a letter for you

I am wondering at this very minute if you are thinking of me, if you like me, and if you are wondering what is taking us so long to find each other. Many times I thought I finally found you only to be disillusioned by the fact that my wait has not yet ended. I get up each morning hoping, dreaming, longing to meet you. I am thinking of how we will meet, would it be as romantic as the ones I have seen in movies? Or is it possible that I have known you all my life but we have yet to realize that we are meant for each other? Oh how I wish you were here right now because you are the only one who has the answers to all my questions. Sometimes I ask myself if I have ever really known ?love.? I do not have the answer to that question either but I believe that more often than not, we will never really know what love is until we find that right person?.

You just don?t know how often I dream of finally knowing what it feels like to be in your arms. Even at this very moment I am imagining how you will simply sweep me off my feet! Perhaps I would be drawn to you by your smile, or your eyes, or maybe even how you manage to make me laugh by your silly little ways! I don?t really know for sure but I am praying that God will help me recognize you when the right time comes. I think of all the pain that I have gone through in the past and of how much I have cried since the day I began my search. I just wanted you to know that I find my strength in clinging onto my vision of the beautiful life ahead of me ? the life I shall spend with you. In my mind and in my heart I know that you are worth all that pain and sacrifice. After all, the tears have become a part of my life and I believe that they are slowly washing away my flaws so that I would become perfect, not perfect in its truest sense, but perfect ? for YOU! I wonder if you?ve gone through so much pain as well. I wonder if you?ve been hurt so many times along the journey. But my dearest one, please don?t ever give up because I am right here? patiently waiting for you! I assure you that when we finally find each other I would slowly heal those wounds by my love.

At night, I would look out my window and stare at the beautiful sky, hoping that somehow you are also looking up and wondering about me. I utter a silent prayer and send all my cries to the heavens above thinking that in time they would reach you. And when I feel impatient, I just close my eyes and believe that you are on your way and that you are longing to see me as well. It is funny but when I finally fall asleep, it is still you that I think of, for you are always in my dreams. It seems that, for now, that is the only place where I can hold on to you, long enough to tell you how much I love you. In my dreams you would kiss away my fears and wrap me with your arms of love.

And this, all the more, makes me want to wake up and face the new day ahead with the hope that soon enough, you will no longer be a dream but a reality and once again I am assured that you are worth the wait. And when that time comes, everything will fall into its place, just as I had imagined, just as I had thought and dreamed, just as I had believed it would be! By then, I would simply look back and smile at all that I have gone through, inspite of the pain and amidst the simple joys of life ? and I would be very thankful because they all led me to you! In the meantime, take care of yourself for me. Hold on to our dream and don?t even think of letting go. Believe in your heart that we will find each other no matter what happens. God has planned the course and it is up to us to follow the directions. Don?t worry, don?t be afraid about getting lost, God saw to it that all the roads, no matter which one you choose to follow?lead to me.

You know I just got this guitar, sometimes I sing this song it?s called goodnight my someone? and it?s about?well, basically it?s a love song about someone you never met but you know is out there. And I dunno we make so few promises to ourselves as we grow up and one of them is that on our wedding day we walk down the aisle with someone we love. Somebody who does make your heart bounce, I guess. And there are some promises that I think we have to keep.

Waiting with fingers crossed,

Anne

flawed fabricated faiths

ADMITTINGLY or not, each and everyone has the urge to quest, understand our own need for meaning.

We all usually gravitate towards the faith/religion/spiritualtiy that we were raised.. we worship the Gods of our father.. some never even touch a book or consider entertaining thoughts of another?s religion.. only the brave and if you are one to venture out of your way to do so i salute you.. make yourself aware of the different beliefs even if they are contrary and challenge the concepts you have been accustomed to your entire life.

Religion has always been a controversial topic for it contains the vulnerability of all who believe.. it is considered the pillar of strength and even the backbone of a society at times.. so when an opposing force threatens such it is evident chaos, wars, confusion and pandemonium shall arise.. rather than discerning and studying the opposing religions ideas, many retrieve and defensively lash out.. it takes guts to be open minded and accept the notion that there is the possibility the religion we were rooted upon is not the religion we would be most at ease and in spiritual link with.

I believe all religions are flawed for man is flawed.. even if given foundation, it is still man who built upon this foundation only.

I believe all religions are fabricated.. others more than others.. through the thousands of years much has been added, taken away, misinterpreted, revised even been conceitingly used in the hands of influential cult leaders.

The roman catholic religion is already altered starting as early as 300 A.D when Constantine created the council of Nicaea and cleverly created a fusion of roman catholic with the numerous pagan god worships before Rome could be divided by those touched by the teachings of Jesus and the remaining pagan worshipers.. Look up December 25 in ancient gods, isis and child horus? image compared to virgin mary and Jesus, Sunday our day of worship and rest, newborn krishna presented with gold,frankincense and myrrh, aztec?s god-eating and communion, baphomet?s horned image now contorted as being the devils apparent appearance, euhemerus god making and canonization, pre christian god mithras called son of God and giver of light born dec 25 died buried in tomb and resurrected in 3days.. ring any bells?

This is not a thing of the past even at this given day the church is reluctantly beginning to evolve to keep up with society and is now bit by bit modernizing themselves.

Everything even a history publication is flawed and fabricated to somewhat of a degree.. just a matter of accepting this as a fact and notf ocusing on the man-made details but more so the divine superior higher being and your communication with the almighty as well as the proper preservation of morals.

Faith is the eventually the acceptance of that we imagine to be true although cannot prove we still choose to believe in..

thought of the day!

"wear hope like clustered flowers on your head."

my suicide

During my senior year in high school, my English teacher asked the class how we see ourselves ten years from now. I candidly answered, much to her dismay, “Ten years from now, I will be dead, a cold corpse in an obscure cemetery.”

Every man must be a master of his own death. Not nature, not freak accidents, not even Death.

I believe our lives are our own possession which we can nurture or destroy. It was never lent to us, mind you. Rather, it was given to us like a Christmas present, wrapped in beautiful red and green Christmas gift wrapper. And after the season is gone, we can choose whether to treasure it or throw it away.

Hence, I always, for better or for worse, idolize people who have the courage to take their own lives. Curt Cobain. Sylvia Plath. Their suicide immortalized and assured the legacy they left behind. We envy them too much, yet we avoid emulating them because we love our lives too much, too scared that our suicide will just be for naught.

Honestly, suicide is not that hard. All we need is a bladed weapon or a poison (or, if we can, weapons of mass destruction). And enough guts to terminate our wretched existence. Do you know why I say this with much conviction?

I attempted to commit suicide a week ago. I took sleeping pills as plenty as the sands of the see. I then took a knife and made a vertical cut from the tip of my palm to to almost 5 inches down my arm and blood was rushing everywhere. I felt horrible. I was feeling lost. Feelings could no longer be contained. I wanted to just die. I was at a point when no one wanted to listen and I was just full of words, wanted to scream. I fell apart, crumbling under the crushing weight of a thousand expectations. My world fell apart, crumbling under the crushing weight of a thousand expectations. At that time, I do not know which was worse – finally achieving my dreams or losing the will to live. The burden of disillusionment just became my daily cross and so I decided to end life.

My room mate found me foredead and hurriedly brought me to the hospital and yeah, they were able to revive me. I loathe him. Real hard. He should have let me meet the Creator and face judgement. He should have let me die.

This may sound pathetic but this is true and I dont even care if you judge me. I'm sick with everything there is. So sick. So wasted. Now people wont get out of my sight, watching me like a sick pyscho ready to castrate the lives of people.

I just wanna die. Just please let me. Too much suffering. Too much pain.

Oh, this is just too much!

huge words

It's practical to use big words if these big words really capture the idea you would want to relay. Some words, as we all should know, were crafted in order to fit an idea or more to a T. They ARE that idea represented in arbitrary symbols, vocal or otherwise.

Yet, there are times when we refrain to use these words and, instead, resort to words which do not really encapsulate the thoughts you would want to express but are rather "safer", in the sense that we think they would not compromise our pride and sense of self.

Insane? Maybe, but the practice is undeniable.

In order to salvage what's supposedly left of our pride, we resort to words which may denote ambiguity and vagueness, thus, wreaking havoc in the communication process. In order to "save ourselves", we build an opaque wall around us. The consequences? Our listeners, supposing they do listen, do not understand what we're getting at. They misunderstand or simply throw their hands up in utter frustration. Or they, themselves, resort to the substitutionary principle and junk the precise Big Words altogether as a defense. And the parties get nowhere.

On principle, Big Words are heavy words. They are laden with meaning, which we usually just hide from everyone else for fear of persecution and even rejection. Fear. And instead of saving ourselves and our relationships, we destroy them because of our fear and defense mechanisms.

Don't misunderstand me. I, too, am a defensive coward. I would rather issue "safe", emotionally uncompromising words that make me appear cold and distant instead of saying what really goes on within me point blank.

But sometimes these Big Words do escape me and I feel lighter almost immediately thereafter. But just the reaction I get, or the consequences I face, because of these issuances is enough to mum me for a considerably long time. I go back to being a weaver of cold, unflinching lines and thrive within my opaque walls where no one else can hurt me. No one but myself.

why not?

Jee and I had a discussion about preference. Why not you? Why not me? What does anther have that each of us don't?

Among the seas of faces we encounter daily, how do we select the person we do select - for a friend, companion, acquaintance, object of our affection, the like. Yes, the labels. (And no matter how insistent we become about how we DON'T believe in labeling and how hard we deny that we don't condone such, much less practice it, the whole labeling thing is inevitable. Unavoidable.) Why do we make the selection? Why them? Why these people?

We issue standards. We comply with them 0 sometimes struggling as we do so, sometimes with ease: unconsciously, as if we were born to make our choices based on those standards. Other times, we discard them and declare our independence from personally established norms, so to speak. So, when do we do so? Why do we do so? Why pick that person among all of them? Why do we make that choice?

The answer, you might say, lies in the free will of humans. Freedom to select. Freedom of choice. Right to organization, even (as if friendships are organizations - well in a way, they are, but that's debatable). Point there. But that really does not answer the how's and the why's of selection.

The answer is different for every person. Yes. Of course. Or else, those not selected will never be selected. And there'll be hordes of people vying for the same people, as well.

Why me? Why you?

I could listen all day to each answer.

finding polaris

It was the first time for me to see Orion's Belt. (Come to think of it, it was the first time I had been able to make out a constellation even though I had often prided myself for being good in connect-the-dots puzzle games, courtesy of Sunstar.) Worse, even if I had actually passed all my science classes, it was just last night when it REALLY dawned to me that, yes, the earth rotates! All the while I had believed that the stars that twinkle in the night sky are permanently positioned in such a way that when you look out of the same window at night, you get to see the same stars. When daylight comes, you cannot see them anymore but they're still there: in the same place as you look out your window. They don't move. Neither do you. Yes. I am such a dumb prat.

The unbearable freezing temperature of the room, and the lost aircon remote as well as the fear of being electrocuted if I were to yank all the wires I see in pure rage, prompted me to traipse outside and snuggle close to the exhaust fan at the terrace. And then I looked up and listened.

The North Star, or Polaris, is at the end of the Little Dipper's handle, which arches toward a small cup formed by four stars. On the opposite side of Polaris is the constellation Cassiopeia. Travelers often use Polaris for navigation. Wanderers look to the North Star to find their way. There's a Native American tale about the origin of this star. It was said that a brave son tried to impress his father by climbing the tallest cliff he could find. Through difficult conditions he continued until he arrived the top of a very high mountain. The mountain was so tall that the son looked down on all the other mountains. Unfortunately, there was no way down. When his father came looking for him, he found his son stuck high above. Not wanting his son to suffer for his bravery, he turned his son into a star that can be viewed and honored by all living things. And so the North Star.

Me? I was just captivated by the stars last night. And I liked the serenity the lake provided and the wonderful company I had. I liked listening to the tales, fictional or otherwise. I liked the night breeze.

And I liked sitting there by the exhaust fan as I tried to warm my feet.

and so it is

"When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake then it subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision; you have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you two should ever part, because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness; it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day, it's not laying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No, that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love, itself, is what is left over when being in love has burned away. Doesn't sound very exciting does it? But, it is."

Captain Corelli's Mandolin

tears

I'm containing the tears. Trying hard to. People are here. Can't cry. Don't wanna cry.

One tear fell. Then another. No more. My hands are shaking as I held my phone. As I touch my face. As I write these lines. My friend is not here. I texted three. Two replied from the same number. I am not alone.

"You have to be valued... you have to value yourself as well."

The lines make sense but I cannot hold it in my hand. If I could only go inside a mirror and stay inside for all time: a reflection of the eyes that stopped existing.

My intuition is flashing a warning sign; I am aware of the worst possibilities. But I'm helpless. I'm strong, but I'm helpless. If I could only let my tears flow, I'll be strong again, but a knock from my friend's would cost me a lot. Pride, you might say. I don't want them to see me this weak.

Now, I am tempted to knock at his door and break down. But I won't. I want to, but I won't. I can't.I want to go away. Walk. Get lost somewhere. Go to an isolated place. Or a crowded place. Where no one could hear my heart drown in its own addiction. Happiness. Misery.

Masochist.

7-7-7. 7/7/7. 777. Lucky numbers. Lucky day. Maybe for the rest of the people in the world. Swallow me whole just so I can stop thinking. And feeling. And writing. Turn me into a lyric poem, with my personal tragedies and pains. And my luck.

Such luck. I've done my part well, I said to the Heavens on my way home. When will You ever do yours for me? I still exist. I'm also Your child.

Disputes. Torts. I'm damaged and unproductive. Tried my best to be happy during his silence and coldness. To be patient. Understanding. Told my dad to stop being so cynical and self-righteous. That pessimism is bad. But as my spirit is crumbling down, I can't help but wish I were like that too. It's true. Idealism smashes your faith in the end, so much that you don't have to sit in the curb and wait for a car to ram against you.

To crash into you. I made patience my virtue but for whatever my efforts were worth, they obviously were wasted. And so I wait for the kid in the nieghborhood, who's as childish and as unfeeling as can be, to come home. I'm hoping her presence can give me comfort somehow. Or that maybe she can make me forget my tears.

Momentarily.

Maybe later, when all the lights are out, I'll let myself cry.

and i quote...

I'm not special: of this I'm sure. I'm a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me, and my name will soon be forgotten, but I have loved someone with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.

Nicholas Sparks

whys on mornings

The Sun's rays has never awakened me more. New days always begin with a question of your existence: who are you, and who are you going to be today? But on this particular day, it was 'why'?

There's nothing special about either the question or the way sunshine streams through the white lace curtains hanging by the east windows. That has always been the occurrence on sunny summer mornings. But the question itself on this summer morning led my eyes to the ceiling in a prayer. I have always tried to understand the world by bending into its palms without any further thought or resistance, voicelessly floating amid its reasonings.

Why?

The ceiling doesn't answer and I fade into a trance, mesmerized by the faint lines of cobwebs that face me. It is true then - Time exists even for non-believers. The Clouds fade into the Sky without any warning or any modicum of sound. Men fall and turn into worms that search for more life. And we, the drifters, do not feel all these happening. We float away in time for another tryst with the insignificant unknown.

Morning. Mourning. The thoughts confound me like the silence which only an overcrowded beach can give - populated but most private. I am naked but clothed enough so as not to shame myself. It is blasphemous to reveal Weaknesses but more blasphemous to reveal Truths.

Why?

I get up and fix myself a cup of coffee. Black, bitter, but still with a hint of sweetness even without a pinch of sugar. A new day is before me, a continuation of life. Another chance to be spent walking, dreaming, and just feeling the Earth beneath my bare feet. There is nothing to rectify nor retrace: there shouldn't ever be. The air is there for you to breathe. It cannot hear your confessions; it cannot disparage your guilt.

Why?

And the word hangs on.

because time makes it more complicated....

... how soon is too soon to say someone you love them?

three words

I am here!

Valentine's Day!

February 14, 2008

I really should post something for Valentine's Day. Love makes the world go round! Or so they say. But, truth is, I'm always bitter on Valentine's day. It's one of those days I wish I can stay at home and die. Hehehe Then ressurect the next day feeling refreshed with a healthy, vigorous amount of optimism.

***I swore six months ago that I would stop dating altogether. Am I feeling the bite? I did say I needed rest and some time off alone to align my chakras just so I could figure out my dharma in life. Yeah, yeah... to follow my golden mean and live a balanced life! What I found out: whether I want to date or not doesn't matter, some men would actually find a way just to be with me and spend some time in my company. Such trickery!

Oh well... I give up.

***Such male trickery included......an invitation asking me for coffee 'cause he tells me he's within the vicinity. So I meet the guy for coffee. Then he comes along and asks if it's okay to grab a bite first before you get your coffee. Before I knew it, it's 10pm and he's taking me home....a missed call with his name on my cellphone. I ask him how he is and what was the call about. Next thing, he's begging me to go out with him just one last time. And if I have already a boyfriend... to bring the boyfriend with me. *LOL*

Now I wonder where are these men when you need them most? Hehehe I never did like celebrating with the multitude.

*sigh* More quiet time. What to do with my quiet time...?

Times like this, I wish I could spend all day in bed and cuddle with somebody cuddly. Cuddle like spoons in my lacy underwear and him in his boxer shorts, perhaps? Or both of us in our naked glory, I wouldn't mind. *grin*

I wish I have someone.

But I have no one.

I can settle with that.

The ones I find desirable do not want to be with me and the ones I don't like are the ones who find me desirable. Such is the law of the world for now. So I choose to be alone.

Maybe the world will change its mind and change the law but until then, I'll be content being alone.

But whoever said I can't celebrate Valentine's Day alone? Whoever said I can't be naked alone? *wink*

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!!!

my own badge for others to see

I have never been comfortable presenting myself the way I “really” am to people. Leaves one open to criticisms. Leaves one’s character open to unneeded criticisms from people I do not know and really do not care about. Yet their words clearly leave a dent in me that would leave me bleeding for quite some time.

Anonymity is my good friend. But one cannot remain living in anonymity for the rest of her life. Sooner or later, if people think you are good at something, they are likely to notice it. So I create my own characters which people can look at but can never touch.
It was like this one very uncomfortable but extremely revealing situation I found myself one Tuesday night.

There you sat at a coffee shop late one night trying to decipher what is it I’m hiding from you. Staring at me with those piercing eyes, trying to read me.

“You seem shy!”

And in my mind, “You’re looking through me and you’re trying to read me. Very disconcerting, very unnerving. Didn’t your mother tell you it’s impolite to stare? Please stop reading me…”

“Ako? Mauwa??? Nganu gud tawn!

And so I continued with my gay, animate, half-real, unemotional, superbabaw stories so that I could fill the void and distract you. But your next words almost caused me to fall from my seat.

“Nganung daghan kag layers? Daghan kaayo kag patong… murag sibuyas, daghag panit.”

Now that… I was not expecting. God, he’s good! He’ll make a fortune out of reading other people if he were in Carbon. It was quite unfortunate I did not ask him about my lovelife and my financial status for this year.

But he won’t stop peeling me. I hate that. He’ll stop at nothing to have a glimpse of my core.

“Hadlok kang masakitan no? And these layers, gusto kang makit an sa uban pero since mabaw ra sad sila, di jud sila tawn makakita”

I began to cry. How come he’s the only one who took the time to see it? For the longest time, all the people I loved never saw that person.

There I was crying at a coffeeshop with a man who’ll make a fortune if he decides to become a Carbon fortuneteller. And I regret not having sexual fantasies about him nor romantic notions of us under the moon and under the stars ‘cause I have found there someone real---a real friend. (Sigh) Real friends are hard to find.

Speechless as I am up to now everytime I recall that revelation, I ask myself why. Why the layers?

I have always been a storyteller. I love stories… fairy tales or real-life stories never had much of a difference for me. I create stories most of the time I would believe in, gullible as I am. I go to one-on-one eyeballing in the hopes of getting a good story. I frequent chatrooms just so I could exchange experiences with somebody totally anonymous or somebody from another place on earth.

In my mind, I create characters. I live those characters. Fragments of them would come spilling out once in awhile…sometimes in outbursts, sometimes in trickles, sometimes in a constipated way that leaves me bleeding for words.

His revelation can never stop me from creating my characters. They are a part of the me, myself, and I.

I am living in my own shadow in a protective shell I created---a place of solace from the harsh and cold surrounds, a place to nurture a more creative me. A place where no one knows where fiction or reality begins. A place where only I am the only one who knows which of me is real. Where “real is really real” only when I say it’s real.

But who am I tell you people which is real and which is not?

You make me real.

headset talks

Lemme start by saying that I had such a hard time writing this piece! Picture this: the call center industry has been my bread and butter for god knows when and my good friend Rio gave me this horrendous task of pointing out the not so fascinating things about the job. It felt like Atlas bearing the sky on his shoulders! Tough one, ayt?

Call Centers – a new wave of job opportunity that has proliferated the job market and has attracted numerous job seekers. They are not just the regular unemployed, but unfortunately fresh graduates of reputable universities who are more eager to earn than practice the valuable education they gained from their alma mater. And why would not they take on such offer? Lucrative starting pay, guaranteed employment for a year or so, service-oriented work for foreign clients, and it seems to be the fad these days. But I call this modern day "DH" work. It is abusive, opportunistic, and downright pathetic. Why?

We are sleep - deprived people. We work while the rest of the Philippines is dozing off. To put it bluntly we comparable to vampires, nocturnal creatures that prowl by night and slumber when the sun rises. It can be a vicious cycle to live by day in and day out. For the unfortunate many, they don't have the stamina to live this kind of lifestyle. We see people come and go all the time. Death is interminably a gaping part of the loom. Suffice it to say, resignations are not a shocker at all.

STRESS! You are on a HOT seat day in and day out. That is the nature of the job. They say it is just a matter of good call-handling skills. Hell, you can say that to my butthole for all I care. In a split second, callers morphed into vicious diablos that spit scorching hot fire from the other end. This is where the saga of an irate caller begins. I do have my moments that I strike back at the customer. To hell with the obnoxious know-it-all idiots. I may just be a call center freak but I don't tolerate profanity and being treated like a fuckin dog. Of course, I have my mouth, my tongue and my teeth are still intact, so basically I also have the ability to yell. Who says that only customers have the right to yell. I also have mine. I can be as cynical as I can be. It can even be at my advantage. I have good knowledge of the technical aspect of the account so I know how to cheat my way around without the customer knowing it. I just need to get myself out of the situation. I know this is sleazy, but for some, they deserve to get the dose of their own medicine. I am not here to be bossed around by imbiciles who insist on being treated like royalty when in reality, they are just plain dumb. Just to make things clear, I am not in any way ripping off the customers. I just want the call to end, plain and simple.

I have been in this job for 3 years now and if it wasnt really where I get my dough, I would have given up eons ago. There are a lot of dignifying and stress free jobs out there. The lucrative pay cannot suffice to the millions of hair you lose everyday trying to figure out why the hell you're in the job which stops you from living life.

I may be over-reacting, but I say call centers indeed stagnates the country’s intellectual potential. If most of our brilliant graduates or still students for that matter will succumb to this craze, then maybe these reputable universities are educating the wrong people. It is reflective of our times, our values, but what isn’t obvious is that it greatly affects our future. We are talking of possibly the next president here.

So what I am saying? Basically, I just really need to start gathering my thoughts now and start preparing myself for a whole lot of pencil - pushing this June!

strum... pluck... strum

Strum…strum…strum…strum…strum…

That’s one thing I could do. With my left hand clasped tight at the arm of the guitar, I tried to make “music” out of the senseless way I brushed the strings with the fingers of my right hand. I tried to make myself believe that I was able to produce music and not just a “sound.”

Pluck…pluck…pluck…pluck…pluck…

That’s another thing I could do. But do not be deceived. I didn’t mean like I could play like Eric Clapton. I didn’t mean that I could do those “finger acrobatics” with the strings. What I meant was I could pluck. Yes, a string. Like what you would do when you pluck your eyebrows.
Strum…pluck…strum…pluck…strum…

That’s the last thing I could do. I would brush my fingers on the strings as I would do if I’d see a cockroach crawling up my legs. I would then try to get one string between my forefinger and my thumb, then let it loose as I would do if I’d pinch a cute baby’s cheek.

I couldn’t play the well guitar. I am FRUSTRATED.

schizophrenic thoughts

I call myself Rogue, even though that is not my name and the name means nothing to me. I call myself Rogue.

According to Merriam Webster rogue means: vagrant, tramp; a dishonest or worthless person, scoundrel; a mischievous person: scamp; a horse inclined to shirk or misbehave; an individual exhibiting a chance and unusual inferior biological behavior.

What folly is this you ask, that I should be able to call myself conveniently by any name and not give you my real one. That I should cheat you by not telling you my real name. What is in a name? I mean, the names on our birth certificates. It is simply a name our mother gave us while heedy from tranquilizers after giving birth. It is simply that name and the name of our father’s father. That name means nothing to us. It does not show who we are or what we are made of. That name is a lie.

My being Rogue requires too long a story to tell. Let me just tell you that once there was a girl, with long black locks and she looked for a prince, to unbrush the knots. But the prince she found tied her hair tight to a post and cut off the locks she loved the most. And so she was Rogue. A confusing tale isn’t it? But Rogue was victimized by her own dreams. Let us forget that and get on to other matters.

Have you ever noticed that the sweetest things are always the ones you can’t have? Drugs are so much better tasting when taken under the nose of a figure of Authority. Getting laid is so much better when you’re young and the threat of statutory rape hangs in the balance.

So the young do bad things and what difference am I? I’m just a young girl with dark hair and dark eyes. I don’t consume men with desire; I just play around the garden of mine.

I walk the halls of my school and wonder to myself…what happened to the youth of long ago, the ones who walked these halls before me? Did they grow up successful, satisfied and happy? Or did they wake up to smell the garbage and realize that their dreams of conquering the world were foolish illusions? Do I matter? Am I real? Do I really need this? Why should I waste my time in this life when eventually I am gonna die anyway? Heaven and Hell are so dogmatic.
What if there is no God? That would mean there is no life after death. If that were true what would all our sacrifices matter? Then that would make all our repressions worthless. We did not have sex and we never smoked, drugged or killed but what if there is no heaven? Then that would make our life worthless. We sacrificed for nothing.

I’m waxing theological and that is not good. But death disturbs me. Not death per se but what comes after it. What if nothing comes after death? What if we just disappear into nothing?
I don’t want to disappear into nothing with no good thoughts to keep me company. But if I were nothing, then for what would I need memories? Confusing isn’t it?

Anyway, let’s get back to Rogue. I’ve always wanted an audience. I’ve always wanted someone to talk with until the wee hours of the morning. I’ve always wanted someone I could talk to forever.

No one stayed long enough to talk forever. So I’d sit here in my garden and talk to myself. And when the grass feels lonely I’ll talk to them. And when butterflies perch on flowers to listen to me, I am very happy. But no one person ever stayed long enough to listen to me. Someone to forever talk.

People are all mixed up about me. They think because I speak like a grown up and dress like a grown up and act like a grown up, they think I’m a grown up. But I just play grow up. I’m just a little kid. I don’t ever wanna grow up; coz when you grow up, your heart dies.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow up, even when I’m 30 and with children, I’ll be laughing inside because I’d be fooling them. I’ll tell my children I’m really just a little kid like them and we’d laugh at the world for thinking that the years I’ve been on this earth would make me older.
They think that just because I act tough and play the bitch that I am the bitch. They don’t know I’m not that tough and I cry inside. They think that because I don’t shed tears I don’t cry. I cry deep inside, much deeper than the water could reach. I cry for what I am and for what I’m not. I cry because the world thinks I have to lose innocence to survive. But I keep my innocence; I cling to it like some holy cloth that can help me with my life. I act like I know about love and sex and life. I don’t know anything. I’m just a kid without anyone I can really hang on to. I know I have to be mean sometimes so I wouldn’t have to cry. But each time I hit, I get hurt inside. I cry and wail and scream and hide from the image of me that seems to get bigger each time. Each time I act adult and grown up, the little kid me dies inside.

How can I be such a fool to think that in fooling the world there wasn’t the risk of fooling myself? Now as I was thinking I was old enough to play grown up games I realize that I will get hurt again.

Is that the way things are? Try to leave before you get hurt and inflict pain to protect yourself? This world confuses me. This game I’ve entered confuses me. I run scared and fast so I wouldn’t have to think about killing myself.

This game I play provides momentary pleasure. But for the pain it’s worth I’m not so sure anymore. I want to ignore the pain and keep on laughing but as the tears roll down in between the laughter…this is too much.

I’d hate the man who’d make me shed tears, that I promised. And this man I hate the most because for some insane reason this man has made me love him when I knew I shouldn’t. It is insane of me to even dare to own him.

There, Rogue has shared her secret. It is a man that makes me feel the most. He made me feel my mortality and the pleasure of living. Love means death because when you are in love you feel all the pleasure which you know you cannot keep forever. You know you’re never gonna be this happy forever.

So we all die little deaths and the adult heart freezes over and protects itself. But my heart does not heal with time. It does not remember past lessons learned but keeps on stumbling upon these lessons. So I go on again and again and again giving all of myself and not leaving any for me. So I hurt and I stumble and I fall and I die over and over again. Without regard for age or sex or fate or destiny. I do what I want if it feels good to me even if it is against the rules or bad or wicked or mean. Sometimes I wish my life were different, but I think back on everything and change my mind. I would never alter any of my decisions given the chance. I would rather live a mere day of my life than live any other life which society dictates upon me.

So I go on with each day and try to live and survive. And each day of my life I wonder how long I’d have to hide. I wonder how long I can fool the world. Into thinking the grown up me is not a little girl.

empty my closet, my pockets...

Memories are sacred to me, and old places I call home. They alone can hold the past, even if they cannot keep it. And it is always a sad sight whenever they start to fade and crumble. But I am not foolish enough to think I can live in them, even if I can't see myself living in the future.

It is common knowledge that one cannot live anywhere but the present. And even in the present one cannot live for she is merely passing through, forever pushing onward running after Time lest she falls behind and gets lost in its labyrinth. Time, after all, flows in many different ways.
'Carpe diem', 'No day but today', they are empty phrases to me. I had a clear idea of what they mean, but now I've forgotten. I find myself as one who is frozen in time, forever reliving moments that have begun to fade in other people's reckoning. Always reluctant to take another step forward, and dreading her last night at the nursery.

I must empty my pockets, I am going on a long journey.

I carry around a lot of thrash in my bag: receipts, flyers, bus tickets, crumpled pieces of paper. I keep them to remind me of the things I did and possibly to keep track of my life as it progresses. Because I cannot simply rely on memory, I need something tangible to tell me how far I've traveled. They make me feel safe and altogether caged.

Funny as it may sound sometimes I feel immortal in those trash. They show me scenes in my existence that will never again be played as long as I am alive. They hold an aspect of myself in them that will forever be immutable. I will never age, commit any more errors, or fade in them. They keep me from changing. They keep me from living.

Empty your pockets, as they say. Keep on moving forward. Indeed, I never knew the meaning of the words until today.

Ah, why am i ranting again?

grow

I can’t sleep.

I don’t exactly know why. They say that it happens when you have too much in your head, your mind won’t rest and so your body. Or it can be that your mind simply wouldn’t go to cease, even if your body already has.

It seems as if an intense storm has managed to pierce through the silence of my Night, the break of my Mind. The battleground is my soft Bed, my should-be-Haven. It’s as if my pillows suddenly don’t fit my head anymore, and my bed has come to be as cold as cement, but as fiery as hell.

Although I’ve been a bit of an insomniac lately, I feel that tonight is different. I don’t know why, but it just is. Just a while ago, I felt that God wanted to talk to me. So I knelt down beside my bed and closed my eyes to try to feel His presence. It’s not that I was looking forward to a glorious display of angels descending from the clouds, though. I just wanted His peace.

It’s one of those nights, when I feel like I’m facing a turning point in my life, may it be a major one or not. Changes have to come, and tonight I invite them in. I lay them all spread out and think. I mean, really think about them. Tonight, I feel that I face a turning point, and tonight, I make it one.

It’s a night when I feel like conviction has managed to take over me, to look back, assess and change. And it just wouldn’t give me rest. Until I feel that resolve has taken its place. And then, my whole being comes to rest, my mind filled with satisfaction, while my body - of renewed strength, looking forward with a fresh sense of hope on the way to my Changes.
After the turmoil, I feel this sudden peace. And I yawn. A well-deserved, all-out yawn. I’m ready to sleep. Now, I can sleep. My pillows embrace me as I lay my jaded body surrendered wholly to His peace. My eyes were as curtains shut from the visions of this world. I see hope. Tomorrow will be a new day.

Now, I can sleep.

just this bitter taste in my mouth

Damsels in distress. The eternal protagonists in fairy tales.

The evil queen. The old hag. The witch. Evil. Because they make the pretty princesses miserable. Or did they?

Flashback to your fairy tales.

Who were these women before they met the witches?

Pretty women.

Desired by all.

Loved by all.

Meeting with princes and knights left and right. Day and night.

And yet so righteously virginal.

And then what?

They were useless.

And who are the witches?

Simple people living outside the princesses' worlds.

People who can be themselves.

Working, tax-paying citizens. Paying the gold from their wages to support the princesses' diamond peel sessions.

But if they commit a mistake, let's say, forget the tittle on the i. They get sent to the dungeons.
They won't "attack" unless they were provoked.

Cinderella's stepmother wouldn't have been wicked if Cinderella wasn't the spineless little bitch that she is.

The Queen would not have Snow White killed if she just grew up and stopped being selfish and attention-hungry ("King Daddy neglects me because of the new wife... boohoo." And princess, may I ask were you of any use to the kingdom's welfare? Today's politicians' kids fare better. Even with their fake foundations and basketball tournaments.)

Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't have pestered the miller's daughter had she kept her promise.
The witch wouldn't have threatened to eat Hansel and Gretel if they didn't eat her house in the first place.

Well, the list goes on.

These princesses should actually thank the hags. Without them, their heroes
wouldn't have come to rescue them. They wouldn't be in the limelight.

And the stupid princes, galloping on their horses all fell for it. Fell for the innocent "Oh rescue me! I am so helpless!" act.

People just adoooooore these princesses.

You gain power by pretending to be weak. By contrast, you make people feel strong. You save people by letting them save you. All you have to do is be fragile and grateful. So stay the underdog. People really need somebody they feel superior to. So stay downtrodden. People need somebody they can send a check at Christmas. So stay poor. Charity isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. - Victor Mancini (from Choke - Palahniuk).

It worked for Victor, it works for the princesses as well. By the way, Victor is a sex addict. Maybe the innocent beauties too.

Screw Snow White. Screw Cinderella. And these are the stories we grew up with. No wonder.

Alzheimer's and Dr. Gregory House

I got myself into watching this because Soc has been constantly bugging me about it when he was enjoying the nonchalance of being a bum here in the Philippines. =)

Dr. Gregory House. A misanthrope, a cynic and a curmudgeon, I could distinctly compare him to Sherlock Holmes. Why? (I'm gonna retaliate that on my next entry.) He has unorthodox diagnostic approaches, radical therapeutic motives, and stalwart rationality that makes him a maverick medical genius. While "some doctors have the messiah complex — they need to save the world", House has "a Rubik's complex" — he needs "to solve the puzzle." His style for rash judgements and quick instinctive diagnoistician work is starting to wear off on me. I have a theory, and yes I know its a quite quick decision, that Dr. Gregory House has early-onset Alzheimer's Disease.

Crazy right? The thought that television's best diagnostician and one of the top rated shows on T.V. would have a main character who seems to be slipping into a disease that could completely destroy exactly what he does on the show. However, Alzheimer's Disease is very slow to act, so you could introduce symptoms in the beginning of the first season, drop some more in later and never have to worry about people realizing what is going on.I actually have a few valid facts for why I think Dr. House has Alzheimer's Disease. Most of which came from the sixth episode of Season 1: The Socratic Method.

• House forgot that it was his birthday in the episode until Dr. Cameron reminds him by giving him a birthday present. (Afterwards he tries to cover up his failure to remember this important date by making a smart remark at Dr. Cuddy about it.)
• Dr. House leaves his office and then after joining Dr. Wilson to talk eventually ends up in his office a short time later. Dr. Wilson calls him on it and House makes a flippant remark about liking to walk. (A very strange statement for a guy with a bumb leg.)

Some other things that make me think about the possibility that House has Alzheimer's are his love of puzzles and his constant use of instinct to make quick decisions. Maybe House knows that he has Alzheimer's coming on and is trying to prevent it. That would explain why he enjoys working with puzzles, it also might explain why he has a special place for patients with psychological issues.

Obviously there are a few arguments against him having Alzheimer's Disease. The most obvious being his incredible talent as a doctor. Dr. House is an impressive diagnostician who needs to know thousands of cases and diseases in order to properly diagnose and treat his patients. Although, his insistence on relying on his own instinct and the talented team that he has surrounded himself with seems to slightly challenge this point.

In conclusion, I think that Dr. House has early-onset Alzheimer's Disease and I will be looking for more symptoms as the show continues. While it is definitely early, and I could be compeltely wrong in my diagnosis, it is an interesting angle to follow in the show.

meaningless

Half of what I say is meaningless.

I wanted to put everything into writing. I can't. So I shoved my printed articles away. It's silly you know, they don't mean much, if not anything at all. I still wish the words would just come. It's easier that way.

I sat in front of the piano. See, I'm tranced in time. Wondering how a simple "la" or "mi" from a melody could evoke one kind of emotion or another. Thinking about why a simple word as "trance" or a phrase as "tranced in time" could mean so much. To you. To me.

Mean, I said.Meaning is a big word to you.Because you're rational and most of all, human.But just a clump of stardust.You're just made out of stardust. Like everything else around you.
The tune flowed from the piano. One by one the tones spilled all over the living room. Intoxicating. Oddly enough that as stardust as we are, we have a heart to feel whatever sentiment there is to these notes "la" and "mi". And we have a mind to deliberate over whatever the phrase "tranced in time" could mean. But still

Half of what I say is meaningless.

It seems as if our bodies are nothing but labyrinth of machines all intertwined--eyes, brain, fingers work interdependently and mechanically pressing the keys on the piano. And yet meaning is such a big word to us. When all we are is nothing but stardust.

I'm not sure whether what gets more complicated is when you probe deeper into the workings of your mitochondria or what you could make out of basic impulses of 1's and 0's that as if magically, could produce an intricate output such as this. Which is half meaningless.

So there goes our circuitry, our hardware--our crisscrossing nerves and our double-helix DNA. Whatever makes us function a little more integrated and more intelligently? I wonder what. Then again I wonder what makes us wonder.

Could there be a source code? A code of commands, lines, addresses based on pure logic that prompts us to ponder on the question, "what makes us wonder?". Surely, our digestive system is programmed to call a function called peristalsis when needed. Our esophagus is perfectly tailored to do just that. Much like the logic gate, AND is designed for 1 and 1.

But it goes beyond that. Because I still don't have the answer to the question, "what makes us wonder?". Because I'm also programmed to think. To think of what I'm getting at. Of that, I wish I know and I wish the words would keep on coming. Because

Half of what I say is meaningless.

The music reverberated from the piano. What's the nature of the great source code? Is it a culmination of million years of evolutionary undertaking or is there a much more fundamental yet higher source to all sources existing? It's pointless to ask, anyway. But sometimes we find ourselves asking why we have to think so much that we think about why we actually think. And at times like this, all we needed is a life.

Then again obviously, if there were source codes then there must be programmers or possibly One Big Great Programmer. Eventually, I was driven to ask The Programmer why things are designed and programmed as they are and why it was never an open source. Why not? Or was it, the whole time? And we're just not yet capable enough to decode it?

There must be some logic to the whole affair. Because I'm beginning to think that logic is everywhere but the answers are subtle. Of which there is a follow-up question as to why The Programmer has to be hidden even behind logic. Or isn't He/She? Either way, like I said, I only needed a life.

The tempo changed, swifter this time like a story reaching the climax. Can things be otherwise? Like me not stuck at home shamelessly imagining how much entropy in the universe I'm already causing by being too absorbed with stardust? Can you actually exist in another place in another time reading something other than stardusts? Somehow I'm beginning to sound like Carrie making her column in Sex and the City, typing the words: "Can logic leave any freedom at all?".
Because that's not all there is to it. Logic may be everywhere but it's not everything. Can someone so powerful or something so omnipotent defy logic? Like running the whole of the universe oppositely? That's not all there is to it. There's just something more divine about everything. Divine. Like mind arising from gray matter and life out of mundane jostling molecules. And goodness and love out of stardusts like you. Does logic cover that? How far can logic get?

And if we could just reduce these most divine things into mathematical equations then that would be the ultimate triumph of science and humanity. The melody slowed down and finally came to rest. But I'm a complete dreamer. And

Half of what I say is meaningless.

I wanted to put everything into writing. I can't. So I asked myself whatever do I know. It's silly you know, I don't know much, if not anything at all. I still wish logic would just come. It's easier that way.

I went back to my table full of circuit diagrams. See, I'm tranced in time. Wondering how a simple "0" or "1" from a latch could evoke one kind of output from another. Thinking about why a simple quote as "stardust" or a statement as "you, like circuit boards, are stardust" could mean so much. To you. To me.

While half of what I say is still meaningless.

things in my head

When a year in the city and a long queue at the noisy cafeteria back to the elevator in your office building in the morning and in the afternoon a lifetime of four malls with rich pretty girls and flashy metrosexuals in gallant corporate attires before you get to the jeep and finally go home only to get off a long, long way before the household because all roads lead to shopping centers if not to the posh gym with blaring music that equally keeps you too busy with your expensive empty lifestyle to stop and search your soul, you do that everyday anyway.

When you can’t see because your eyes get blurry everyday but you came and accurately saw and conquered the most beautiful executive eyewear shining in its Italian scent and price and splendor even if you had a drawer full of eyeglasses and contact lenses of different expiring periods at home that won’t change the way you see things, you wear the glasses and fake that what you see is what it is and that is a steak and that is a vegetable that you’d later want to throw up in that classy restaurant without meaning to, and afterwards, wear the glasses anyway as a badge of extravagance.

When you want to live simply but there are just too much things to do and too many things to buy, and too many crowded places to go to with all sorts of urban dynamism going on in the commercial capital of the world where you buy the air that you breathe and you realized you chose all this but didn’t ask for all the money they had to pay for your sitting in your formidable workstation to conjure stuff, you work harder like mad anyway to afford pointless commodities and keep up with the tax you give to the government that you don’t believe in.

When you lose your faith one by one because you lost the love little by little and some friends tell you they envy you because you squander like there’s no tomorrow and ugly lifestyles sound superficially fine when they’re costly and they have no idea what they’re talking about in that dreadful metropolis jargon of theirs while you’re stuck in a traffic jam for two hours in a special hi-way that robs passengers of a hundred bucks where deprived houses continually squat by the side of the road along with naked children playing which you failed to notice when you were once happy a year ago because you had everything then but a year later everything is now stripped off its layers that it’s hard to stay happy.

When you realize you actually have everything but the spirit because your ideals disappoint you and principles in real life could get compromised, when you know you have changed and start comparing yourself with your seatmate, your officemate, with every young single strutting pedestrian in the city and get burned by their cynicism that you’d like to ask them how they do it so you might learn the art of not giving a damn, the science of turning off all senses while mixing and matching between what’s virtuous and what’s obscene, between nationalism and apathy, popularity and lavish coffee, bills and fat content, prayers and a litany of mortal sin, greed and cheap cigarettes, pride and love.

When you know you might have been or you might be one day or you might actually be one of the faithful people who are jaded even before they believe, one of the hopeful people who whine even before they try to repair things, one of the saner people who flinch even before they drown, one of the safer people who won’t dare fight a losing battle in the side of the noble, one of the braver people who never fought for anything in their existence, one of the enlightened people who complain all their lives without finding for themselves some moral cause to take, one of the driven people who quit and walk away even before things ended, one of the impassioned people who never knew how far they could go for love until they’re the most broken of all the broken people.

When you know that nothing, not the good people, not the broken ones, not the best things and not even regret could last forever and it’s no big deal because we all forget anyway and sometimes too soon so the things that you do don’t actually matter because we are all fleeting moments and pictures that turn to dust anyway sitting in your deathbed trying to recall the name of the priest whose sermons make absolute sense that you look forward to hearing mass for the first time in your life and where is he anyway when you needed him most so you get the next best thing cluttered in your office drawer and head for the piles of medicines and tablets for headaches and colds and pneumonia.

When there’s no real cure and you need at least one thing that’s true in your life; when people say they don’t know how to love and they only meant they don’t know how to decide; when you’re balled up on your bed thinking you had to do it then and there even if you wished you sounded more convincing the way you promised the world to give and resolved trivial conflicts in your head and wished you could buy trust and security so that somehow you can truly say you’re at peace with yourself and history but you’re not and you blew away the only chance so you lost anyway.

When damaged pride hurts so much more than loss and you promise to be good and get rid of the most natural compulsion to get wasted because you’re wasted anyway but not like the kind you were in college because you’re too old for that and you now have the excuse to walk the lonely and indifferent walk that screams of credit cards and scheduled spas and massages and appointments with salons while a cell phone constantly goes off in the background ringing the loud anger-ridden alternative music you listen to that you bang your head with it because you can’t be good, not now, not yet tomorrow, maybe next week but what the hell, you’re too weak to be good anyway that you wish you could buy goodness and faith and love and wear them just like that.

When you haven’t written for so long but still find it harder to write that you start making paragraphs sentences because you don’t care how it’s going to end and who’s going to read so you write anyway; when dancing without music frees your soul but all the lights in the city are out tonight so nobody’s going to see you while you dance the best and worst dance of your life, you catch yourself recklessly dancing anyway and when strumming your guitar and singing take you away but nobody’s going to hear because the contending thunderstorm outside obscure your voice and the things you did wrong, you compete with the rain and sing it out anyway; and when you thank God at night for the thunderstorm outside and for the frogs croaking but not for your heart breaking because you learned that you always love when you try to forget and you always forget when you fall in love, you love and forget whichever comes first but you live and thank God at night anyway.

When tomorrow’s another day in the city and a long queue at the noisy cafeteria back to the elevator office building in the morning and in the afternoon a lifetime of four malls with rich pretty girls and flashy metrosexuals in gallant corporate attires before you get to the jeep and finally go home and not get off a long, long way before the household because all roads lead to shopping centers if not to the posh gym with blaring music that equally keeps you too busy with your expensive empty lifestyle to stop and search your soul, you go out of your way to search your soul wherever it is anyway.

now i am writing...... again!

When a year in the city and a long queue at the noisy cafeteria back to the elevator in your office building in the morning and in the afternoon a lifetime of four malls with rich pretty girls and flashy metrosexuals in gallant corporate attires before you get to the jeep and finally go home only to get off a long, long way before the household because all roads lead to shopping centers if not to the posh gym with blaring music that equally keeps you too busy with your expensive empty lifestyle to stop and search your soul, you do that everyday anyway.

When you can’t see because your eyes get blurry everyday but you came and accurately saw and conquered the most beautiful executive eyewear shining in its Italian scent and price and splendor even if you had a drawer full of eyeglasses and contact lenses of different expiring periods at home that won’t change the way you see things, you wear the glasses and fake that what you see is what it is and that is a steak and that is a vegetable that you’d later want to throw up in that classy restaurant without meaning to, and afterwards, wear the glasses anyway as a badge of extravagance.

When you want to live simply but there are just too much things to do and too many things to buy, and too many crowded places to go to with all sorts of urban dynamism going on in the commercial capital of the world where you buy the air that you breathe and you realized you chose all this but didn’t ask for all the money they had to pay for your sitting in your formidable workstation to conjure stuff, you work harder like mad anyway to afford pointless commodities and keep up with the tax you give to the government that you don’t believe in.

When you lose your faith one by one because you lost the love little by little and some friends tell you they envy you because you squander like there’s no tomorrow and ugly lifestyles sound superficially fine when they’re costly and they have no idea what they’re talking about in that dreadful metropolis jargon of theirs while you’re stuck in a traffic jam for two hours in a special hi-way that robs passengers of a hundred bucks where deprived houses continually squat by the side of the road along with naked children playing which you failed to notice when you were once happy a year ago because you had everything then but a year later everything is now stripped off its layers that it’s hard to stay happy.

When you realize you actually have everything but the spirit because your ideals disappoint you and principles in real life could get compromised, when you know you have changed and start comparing yourself with your seatmate, your officemate, with every young single strutting pedestrian in the city and get burned by their cynicism that you’d like to ask them how they do it so you might learn the art of not giving a damn, the science of turning off all senses while mixing and matching between what’s virtuous and what’s obscene, between nationalism and apathy, popularity and lavish coffee, bills and fat content, prayers and a litany of mortal sin, greed and cheap cigarettes, pride and love.

When you know you might have been or you might be one day or you might actually be one of the faithful people who are jaded even before they believe, one of the hopeful people who whine even before they try to repair things, one of the saner people who flinch even before they drown, one of the safer people who won’t dare fight a losing battle in the side of the noble, one of the braver people who never fought for anything in their existence, one of the enlightened people who complain all their lives without finding for themselves some moral cause to take, one of the driven people who quit and walk away even before things ended, one of the impassioned people who never knew how far they could go for love until they’re the most broken of all the broken people.

When you know that nothing, not the good people, not the broken ones, not the best things and not even regret could last forever and it’s no big deal because we all forget anyway and sometimes too soon so the things that you do don’t actually matter because we are all fleeting moments and pictures that turn to dust anyway sitting in your deathbed trying to recall the name of the priest whose sermons make absolute sense that you look forward to hearing mass for the first time in your life and where is he anyway when you needed him most so you get the next best thing cluttered in your office drawer and head for the piles of medicines and tablets for headaches and colds and pneumonia.

When there’s no real cure and you need at least one thing that’s true in your life; when people say they don’t know how to love and they only meant they don’t know how to decide; when you’re balled up on your bed thinking you had to do it then and there even if you wished you sounded more convincing the way you promised the world to give and resolved trivial conflicts in your head and wished you could buy trust and security so that somehow you can truly say you’re at peace with yourself and history but you’re not and you blew away the only chance so you lost anyway.

When damaged pride hurts so much more than loss and you promise to be good and get rid of the most natural compulsion to get wasted because you’re wasted anyway but not like the kind you were in college because you’re too old for that and you now have the excuse to walk the lonely and indifferent walk that screams of credit cards and scheduled spas and massages and appointments with salons while a cell phone constantly goes off in the background ringing the loud anger-ridden alternative music you listen to that you bang your head with it because you can’t be good, not now, not yet tomorrow, maybe next week but what the hell, you’re too weak to be good anyway that you wish you could buy goodness and faith and love and wear them just like that.

When you haven’t written for so long but still find it harder to write that you start making paragraphs sentences because you don’t care how it’s going to end and who’s going to read so you write anyway; when dancing without music frees your soul but all the lights in the city are out tonight so nobody’s going to see you while you dance the best and worst dance of your life, you catch yourself recklessly dancing anyway and when strumming your guitar and singing take you away but nobody’s going to hear because the contending thunderstorm outside obscure your voice and the things you did wrong, you compete with the rain and sing it out anyway; and when you thank God at night for the thunderstorm outside and for the frogs croaking but not for your heart breaking because you learned that you always love when you try to forget and you always forget when you fall in love, you love and forget whichever comes first but you live and thank God at night anyway.

When tomorrow’s another day in the city and a long queue at the noisy cafeteria back to the elevator office building in the morning and in the afternoon a lifetime of four malls with rich pretty girls and flashy metrosexuals in gallant corporate attires before you get to the jeep and finally go home and not get off a long, long way before the household because all roads lead to shopping centers if not to the posh gym with blaring music that equally keeps you too busy with your expensive empty lifestyle to stop and search your soul, you go out of your way to search your soul wherever it is anyway.

my bowed head and proud heart

I am disilllusioned.

I feel like crying. Everywhere I turn my head to, I see people with their art. Carrying it like a banner that says it all. And it pains me to see that they look at me in disdain. Disdain for my simplicity.

For years and years, I write down words that take form and turn into poetry. I do not mean them to be, but they come unbidden and furious.

And so poetry becomes my refuge, the only thing that could pacify me when I'm raging or give me peace when I feel disturbed. Poetry has been witness to countless suicidal thoughts, natural high times, the times I was mending my broken heart, regrettable affairs, booze-induced inspiration, fights with people, falling in and out of love and even when I fell for the moon. But to see it boil down to nothing in the eyes of the so-called literati is so sad it makes me want to spray them with insecticide, the same way you eliminate bugs because that's what they are. They infest on my soul with such fervor, I cannot begin to imagine.

I am disillusioned because they think so full of themselves, that they have these fat heads and extraordinary vocabulary. They forgot to see poetry in its most basic. That if you strip it down to almost nothing, what will be left are fragments of emotions and wisdom that make up its very essence. As such that I have. As such as those who take comfort in writing down their life and emotions as a catharsis.

But proud that I am for being able to give vent to the overwhelming episodes of my life that race against each other, I will not bow. They are not worthy of the so-called pretense they take with them as they parade in their glittering words. I take with me my poems as with my soul when I lay down on my bed of earth. They are mine and they are a legacy of a life lived as disturbing as I could take. A life that will not be remembered by thousands or even one when the generation dies down. It will be but a life of poetry.

mantra

January 17, 2008

I always had reasons to fight, but I always turn down people inviting me to join demonstration or join pickets. I don’t want to be part of naïve social revolutions. Although I find it really cool to be angst-ridden whilst holding a megaphone crying out in front of offices about overthrowing people and forcing resignations. On the contrary, I am still "young" for crying out loud, I suppose I am allowed to rant and rave. It's nice to have supporting political opinions and general principles though. It makes you look exalted. You know, noble minded. It is romantic to have ideals as well. It makes you look passionate.

It helps to rage too. See, it is cool to be rebellious. People would think you have issues of great consequence and they’d respect you. It helps to sound like a tortured brooding intellectual. It jubiliates me to scatter hysteria!

There's always something to rage against no matter how life threatening or puny an issue is, whether it’s about curtailing of freedom or another woman’s skimpy skirt. It makes life more meaningful. The simple minded and the adolescents, they’ll believe anything. The religious, they’ll do anything their priests tell them. The musicians and artists and writers—poor people, the impossible idealists of the world. They go crazy coaxing people to rise up and revolt at the first rumor of inequality. They are the most vulnerable of the species because the idea of dying for the world attracts them. They're masochists and they diminish with time.

What really is this all about? :) Well, I went AWOL from my previous work and I don't regret it. No, not a bit! Never. In fact, I am very pleased with my decision.

Being resigned is saner. It's an easy maintenance and there's no need for eternal vigilance. See It’s mad to fight for yourself when you know it’s a losing battle. It’s suicidal even to fight for other people and uphold justice, national virtues and human rights and all bohemian things. What are you trying hard to be canonized? We cannot live too cleanly, anyway. Humanity is doomed to sin and to fail again and again, not by anything, but by our own arrogance. There are no such things as external forces and divine intervention either so what the hell, i wont do prayer rallies!!! Habits are stronger than anything else in shaping one’s own destiny or a people’s history.

Ive got a new job I am starting to love. New people. New faces and a good start. People's opinion of me wouldnt matter. Not a bit! Because it doesnt have to be my fucking reality. Oh God, I miss writing!