssson, poi-sssson. poi-sssssson. poi-sssson! poi-ssssson! POI-SSSSSSSSSON!
then a piercing shriek from a woman from afar replaced the boom.   
aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
woman, do not punish yourself! just give me my alcohol!
there was silence. the woman enters again with a flask of bourbon.
hold out your hands!
the man obeyed.
the woman poured the drink over his cupped palms.
aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
although clearly painful, the scream was short. the man immediately lapped up the fluid in his cupped hands. both blood and bourbon covered his mouth, but he was oblivious to his barbarism.
hisssss bloooood issss not poi-ssssson? hissssss bloooood! poi-sssssson! is it? is it not?
the voices asked each other. none held an answer. they could only watch in silence as the man continued to lick his wound.

Blade and Moonlight

it takes effort now for me to remember. you won’t take me back, huh? i see . . . who can blame you if, in a day, he returns to my thoughts more often than one from an avoided past should. i loved him. i love him. perhaps in these words one might instead gather lessons of grammar and vocabulary, and ignore the drama. drama is evil. kill drama. my day, today. i can’t blame myself for traces of paranoia in my blood. for anyways, since i first had my consciousness, the world celebrates simultaneously with my coming. hurrah! my consolation. i’ve always thought myself to be most dumb when i’m sober. no, i won’t start my next statement with an "on the contrary . . . " i take pride in the fact that intoxication only alters my state of heart, never of my mind. my fumes only make me do my differentiations and integrals slower; not that all of a sudden numbers change their values. it is a fantasy to me. that i lose my logic. my freedom lies there, you see. but my emotions . . . yes, they tell me they can never be a cure for my depression. i never said i was sick. i only wish to procrastinate the tears. later, please, later, thus my flights. i know sadness will again find me, but perhaps i can face it later, when i have the right weapons, or if not, some more seasonings apart from only salt in the waters from my eyes. i am sad, i am sad. let it go. 

I'm Beginning to Hate Cliches

they were like the white flakes you left on your bed only noticeable when you use your darker sheets. like the nasty, although sometimes dried already, sticky stuff that your eyes seem to make much of depending on the choice of intoxication you had the night before. like that big intermingling of yellow and green that has turned into a gumlike ball, which when you finally were able to get out your nose, you realize you breathe easier already. you know these nastiness could be easily cleaned up. that 70 percent rubbing alcohol does its job. that’s why you never mistook it for another substance, the other alcohol. when things do their specific jobs, you don’t mistake one for the other.
yep, sad hormones are only brain chemicals. all emotions are chemically induced. yup, natural brain chemicals. but, since they’re your chemicals, you might just have a control over them. it is, after all, your brain. psycho-inactive.
there is no need to manipulate emotions. rage starts wars. people only obey their rages. a love, that even without which,  still life goes on just as happy as though it was still there.
i would have loved to dance with you. who knows? there might be indeed somewhere else where chances are given again. i will take you where my autism hides, and perhaps you would no longer be one of them who looks, although yes with fascination but still with a distance that tells of a quasi-apathy, and when you behold the world as i do, you, too, would realize why i love it so much.
the leaves are incessantly asking, "when again?" i answered, "might be never again . . . " because you see, our story must have ended already somewhere, some time ago. perhaps you forgot that you preferred that i wake up from my delusions of you and me, that you worded out contempt for my naivety. a woman. you needed a woman, and i preferred to stay in a fantasy where people never grow old. but we grow up. it’s different. my tantrums, you would realize, hold more depth than some of your people’s change-the-world propagandas.
i will take you there. no, not again. you haven’t been there yet. first times always risk one getting stuck. wait . . . i think there was a moment there . . .
"you want to go see them close?"
"no, let’s stay here . . . if we go there, they’ll instead be the ones looking at us."
and i was not being paranoid then. dammit. we already had moments even then.

Pleasing Personality Disorder

such that even if i had turned out to be a man, you would have loved me still–the kind that lovers have, yes, with all the desires and the flesh. i kissed her.
what is it in her that took you from me? i drew out the b*tch out of her. from the side of my eyes, i waited. there you are, and then i kissed her as though i have lost all the estrogen in me. i let my hands grope under her shirt, then down her legs, moving up to her shorts. wait up, these are yours! Oh. anyway, i went on. i saw you make a look-around. you were looking for her. she was now holding me as well, her hands finding the spots on my body she thought might pleasure me. i kept my eyes on you, even as i felt her tongue doing circling motions in my mouth, on my lips, sometimes drawing a line with them to my ears. dammit! we’re here! your eyes still had to adjust to the darkness. we were somewhere at the farther trees, behind one of them big enough to conceal us. but not so much for you not to notice that there were two bodies lurking there. i caught your eyes. dammit! i then gave my attention back to her. you might have seen us already, but you should not have seen me looking. you might know i was waiting for you to find us out. "what the–?" 
you lead her away, but your eyes never left mine. i was amused. there was not the slightest traces of contempt in them. i prepared myself for a good scolding later that night. only, i could not get my mind off the possibility that seeing her with me might have caused you to desire her more. i felt stupid. i heaved out the deepest sigh i had yet and waited. i might have to sleep outside tonight.
then there you were, just looking at me. but i swear, there was not even an inkling of rage on your face. "not bad there, that girl, no wonder–" and even before i finished, your hand held my head as though about to bang it to the closest wall, and i waited for the painful blow, but then your mouth suddenly crushed into mine, and then and there i lost all logic and never felt better doing so.

The War of the Colors

It’s like waking up in the morning, all oh-so-English in my thoughts, then bending over to pick up the tabo. Thoughts of coffee hang around. I used to have insomnia even before my addiction to coffee. Starbucks. Mmmmn. I’m no longer that much inclined to coffee. Tea perhaps. Yeah, I told you, oh-so-English. There’s the good ol’ instants. I really don’t need much. That’s what I think. but needing another individual seems just about needing a lot.

Seawater corrodes things faster. Mythbusters? I lie on my back, floating. Seawater, turn me into foam already. This mermaid has lost. My voice, my man. The real grimm brothers’ tale.

Sissies. Aren’t we all? even the great dictators must have cried also. I think people would pay more to see those than they would for porn. Okay, some people. Then again the, "Where are we headed?" I go like, come here, see, this ’ead up ’ere tends to have lotsa questions already. You make questions too? Like, dun ya ’ead got nuff to worry ’bout for ya to be thinkin’ up sum more? So I go like, shut your mind up, dude. Then look around. Listen. Feel. Now. Today. See, this won’t happen again.

It didn’t happen again.

I’m ’fraid they would go barging in on mi door to stop mi cryin’. It’s okay, I go like, I’m sad. Let it go.
I didn’t know when a heart gets broken, it kinda goes on breaking . . . like a verb that just won’t turn into a past tense already. It’s like always a present tense, you know. Like now. Like it got broken some time ago already, but it’s still breaking until now. Does this never stop?

They go like, I’m just bored. I guess. Angry? I’m trying not to anymore. Coz I really don’t see why I should stay mad. I’m like either happy or sad. Even if I only alternate between those two, I get confused nuff already.
Material girls. Yeah, nature is like the female or something. I can’t generalize though. In my case, I do easily get attached. Even if I know they’re only passing. I talk to trees. They don’t answer though. It would have been cool if I was schizophrenic or something. Then trees would talk to me too.

When I don’t write, it’s either I got none to say anymore, or I got much too much that my thoughts paralyze me for a while. Right now, I guess I just think I already wrote just nuff.ü Gudnytü

Say, Without the Drama

Levels and levels of insobriety . . . down, down, blank. Up again. Another morning. High waves, tossing and tossing. Our sails do not fear the water. They’re quickdry. It wasn’t such a sad good-bye. Was only the oceans where I’m off to anyhow. Pieces of lands in the middle of big storms. The waves again, tossing big boats as though only playthings.

Every morning I wake up to the smell of salt, of heat, of winds . . . I am home where the horizon never changes . . . just the sea and the sky. Nobody knows me here. Maybe another sailor once in while stops by for a drink or two–no, never just that. Drinks. We drink until the sky becomes the sea and lightnings start to flash out of the waters. Then we wait for the moon. We wait until the mermaids sing with us. We laugh. Those mermaids can’t sing our songs. They’re always out of tune, like some vocalist from a trip-hop band.
The sun reminds me of you. Harsh. Around here, without the clouds, we hate the sun. But after big storms, it’s always welcomed. But never for long. Ultraviolet rays. Cancer. Tanning? High consumerism. Good thing we brought good shades with us. I’ve always loved the moon more. The vampires, the werewolves–more interesting creatures if you must ask me. They visit me sometimes. They never get to consuming me though. I kept my stash of rum, whiskey, and scotch safe. If they kill me, no more drinks for them. Blood becomes monotonous after some centuries, they say. But alcohol–it always gets better with time. Always. They offered me immortality too. I only scoffed at the idea. I’m a humanitarian too. Unfortunately, I know people who lives under the sun. But I still hate the sun. Yes, even if every day it can’t wait to shine on me, with that huge grin across its face. The sun loves me still even if I curse it sometimes.

English, dude, English

So here. I cannot force myself into a state where I know a need in me to be understood lies still to be checked for feasibilty. I kinda was hopin’ for another word. Sounds too researchlike, but anyways. There. I know wicked words. And everywhere.

I guess I must tell of how "scenic" got redefined for me. Almost too real. Almost. But then again that’s how it is for some of us. Some words are bad enough. Then we place it upon ourselves. It is okay. I know who I am. No more fictions all-of-a-sudden making more sense. Though, it is good to know of imageries already around. Collective beliefs.

Fond memories, huh? Perhaps they might come as easy as the bad ones did. This time. Let me see . . .
You force yourself to smile because you know I prefer you that way. And the way your face slowly stretches across from ear to ear, never contorted nor with a twitch on certain sides. I loved you then. Yours would stay the sweetest. It was the sort that shies down in fear of being seen, yet it just tickles itself out until it cannot be hidden anymore. If only I do not know sadness.

It was not even an evil smile, not one that treads on a laughter, suppressed as much as one can. Yes, subdued. Moments upon moments I look for words. Beautiful words. Elegant. Redeeming the regal perhaps. Facades, made of walls. Decadence.

Yeah, for now, again I abandon this here. Off to another page perhaps.ü Have a good day.ü

Recoil

Huwata ko, kung asa hilom ang tanan . . . kung asa nagtapok ang mga engkanto nga ang hangin, ang dagat, ang mga puno lamang ang nakahibaw sa ilang mga ngalan. Sa matag adlaw nga nagpaabot ka nga sugaton ka sa adlaw samtang ang buwan padung na ug piyong sa iyang mata, pagpaabot sad nako. Paminawa ang mga balod, migo . . . gikan pud na sila dire . . . Usa aning mga adlaw, huwata nga dalhon ko balik sa mga balod padulong sa baybayon kung asa naa ka.

Mahadlok ko. Tanan nahanaw na . . . ang gahapon, ang akong tanan nahibaw-an, ang mga tawo nga sa una gihigugma . . . wala na’y makapahilom sa akong mga hikbi kundi ang imong tingog . . . hinay man usahay. Naghuna-huna ko nga basin usa nga rason nganong ikaw man kay tungod sa akong romantisismo . . . mas lisod makab-utan, mas pilion nuon ug paningkamutan nga maabot. Ugaling lang usahay, kung magkaduol na ko, birahon ko balik sa mga kahadlok. Migo, pagbuhat ta ug atoang kalibutan . . . kung asa magsige lang ta ug pagpalayag sa mga tabanog samtang ang hangin nakigduwa sa mga panganod. Adto ta kung asa atong problema kay nganong kinahanglan man gud nga maabot ang ngitngit ug kuhaon ko sa mga damgo gikan sa kalibutan kung asa naa ka. Pero kanang kahibaw ta nga inig kabuntag balik, pagbalik sa kahayag, naa ra gihapon ka sa akong tupad.

Huwata ko. Huwata nga sama sa mga nindot nga butang nga mahanaw sa pag-agi sa panahon, ang kaning kahadlok, nga dugay na nakong kauban mao nga lisod buhian, mahanaw na pud . . . 

I'm Possessed

The sea beckons me again . . .

"Yeah, I’m coming home soon."ü

Maayo Unta nga Wala na Lang Ko Nibiya

Wala bitaw ko nakalimot, pero daghang kinahanglan antuson aron lang nga di makalimot. Daghang mga likayang kagubot sa utok, nga usahay sa mga pamaagi nga dili sayon masabtan. Pasayloa ko. Wala gituyo nga sa mga niaging oras nga gihatag nako aron lang madaganan ang mga panghinumdom nga dala sa imong kawal-an sa akong duol, ako nagpadala . . . bisag asa, basta wala lang ang kahidlaw, ang kasubo, nga tungod nga naa ka sa layo.

Sa matag adlaw, mulabay ka sa akong pamalandong, usahay nagngisi, usahay suko, ug kanunay subo . . . imong mga mata nga nangita na lang ug laing makit-an aron lang mabalik ang sa una nga kalipay. Pasayloa ko. Kung dili ako ang nakadala sa kanindot sa imong kinabuhi. Dulom-dulom usahay. Nakakita ka ug kaanyag sa laing mga mata. Ako nidagan na lang. Padulong sa dagat. Didto, makatago ang luha. Parat man ang duha. Ang luha. Ang dagat.

Sa ako nasaag na, samtang naghangad sa mga panganod, naa’y nakakita nako. Nangutana sa akong pangalan. Gibira ko niya pabalik sa yuta. Gikuptan niya ang akong mga kamot ug nagpaabot mi sa pagtunob sa adlaw. Ang mga panganod nagkahiusa ug nanayaw sama sa mga lain-lain nga pintal nga hinay-hinay nga nagpa ila-ila sa matag usa. Hinay-hinay nga nipaubos ang adlaw hangtod sa matutokan na sa mga mata nga dugay na nangita ug kahayag. Padulong naman sad ang buwan.

Hangtod sa nawala na ang adlaw ug naabot na ang mga bituon, nagkuyog mi, nga murag wala’y nilabay nga oras . . . Hangtod sa namiyong na lang ang mga mata ug ila.

Asa ta padulong?

Bisag asa, migo, basta kuyog ta.ü

In the Land of the Abandoned

Imo ako gidala sa lugar kung asa daghan ang mga nagkatag nga tipaka. Samtang naghuwat sa pagtunob sa adlaw, imo gipakita nga dili tanan nindot nga mga butang kinahanglan dagko ug dali makit-an. Daghang mga ginagmay nga mga hiyas ang nagtago lamang, sama sa kadaghanan sa uban. Imo nakuha ang akong pagsalig, hinay-hinay . . . di halos nako nabantayan. Sa matag adlaw nga niagi, hinay-hinay nga ang akong mga mata nagsugod nga mangita nimo. Ang mga panganod. Ang mga panganod. Sa matag adlaw, lahi ang makit-an nga porma sa kalangitan. Nahadlok ka nga malimot ra ko dayon nimo. Kung ako pa lang napahibaw nimo, dinha lang nimo nako nakaplagan ang kalinaw sa akong huna-huna.

Anha nimo makit-an ang kanindot sa usa ka butang kung sa imo ning tan-awon, murag muhunong ang dagan sa imong huna-huna, unya magsige na lang ka ug tan-aw.

Salamat.ü

My Afterlife Welcomed My Psychoses

No more rag dolls hanging by their pigtails on the spears of the cemetery’s gates on midnights. No more sounds of laughter from wicked boys as they scurry around with rusted bicycles on full moons. Even the molds on the muffins left by the kitchen window with the hinges and glass broken have silently surrendered to time as it eats all away. The ugly baby’s cries have long been drowned by sadder howls of women’s longings. They have forgotten the other faces of innocence. Ignorant of their own ignorance, they murder my children again and again.

My Surrender

I’ve lost.
There is not a will for me to live anymore.
My dreams now foreshadowed,
I only wait for that morning without any more awakening.
It is over. It is over.
My mind is dead, my soul is dead.
Scavengers creep and crawl near ever so slowly,
Waiting for the last breath to leave me.
Moments, mine and yours, are now but archived memories,
You are good with forgetting,
if only I was also.
Slipping away into shapelessness, formlessness.
Even your good-byes are the sweetest,
your perversions fascinating.
You wish for me to feel love,
yet you bring me out from lifelessness with rage.
I’m done for. I’ve loved. I’ve lived.
Maybe in my sleep I’ll again be found,
maybe you would somehow turn around.
I now rest. I cannot love any more now.

Abandoned Even by Death

My dreams. My dreams. I cannot help
but agree to the fact that dreams are easier to accept than what we actually
see with our eyes, even if already clearly deceived by our ears.

I think, maybe it is a good thing
for me. Because I doubt I would ever be able to say no. To him, even if wrong—I
would only think I’ve done worse—but no, not worse enough as to make him
actually feel disgust. I would not give you the pleasure of knowing your lines
beforehand. 

I hope you do not feel this sadness.

This loneliness.

Let those who can help and redeem
words do so.

But none will ever know pain such as
this.

A little less than dying.

Before the silence and the peace.

A little lower than your heaven.

I will stay here.

My Plea Ignored

When we are
not together,

we forget
each other.

We agreed;

we can
forget each other.

You
defeated a religion today.

I prayed.

I prayed.

Is there
anything more that I can give

more than
my entirety—because

some say I
am a soul, but a soul;

others, a
stone—numb, hard, unfeeling . . .

Not now, I
said . . .

If he loves
me the least bit not,

let me know
not of it today . . .

another day
perhaps, another lie—

think up
another lie,

but not
tonight.

But
mercilessly the crash came.

Even with
all the things assumed and presupposed.

He loves me
not

tonight.

Hello Reality

Perhaps if I were alike all else,

perhaps I would draw as much fascination from you.

Perhaps if my thoughts,

do not hold dreary images unfitting for her,

her who you have in mind,

then perhaps there would not be this tragedy

(and considering your like for tragedies!)

I would watch,

as clichés and clichés climb up and down your skin—

we only need a little getting used to.

We love a lot,

thus we hurt a lot.