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.