Recently, I have a difficult time extracting words, stringing them into spasmodic thoughts, and then organize it into comprehensible write-ups. In the first place, I am always led to believe that I am at times a burden to understand. My world comprises of a certain kind of reality where even the intrepid avoids to venture. I am constantly trudging a quivering road of waywardness. And I usually find myself walking on thin high wires of novel words, and a tiny slip will mean either death or torture. And the latter will make the former more tempting.

These are one of those moments where a deep contemplation fails to evoke a sensible idea. Even an abysmal travel towards universe unknown becomes a suicide or treason towards my own kingdom. My little bubble of reality requires me some time for inactivity where even my mind suppresses its wanderlust. Sometimes though, the required rest is a malignant disease and by a single wave of the wand of boredom, metastasizes throughout my system rendering me futile and smashes me into a pulp. I have to fight this disease, this ailment that is keeping my desire to travel the world with a magic carpet of dithyrambic ideas, and just squeeze what little juice is available from my brain: brain juice! And I think I am not doing justice anyone or anything with this haphazard, senseless entry.

This malady of quasi-brain dead never could have come in a rightful time: New Year! Inasmuch as I want to bombard my dependable though soporific blog with hopeful thoughts and resolutions that could never be, my efforts will be verging on futility. I am paralyzed by a periodic disease, and this is a bad time for me to have it. But all hope should not asunder. January 1 is but a day, and upon each day bestowed to us by a grand architect, a new year beckons a streaking ray of breathtaking hope. Each day is a new year. Waking up is a constant battle against death; sleeping is a strand away from death. It is the closest the hands of afterlife can come to us. And when we exit the world of serene but trepid darkness, we escape the realm of the incorporeal. Everyday, as they say, is a new day. We should not stumble in our own inertia, and just continue to move forward; not ahead, but forward. For life is not a congenital race where the moment we learn to walk, we begin to decide to catch up to others. Take things incrementally.

As the traditional New Year approaches, I cannot help but realize how short 365 days are. It is a transient express; a fleeting flap of graceful wings and it’s over. But there is never an absolute end. And every consummation is another empty white slate. We get to start over, or continue the good things that have been working for us. As for me, I’m still in disbelief how I manage to lure and catch my love; ceaselessly grateful towards fate. But life, in anecdote, is a journey. It does not compromise of sure ends nor does it constitute a clear path. It is a giant, whirling ball of uncertainty. It runs you over at times. But it usually, always, leaves you wounded. My journey with the girl of my impossible dreams has just begun, and a termination is not an option. I will continue to walk the boulevard of misty tomorrows. Today may matter the most, but man thrives looking beyond where he is currently standing. And I am looking beyond everything. I am envisioning a reality where I get to have for life the love of my life. I am hopeful. And as 2010 draws to a close, and a new set of number combination plagues the accustomed mind, I remind myself that I am a victim of serendipity. And that fate is passive. It is us that should infuse a syringe-full of effort. I am forever trying to keep you, until life gives up on me!

As transient lights flash through the sky, delayed by tiny claps, the best time of the year enters in a non-traditional manner. I can’t help but think that this is the most silent Christmas I have ever encountered. Even though a drumming beat with interval pauses rattles the serene background of midnight, this is arguably a Christmas dogged by austerity. The decibels are conspicuously low, and the flashes faint. The spirit that is supposed to be reveling is unusually lackadaisical. Christmas enters tiptoeing.

This has been the most melancholic Christmas insofar as my memory accurately recalls. The world rejoices the birth of the supposed-to-be savior, and I cannot avoid thinking of what Christmas really means aside from the Christian tradition. Is it the warring noise that plagues the midnight sky? Is it the illustrious display of ingenious firecrackers atop the serene roof that we are all under? Is it the scrumptious meals temptingly resting on the dinner table? Or the perfectly wrapped presents that you saved for the morning after? There is no one thing that constitutes the totality of Christmas. Everything that tradition has been perpetuating comprises the true essence of Christmas. It’s not only Jesus’ birth, or the most holy of masses that the church has been broadcasting since time immemorial. It’s everything corporeal and intangible. It’s the gift that ensues a feeling of being remembered. The tasty morsels displayed on the table that encourages oneness and a sense of family. The hubbubs on the sky that resuscitates the frazzled spirit. The feathery feeling of joy, of unity, and of love. And that no matter how silent the night was, how little the displays on the table, or how infinitesimal the gifts you receive, Christmas remains adamant. It is immortal, and even death fears it. It is the single unyielding anchor of us, petty mortals, towards a slippery hope.

And as weeks stumble down the pit hole of yesterdays, a new hope breaks the cold chill of economic turmoil. Incrementally approaching the end of years, and heading towards a new year, a silver lining streaks the roaring gray clouds; that no matter what troubles lurks within the unlighted jungles of uncertainty, all will fall into place. A new year begets a new brand of promise. The death defying stunts we endured during 2010, will become figments of our memories. There’s a reason why we are still here, alive, kicking, and breathing. There’s a recondite reason why we are given the rare opportunity to begin anew. And as 2011 inevitably approaches, let us begin to set foot on another terrain; novel and unknown. Resuscitate your forgotten dreams, rewrite your bygone wish lists, and repair your obliterated spirits. A new day marches towards the horizon; let us not forget to salute it as a welcome gesture.

As for me, I have been unfairly blessed with the single most divine creature known to frustrated writers. I have been bequeathed by fate the most angelic woman, and up until now I question its judgment of propriety. I was not looking, but she came. I was not searching, but fate paraded her. I am an innocent victim of serendipity; happily murdered by the claws of fate. Serendipity is man’s humble justification towards a life he cannot control. I steered clear from any distractions, but you perturbed my wild excursions. My coerced pilgrimage towards a life worthy of a life or death battle, has found its end in your beguiling embrace. Serendipity exists. And I have been obliviously stabbed by it.


photo from: my bebe, Bernz Bernales

The Dark Side, as famously dubbed by Star Wars. Everyone has his/her piece of malevolence trapped inside thick walls of pretense for social propriety. We are and always will remain strangers even to ourselves. We do not know what we are capable of doing when we fail to accept the side with which we are afraid to show. It’s a sore burden to have to carry a load that is tightly harnessed on our backs, and we are inept on removing it. We are evil; but we are not the devils. We are capable of sinister things, but we are cosmic kilometers away from being the cursed one. We may endanger the people around us with our secret contrivance against the world at large, but we are mostly, definitely able to go beyond our primal selves.

I’d be vehemently chastised for adamantly holding on to the tenet that man is a genetically superior animal. We are smarter. And I believe that is the only ace we have got against any other animals walking the floating surface of the earth. And just like any other animals, we have primal instincts. We are governed by instincts that augment our chances of survival. Man, after all, is subdued by the ubiquitous laws of self-preservation. We have evolved to put ourselves at a vantage point, but that wee piece of primal consciousness still lurks within the darkest corners of our being. We kill to eat, hence we are predatory. We defile the one and only place that supports our existence; we desecrate nature, plunder it with its treasures, and maraud the string that connects everyone on this planet; all these at the expense of our gratification and lack of self-contentment. We deny others there due of unadulterated existence to satisfy our avaricious desires. We compromise the fragile balance of nature to propel our self-proclaimed altruistic causes. We move forward at the expense of genocide; we are murderers, and that is our dark side. The primal consciousness of an animal lurks unnoticed within us. If we deny ourselves the awareness that we have that within us, we remain as men (women). We cannot unclench our fists if we do not know we are clenching it in the first place. But as shadows dancing at patches of ground, they are not all that. When there is shadow, subsequently there is light. If man has a side that wreaks of hellish havoc, man has a side that glows with scintillating grandiosity. We are not only men, we are human beings; capable of kindness, compassion, charity, laughter, care, love, and many more others.

We are capable of thinking, of being aware that the world is temporary; we are temporary. We are able to destroy, but we are more than able to create. That behind the dancing shadows, there glows an omnipotent light. There’s still hope for the human race. Hope should not fade. It should continue to cudgel every regret. We are not the devil. We are merely puppets of the perpetuating battle between good and bad.

(Scratches the attention-deficit itch that has been plaguing his feet.)

On another note (since I don’t want to sound so formal writing about bland topics such as the one on top), I have noticed an “ant march” on the wall of my room. They have been going at that for months now, and I just could not find the conviction to halt their way. I don’t want to be so rude to stop their established way of life. It never ceases to amaze me how robotic they are at following the line. They go by the thousands and still no one gets lost. Some may stray the line, but they still manage to find their way back. Ants are the exemplar of hardwork. They work for subsistence. But the one question that niggle my thoughts is that are they even capable of living? Not merely surviving, but living. They seem to work as if tomorrow is just an escaping idea. Do they encounter the dilemma of fitting in? Obviously they do not have any problems of divergence, since everybody seems to heed a higher authority. Do they get depress when love doesn’t work out? Do they even love? Questions leading to more corollary questions; endless stream of inquiries that will never be answered. Frustrating to say the least, answers always seem to evade those who continually seek it.

The world is big, simple, but never easy to understand. So is man. We should learn to co-exist with everything else. As shadows depend on light, man should stop fantasizing and wake up to the reality that we depend on everything else. We are merely custodians to the artifacts created by a being beyond understanding. Live and let live!


*photo by loi brodeth
*camera by my bebe, bernz bernales

The breeze sends a familiar chill. Christmas is a sneeze away, and the world is now again revolving around a giant Christmas tree. Gift wrappers and alluring promos wreak havoc on pockets and wallets. Christmas carols are now commonplace. Though the carolers are rare these days, the idea of Christmas still remains alit. The melody that never fails to elicit an aura of peace and humanity is immortalized by the people who remain steadfast in the tenet that Christmas is and will always be the most wonderful time of the year.

The one most surprising thing I've met thus far is the sole Christmas decor in our home. I was literally caught flabbergasted, jawdropped, and a smirk popped ephemerally. The reclusive psychedelic ball of mesmerizing light was the eccentric piece that lifted the dormant Christmas spirit in me. It has been years since I saw an ornament hanged in our home, more so a scintillating one. It was a crude contraption, made up of flaps of semi-stubborn plastic. It illuminated our congested terrace. Little streaks of kaleidoscopic light rested on the surface of dusty stocks of old boxes. It illumed by frayed eyes.

I just got home, and the sight I beheld replenished my dried energy. I never really expected someone will put up something of the like inside or outside our home. It was just too Christmasy. I took my phone, click on its camera and started to take a shot; a still moment in the perpetually moving world of blatant bitterness. It was a sweet panorama moving below and in front of it; a novel taste to the once tedious and bland universe that is our home. Christmas has once again touched the dried scales of our abode. It was simply heartwarming; a relief amidst the chilly atmosphere of late December.

Allow me this night to once again be desultory. Although this is more or less in the same context, the year is drawing to a close. The curtain of 2010 is incrementally falling down on the stage. The decade will now be ending, and a new dawn breaks the silent sky. As the stars slowly disappear above the sky, a new light peeping behind the clouds is a beacon of a fresh start. With my batchmates in Psychology about to graduate this March, I will once again be left behind. It's a sad ordeal, but sh*t happens from time to time. All we can ever do is take head on what life throws out you. Whatever fate spoonfeeds you with, the best thing and the only thing that can happen is open your mouth wide enough for it to see that you will not falter, and you will not slow down. In the end, we defecate every bit of it.

I am not getting any younger, and as my age indicates the true face behind the facade of inexplicable youth, I am way passed my pre-pubescent years. Although I have yet captured my true intent and my destined purpose, I am continually in the grueling search of an atrocious ending to my not-so-extraordinary life. I will be graduating in the not-so-far month of October, and that in itself is not ascertained to me. Nothing is certain. It would be an excruciating plight for me to witness my friends receive a piece of paper to certify that they have finished college. In my 23 years living, breathing, and travelling, I have known nothing else but the four walls of bureaucratic education. I have known the heartbreaks of failing, the wretched grins of a not deserved success, and the suppressed joys of a job well done. The pesky murmurs of an assortment of instructors, the sudden evolution of teaching, and the sharp decline of quality, I have been through. I have been here long enough to notice that more and more students are settling for substandard. I have been one with almost every clique, and the years that I lost is coming back to terrorize my focus.

Come March, I will be green with envy. I should have been one of those who'd traverse the platform of half-hearted success. I should have been one of those who'd receive a thin paper that certifies your credibility as a worthy denizen of a third-world nation. I should have been one of those who'd don a toga that symbolizes my worthiness of being called a rational being. But I am not one of those who'd giddily wait for that moment. I am here, and this is exactly where I should be. I could think of many should-have-beens to audaciously stir reality, it is where I am right now that I should be thankful for. For without the mistakes I've made, the lapses I delayed myself with, and the pit holes that served as my own traps, I would not have conceived my own person today.

Take what life throws at you. It may not usually be that appealing, it's going to fit in perfectly. It's not what life gives you, but it's what you take out of what life gives you that matters more than anything. The things you get from it are indispensable. As for me, I might have delayed my journey; I gained a better look at the scenery that is often taken for granted. Life after all, is never only for the quick.

Journey on! We are journeymen in a self-diluted promenade. It's when you learn to strip yourself of harnesses that you realize how breathtaking life is. Grab hold to nothing but a pen, a paper, and an open mind. Life, I believe is continually in motion. And we are gyrating with it or against it.

Happy 5-days-to-go-before-Christmas!

An old cliché goes, “less is more”. With the little who came to the party, the night was no less than the best night within the premises of Cebu. Albeit such claim is a bit bias, I refuse to consider others to be a bar above what we had. I can confidently claim that the PsycNight was a success; and a fun one at that. Cheers to everyone who came, who saw, and who conquered!

Weeks of hellish and grueling preparations; from the trivial to the significant, almost all was covered thoroughly. From inefficacious invitations of fellow Psychology majors, where almost all showed no interest, to foraging the jungle of Psychology talent to fill in the intermission numbers, the weeks before showed no sympathy. From the contemplation of the cheapest, yet commensurate prizes, to the actual procurement within the congested agoras of Lapu-Lapu, the weeks before were laden with intervals of malignant sanity (sometimes you wish you were insane).

December 18, and the day has come. The ever-awaited day has spawned niggling sensations. The morning was set for officers and volunteers to set-up the venue for the actual event. Few came, but less is more. With time gaining pace, the unfinished venue was becoming a pressure cooker. But less is more. With calm minds, we managed to procure what we lacked, and leaped on the deep ravine of fate. We charged towards the unknown, and we geared for a night of fun; fun that only Psychology students know how.

The night, and unbeknownst to all, the nuances of the night were of last minute. Time gained pace, and caught up on us, but we managed to outrun it on the last second. The photowall tarpaulin was printed on the actual day, and it served its purpose and more. It was the star on top of the Christmas tree.

We were set to start at 6:00pm, and being Filipinos as we are, we never actually started on that time. 7:00pm came, and less than 20 were on the venue. Fear crippled us, and we prepared for the worse. Beside ourselves, we hoped for more. And more came. As groups came by the minute, we got relieved, pulled back ourselves and prepared the one thing we aimed to do: share the fun!

7:30pm. The exact time we started. From 6:00pm, up to 7:30pm, we anticipated for a long night. With less than 60 students who came, we got disappointed. But fun does not come in numbers, nor does it sprout when hundreds of feet trembles the wooden floor. Fun comes from those who are willing to share a piece of themselves with everyone else. And what appropriate time for everyone to share a little or a chunk of themselves to others than the season of joy, love, and sharing?

3rd year Psychology students comprised the larger chunk of the statistics, 4th years next (although it’s a bit disappointing on how few came), 2nd year, and 1st year, with only one. It’s quite a sad story, but things don’t always happen the way you wanted it to be. Personally, it was a shock for me when I only saw two 1st years, and the one happened to go home due to an emergency. But the show must go on, and go on it did.

The emcees, Joanne Abejo and Kris Alarin, 3rd year Psychology students, infused a young life into the night that started old. They were a sight to see, a frolic to hear, and a show to behold. No amount of generosity uttered is ever enough for PsycSoc to show its gratitude. With unnerving impromptus and unexpected twists, the two showed everyone on the event how talented the Psychology students are.

The night kicked-off with Jorge Matig-a heading the invocations. It was assigned to him minutes before the incipience. He was followed by our beloved teacher and adviser, Sir Fish with his lucid recall of past experiences; he opened the night with an inspiring thought: fun is essential. School should not suck the life out of you, and you should not let it. And the presence of another teacher, Ms. Velasco, was an energizer. We never expected teachers to come, though we welcome the possibility, and having two of them immersing with us, was a breath of fresh air.

Knoll and company presented their piece first. It loosened the cork, and relaxed the stiffened muscles of tensioned students. Robz and company, could compete with the Jabbawockeez. Pronie and Rebecca, are always a show to anticipate; they never fail to resuscitate the frazzled. Patryz, with her gutsy performance, awed and hastened the circulation of seated audience. And not to forget, Rex and Tom, who relaxed the atmosphere with an acoustic serenade. Mau, together with Pronie, sang an impromptu, but still elicited applauses and praises. Psychology in USC is a jungle of talents.

Mini-game injected intervals of active fun. And with prizes to behold, it was not only entertaining but gratifying. And then the highlight of the night, the Psychobabble happened. It was a first, and hopefully not the last. It was not only informative, but also fun. Rousing the competitive spirits of everyone, those who came formed groups and competed against each other. In the end, the School of Fish, and appropriately at that since Sir Fish was a member of the group, won the contest. Nonetheless, everybody deserves applauses and a salute from the officers.

The night ended as quickly as it came. Weeks of life-sucking preparations ended with a blast of Psychology fun. With the little who came, the amount of laughter and smiles will never be topped with anything else. I do not wish ill to those who did not come, they might have other more important things to tend to, but they surely missed a night poured by the gods with incomparable delight.

Less is more. Less is more. Fun really does not come in sheer numbers, but in sheer willingness to share a piece of ourselves to those who are willing enough to accept it. Merry Christmas and a prosperous new year ahead.

I have been in a plight where it’s as if my GI tract is twisted and contorted into angles once thought impossible; where the only temporary remedy is to proceed to a fetal position. Who knows what is churning up within my stomach? It has been continually grumbling, nagging, and groaning. It would be a breath of petrichor if even for a while it takes time to consider giving me a rest.

Recalling the events which lead to my predicament, I cannot pinpoint one instance. It frustrates me to not know what caused this ailment. As far as my memory is vivid, I remember not having eaten any meal yesterday aside from a heavy dinner. But even before dinner, I felt something sinister lurking inside my entrails. Dire, ominous, and imminent.

I do have one culprit though, the acclaimed C2 tea drink that I imbibed even without a single bite of anything edible. As far as I know, teas are laxatives, and without anything to dispose, my poor old digestive tract got confused. Talk about gullible. And now, I am suffering intermittent contortions, exacerbated by my inability to digest food into its simplest component. I’m hoping I’m over this when I am once again touched by the sun.

Constipated. Life has been throwing darts at me, at random. I’m virtually out of room to maneuver myself, and what little space that is allowed of me, happens to be occupied by other things. I’m dying (this is a metaphor, by the way). Constipated by incessant bombardment of frightful choices, and lose-lose situations, I am traversing a dense thicket of forest where even the canopy is inept at absorbing light. I am walking in darkness. Foraging for sources of subsistence, I die every moment of motion. But the paradox of it all is that the rascal of my slow death is my lifeline. An inexplicable paradox of living and dying.

Love is a paradox. The more you have of it, the more you doubt its credibility. And I do believe that love feeds on doubts. For without you questioning its trueness, you never get to learn how much you need to patch it for it to remain afloat. Love is never enough. Never adequate to keep two souls afloat on the sea of petty cataclysms. It requires a steady amount of effort, of coincidences, and of trust. Trust that amidst the whirling storms you face, land exists.

Love is a constant trifling argument; a cynical outlook for something as wondrous as love. But I’m left with little alternatives. Love has been cruelly generous to me. But I am still passionately in love.

Constipated. Emotionally and physically. All happening to snap me back to awareness that I am alive and I am in love.

It’s Halloween. And to put in the perspective of a Christian, specifically a Filipino one, today is All Saints Day; the day allotted by the Catholic Church to revere the thousands of saints there is. I’d bet my life to who so ever can name every saint the church has canonized. There are the saints, the blessed, and whatever label they put before every name they thought will sanctify those who hoist silver-coated crosses. Enough of these, and let me condescend back to what this entry is all about.

It’s around 4:30, +/- 5 minutes, and I got hungry and decided to buy cheeseburgers. Cheeseburgers here are sold cheaply at 31 pesos, lavishly, you get one for free. I don’t know what they put in their patties, nor am I interested. As long as it’s palatable, it suits me just fine. I ordered for one pair of cheeseburgers, and suddenly an old lady, in here late 60’s or so, asked for something. I was waiting for my change so I could at least give whatever change I have. I did not bring enough, so I could not give her more than her due. I sulked in the corner, watched those who finished buying if they would give something, whatever they have, no matter how small, to that old lady who clamors to keep her sanity. But no one did. I overheard a group, and realized they just visited their dead loved ones. It wasn’t eavesdropping, since their voices out-voiced even the roaring engines. They spoke of pity, of salvation, of religion, of God, but when they were handed out their change of coins, they ignored the old lady who spoke of pity, of salvation, of living. I realized no one was going to give her anything. People are too occupied with practicality and selfish predispositions nowadays that they tend to ignore that lives connect in invisible strands. What you do tends to substantially affect others. And by ignoring a hungry old lady, you make her hungrier. We can’t save everyone, that’s just too idealistic. Even Frazier’s utopia fails to do so. But what we can do is affect those close to us, and no matter how small that action is, it will resonate. I decided to buy 4 cheeseburgers, and gave the old lady two of them.

I’m a conceited simpleton, a selfish moron who knows nothing about austerity. I lavish on what I have as of the moment, and I tend to waste resources on useless nothings. I, at times, steal, to satisfy a fleeting desire. Lie to receive an increase in daily incentive. And persuade, get the sympathy of, just to place myself in a predicament where I do not have to be niggled about everyday hook-ups. Simply put, I’m a human being. Not to smudge a human being’s integrity with malevolent blames, I’m just being blunt. But when I see someone whose plight is something I do not want to be in, I crack. When I see an old lady ask for something she cannot possibly obtain, and I can, I bend. When I see a little kid who sings jingles in moving transportation just to have something to satisfy himself, I empty my pockets for coins and give it to them. When I see pre-pubescent to pubescent children groping their way in jam-packed jeepneys, and start to rap, I smile in awe and reward their efforts. For whatever purpose they have in wanting to have something in order to attain another thing, be it for food, for water, for medicine, or for drugs, they do it to satisfy a need, a want, or a desire. We just can’t stereotypically put them in a category just because they don tattoos, loose shirts, dirty jeans, and worn-out slippers. They do it to satisfy themselves; how does that make them different from us? I’m going to cut to the chase; people die from our apathy, from us not caring, from us thinking that ends do not justify means. Just because we lie, we steal, we cheat does not make us apathetic and selfish. Let’s forget the titular incentive of Saint. As long as we breathe air, we can make a difference, and apathy will not bring us there. Sometimes, if you look at other perspectives, the end far outweighs the means. I’m not promoting lying, stealing, or cheating. Those are just verbs that are holding us back (at least I’m speaking on my own behalf). What I’m promoting is we take action. In our own little, secret ways, we give a hungry person a chance at life. In our own contrivance with the invisible world, we offer an addict an option. In our own deliberate conviction, we refuse becoming one of the apathetic. We care, and sometimes, that is exactly what’s holding us back.

Recent statistics show that 925 million people do not have enough to eat. And in 5…4…3…2…1…A child just died from hunger, just because some of us thinks that helping a vagabond would directly predict their becoming dependent from beggarship. We think just because we offer to give some coins, we give these people fishes instead of trying to teach them how to fish. Perhaps we might want to wake up. These beggars, more often than not, do their beggar things in cities where nobody (I’m quite sure) knows how to fish. Sarcasm aside and moving on, we think that because we put them in a situation where they can depend on people who feed their mendicancy, they refuse to look for jobs that might sustain their subsistence. Perhaps (again) we might want to wake up. They cannot land jobs! They’re too, for lack of an inspiring term, beggar. What they do relies solely on what they are capable of giving, which is corporately and industrially nothing. They cannot find jobs because no one will give them one. Now where is the humanity in trying to legitimize our claim that by giving something to them will ultimately lead them to depend on us? Where is the rationality in trying to justify our own indifference with such inhumane claim? Where is the humaneness in not wanting someone to become dependent to us? Where did all those church teachings in helping go? Questions we tend to ponder often, but refuse to heed just because we care too much we tend to forget that IT IS NOT ENOUGH.

We depend on something. Humans depend on air, on food, and nowadays, on money. Little kids depend on their parents for care. College students depend on their parents for money, for attention, and for understanding. Adults depend on loved one for sanity. How are these people, who die a slow death from hunger, different from anybody else? Just because they do not own branded clothes, just because they walk miles and their feet coated in dust, just because they ask those who can afford, does not make them less of a human being. They can die of hunger, just like you, just like me. They can die because nobody can act on the care they feel when they see one. They die just because we refuse to go beyond ourselves. Now I say screw those beliefs that we are not helping them when we offer something to them. Throw those beliefs that we are doing more harm than more good when we give our spare change to them. Our means may seem unjustifiable, but the ends render those irrelevant. Nail justice on a cross. Society has been preaching it, but you see injustice wherever, whenever. What else can we do to those who suffered the sharp end of injustice than an act of injustice itself? Let’s stop pretending that we don’t care. We do. Let’s stop wearing a façade of toughness, because every 5 seconds, a child dies. Let’s stop the entire pretense that we are fortunate, for we never are and never will be. For as long as we live and many others die, we lose a part of ourselves. For as long as we breathe air, we breathe the essence of those who died because of our inaction. For every time we stop to think that we care, someone is slowly dying. Let us not stop in thinking that we care. We care for a reason, and that is because we know we can do something. In the littlest of the ways we know how, we nudge the seemingly immovable paperweight of apathy. Little by little we can make a difference; one good deed for one person at a time.

And as you read this, 86 children just died from hunger. There are so many things we can do to prevent another one from dying and starting in our community is advisably the starting point, specifically those who ask us in the daily walks of our lives. How can we possibly miss those people? They’re there, trying to catch our attention, and just because we are too embarrassed to help them, we leave one biting our dust. One good deed at a time; make sure we etch that permanently into our brains. And by the way, another 5 children just died. Stop the bleeding! Don’t stop to just caring. One good deed does make a difference. Make sure you refuse to become infected with the resilient apathy. (Another 2 just died).

I don’t have the obstinacy to get out of bed. The weather’s too perfect, and this day’s too special. I have so many things in mind that I wanted to put in here, but the moment’s too surreal for me to let it pass by. I would have written a passage of my ordinary travels, of my subjective experiences, but this day is more than ordinary. I decided to place some of those passages in the cupboards, and put it on my pending list. Ironically though, no matter how special this day is, I just don’t know how to put it in words. I can’t seem to string the appropriate words to describe this day. Perhaps, I should stop trying to describe it and just go with the first thing that comes to my mind. And the first thing is a letter. Perhaps, and rightfully so, I should make one. Here it goes:


Dear you,

It’s the 25th of October, and you know what it means. We have again reached another chapter in our lives together. I dare not say it was a calm breeze; it was more like a flux of unpredictable storms and sunny days, and breezes and gales, and everything in between. I took the toll, but I held on knowing that everything is worth it. You are all worth it. We had our ups and downs, as like everyone else. We had our twists, our turns, and our dull moments. We had our misunderstandings, and plenty of those. We had our petty quarrels on trivial things. We had our inevitable clashes of pride. Our searching for a common ground, and got disappointed finding out there’s none. Our fierce battles on who is right. We had our many things within the span of 7 months. We thought of giving up. We tried letting go. We decided to walk away. But there’s something that kept us together; an invisible glue that bounded us, hopefully for life. Something always pulls us back together when we gave up, when we let go, when we walked away; a force beyond the both of us. And amidst our regular battles, amidst us thinking that we have had enough, deep inside we know we can still handle more. Deep in our heart of hearts, we know nothing’s going to make us falter; nothing’s going to break us. And we’ve gotten stronger. So much that it broke every expectation of ours.

And now we are on our 7th month, and even if there are still those petty quarrels, those misunderstandings, those clashes of pride, we still have each other. I’m still up for more. I’m still looking forward to more petty quarrels because I know they are just going to sharpen us. I’m still anticipating misunderstandings because I know we’re never going to understand everything about each other. I’m still waiting for our clashes of pride because I know we have plenty of those, but what we have is more than pride, more than anything else. I’m still here with you. The only thing that changed from before is that we no longer thought of giving up, we no longer tried letting go, and we no longer entertain the thought of walking away. We’ve grown, and we know that a solution that considers us breaking apart is a solution not worthy of grabbing. It is when we are together that we are the strongest. It is when we have each other that we know we’re indefatigable. But I know we are far from being indestructible. For if we are, the fun of uncertainty withers. We don’t know what lies ahead of us. We don’t know what we will be up against. And certainly we don’t know if we’d end up together. Everything is uncertain. And from that we imbibe strength. Everything is “we don’t knows”. Everything is “what if’s”. And from that we know we have a choice. Knowing nothing is certain, we steadfastly fight for each other.

If there is one thing I’ve learned from this journey, it is that I refuse to go on without you. I will not sycophantly say that I cannot live without you, for I have. I have years behind me without you. But having lived short moments with you, having spent wonderful times with you, I refuse to ever go on without you. With every bit of what I have, I’ll fight for you. And I will never be jaded of fighting for you.

Happy 3rd (7th) monthsary my only Bernz. We may have reached this milestone, but still nothing is ever assured of us. But one thing I can be certain about is that I will continue to fight for us, I will hold on, and that I will be yours until you decide you no longer want me. What lies ahead of us may be ominous, but what we have at this point in time is more worthy of attention than anything else. I love you, and words are not commensurate. It goes beyond what I can say, what I can write. I fear sometimes that I could no longer express what I truly feel, not because I don’t know what it is, but because it’s no longer enough. Just allow me to say it in its unadulterated form, I love you. I’m looking forward to more moments with you. I’m yours until. ♥

Indefatigably loving,
Vergie

My head on my hand, thinking of what to put up here. I’m lethargic, and in a pressing need of vitality to recuperate my wandering mind. The sky is halfheartedly crimson, and tuneless songs break my empty travels. My fingers run amok, and are faster than my thoughts. I do not stop to think; whatever appears on my screen is indiscriminately unaltered. I’m tired, and the glaring screen is lulling me to sleep. But whenever I lie down and offer myself under the suspension of consciousness, my lethargy fades like short-lived fumes. And once again, I am in front my monitor screen, thinking of what to put up here, yawning and in a trivial battle against sleep.

I have nothing in mind but Bernz. Always her, and there never was a time that I could remember not thinking of her. I am constantly preoccupied of her. How she smiles that makes everything blur. How her eyes shapes when she talks that ceaselessly makes me wonder “how in the world did I ever got to her?” I am fortunate. So much so that fortune fails to encompass what I truly gained. She changed my life in the subtlest ways possible. The little things that she does, unfailingly make me fall for her more. I am deeply in love with her. How deep? I have not yet captured an accurate measurement, nor will I ever capture one. It’s 2 days before our 3rd monthsary, though I’d like to believe that we are on our 7th, and it always seems that it was just yesterday. It always seems untrue. When we’re together, reality seems to crumble into the world of vivid illusions. A delusion I am not willing to perturb. A dream I am not keen on waking up. Wonderfully enough, I don’t have to, for she’s real. Tangible. Beautiful. Real.

Although there were days that I treasure that I no longer clearly remember, I treasure the “now” moments. I dread of the day that she might one day realize how unfortunate she is to have me. I lack the standards, nor am I willing to attain these standards. I am my own man. And I fear it might not be enough. As for her, she’s more than enough for me. She doesn’t have to be anybody else. Just being her, and I still fall even more.

Right this very moment she’s sound asleep. Snoring, I assume. She’s tired, and it would mean everything to me to watch her in her unconscious wanders. Though that would be a long way to go, it remains a wishful thought. I dare not say that she completes me, for I never really remember being lacking myself, nor did I ever feel inadequate. I am always satisfied with what I am. I do not require myself a massive dosage of grandiosity. She’s not the puzzle that fits perfectly into my life; it’s not her burden to bear. Nor is she the angel that soars down from the heavens and blows me a kiss of pure serenity. She’s not any of those. She’s her, and that is all she has to be. She’s her own self, and I am not looking for anyone that would fit my standards. She broke everything on my list. She’s my exception.

She doesn’t have to complete me; we are two separate, complete lives, looking for a common fate of loving and being loved in return. If anything, she creates a void inside me; a void that impetuously appears, a void where only she can fill, a void where only she can create. I have never been this inadequate in my life; I lack moments with her. She’s all I need.

I have never been afraid of tomorrows. I have never been so fearful of uncertainties. I have always faced these things with head held up high and fists unclenched. Not these days. Not the days when I think of what may become of us. I shudder of the possibility of losing her. I tremble thinking that I might lose her. I cringe of the thought of her walking away from me. I battle these trepidations day in and day out. She’s all I want.

Now that a new horizon is on the verge of being conquered by us. I fear of what else lies ahead. But I am confident that whatever it is, we will be able to go through it like breeze through a curtain. We are on a journey. The goal is yet clear, and the roads ahead are certainly full of rough and tumble. We have a prospect future, but that remains a prospect. It’s not a laid path, we have to make it for ourselves. Nothing is ever certain. I love her more than anything, more than anyone, but I know nothing is certain. And with that in mind, I battle those that might ruin what we have. The awareness that I might lose her, gives me conviction of wanting to fight for her. And I will indefatigably fight for her. It’s a battle against fate, and one I am fervent in winning.

With head on hand, I realize my mind’s not empty nor will it ever be. As long as she occupies my thoughts, my world will be psychedelic. She’s everything in between black and white; a splash of vitality, a dab of enthusiasm, and a smudge of passion. She’s not my everything! Keep that in mind. But she’s that one thing, that makes everything else mean nothing. And I love her. ♥

Maintaining myself to write has been a trivial battle. I have all the time in the world, but laziness always has its way of infecting me a substantial amount of sleep virus. Ideas spring out wildly, and it’s just a matter of jotting down my thoughts. But my bed has its way of tying me down, and lulling me back to the realm of intangibility. But I’m not one to complain. It’s a predicament I want to be more often. Sleep. Nothing in mind. Unharmed by pressure. And sleep more.

Sleep is essential. And I could never stress its essentiality in any way I can. No hyperbole can exaggerate how much we, as a specie, NEEDS sleep. Even capitalizing the word need fails in effort. We should at maximum, have 8 hours of sleep a day. Although it’s ideal, it’s commensurate. The world has quickened its pace. What it’s after, no one in one’s rational, logical, and scientific mind can ever know. It’s beyond everyone, simply put. It seems that everyone is in a congenital race. It is as if, we are born to make haste of everything. Slowing down is a deadly plight, and once you decrease your pace, life gets more ahead. We no longer have our own time. It’s been devoured by schedules, to-do’s, and deadlines. I’m not against any of those, nor am I starting a rebellion. They’re in and of itself significant in one’s life. Without those, we wouldn’t be pushed to finish what we have to finish, or start what we have been longing for to start. I’m just hoping we gain back our control, and reacquire the driver seat. We can’t control time, but we can always moderate our pace.

On another note, I always like countdowns. It gives you something to anticipate in a world where waiting for something is commonplace. It excites you as the number draws close to naught. Zero has never been embellished quite worthily as it should during countdowns. And when the calendar starts rhyming, it’s automatic to imagine Christmas. I for one don’t believe in Christmas as the exact date of Jesus’ birth. It’s not exact, nor will it ever be if ever they decide to change it to some dates other than the traditional. But Christmas for me is beyond that. It has slowly lost its meaning, and celebrating it has been bounded by austerity. The economic crisis everybody is experiencing has tightened everybody’s pocket. But Christmas is beyond that.

Before, as far as my memory can be trusted, the atmosphere changes from ordinary to soothing when the –bers announce its coming. Christmas begins early back in the heydays. Christmas was longer, and the anticipation always crunches your abdomen as a day sloughs off the countdown. October, and both the inside and the façade of our house is ornate with sparkly decors and lights coruscate seemingly dancing with a Christmas tune. Both the radio and the television serenade you with joyful Christmas songs, encouraging everyone to feel the spirit of Christmas. But those were the days. And Christmas now has become shorter and shorter. No one’s to blame, not even the custodians of tradition. The tides have changed, and the paradigms have shifted. It’s 64 days before Christmas, and I haven’t caught sight of even a single sparkling ornament in our house. It may only be us, but it is the closest to me that I make the judgments of those distant from me. The radio no longer plays Christmas songs as often as they were before. The countdown’s still there, but it no longer elicits the same anticipation as it did back then. But Christmas is beyond that.

I don’t know if it’s only me, but I do find the melody of Christmas songs soothing. There’s just something hidden in those notes that calms me. Seeing Christmas decors warm me; I feel at ease wherever I am when I see such. The countdowns of today may no longer excite me, but there is still that dormant feeling of wanting to be excited. I don’t know what tamed it, but it’s there. Then I thought that Christmas is none of those things. Not the Christmas decors, not the Christmas songs on radios and tv’s, not the countdowns; none of those. It’s beyond that, and it’s beyond us. Heck! It’s not even the birth of Jesus. It’s beyond that also. And as a Christmas song played, I realized that it is the feeling you get from Christmas itself. The feeling of family, of friendship, of love, of sharing, of forgiving, of peace, of joy, and almost every positive emotion you can think of. Perhaps, even of satisfaction. We forget our problems, and the solution shines through. Everything we need for subsistence is everything we have. Christmas, as it draws close, made me realize that what we need is everything that we have. Christmas may be short, but it has become more intimate for me. It has become an essential part of my year, and will be for the years ahead. It draws near, and a renewed spark of anticipation has been tingling me. Christmas is beyond everything tangible. It lurks in each and every one of us; some dormant, some active. It’s only a day in a year, may we not forget to savor it as it comes. Happy Christmas! =]

Four months of life-sucking, death-defying, anemia-inducing ordeal. Although that is an exaggeration, it adequately describes what I have been through this semester. I had my ups, my downs, and my sidetracks. But that’s what makes the expedition enthusiastic. I basked under the scalding stare of pressure brought about by errands; errands that is either a predilection towards my chosen career, or towards leisure.

Leisure, I surmise, is a time you give to yourself from yourself. No one gives that to you. But to some extent, it is something we cannot give to ourselves when situation disallows it. It is not an abundant necessity (after all, we need it). If anything, it is scarce. But after a gruesome semester, it is only righteous that I (and everyone involved) gift myself with a leisure I sorely deserve.

We all need a little time where all we do and all we think about is virtually nothing. That may be an impossibility, but we can at least settle for a bar below that. Immersed in a fast-paced world, it is easy to lose ourselves. If we fail to keep track of where we trudged, we might end up surrounded by unfamiliarity. In this supersonic universe, it’s only ordinary that we become engrossed in our journeys that we tend to forget that we can only take so much. Leisure frees us from the grasp of labor, from the torture of unsolicited responsibility, and from the sleep-depriving assignments.

Sometimes in our lives we were once slaves of work; some without the surety of contentment, and some do not even sufficiently reward. We dig our own pit, and bury our own selves. We only get to notice how far we have dug down when we put down our shovels and look up.

The semester has ended, and it couldn’t have been any timelier. The prologue of a short hiatus is a fulminating weather. The downpour of rain has been an ominous signal. It may mark the beginning of a week-long vacation, but it threatens to cut short any planned excursion. It continues to baffle me how so much rain fits in a floating cotton cloud. It’s soaring above is enigmatic, never revealing their secret to petty humans. I could only look up in awe and bewilderment.

A leisure time for myself appended by the serenity of the falling rain, is my idea of a vacation; a staycation. The clammy touch of the breeze induces a soporific demeanor. There’s always something about a cold weather that makes me peregrinate. When the rain drums its mardi gras beat, my thought clambers the overture of imagination. I get lost in a world where I could be god. I could be the harbinger of all things surreal.

Within the custody of an impregnable roof, fastidious walls, and a window pane, I could look outside where the rain falls. They never fall alone. A cheap pen and a dubious notebook on my lap, scribbling and converting scenes into words, I could stay awake till the wee hours of the night. With my thoughts to keep me company, and my self-made characters conversing in front of me, I can make a sudden movie that will never be funded. With the face of the person that makes each day worthwhile for me close to me, I can stare at the horizon, see nothing, but still smile. This is unenviable. But it suits me just fine so long as she’s where she’s supposed to be: within my embrace, allured by her aroma, mesmerize by her eyes, and killed by her smile. It’s ineffable; my feeling for her is, but might as well die trying. =]

The University of San Carlos, a prestigious catholic institution not only in Cebu, but arguably the whole country, is a devout university to the teachings of the church. They ostentatiously commercialized to have taught their students the fundamental lessons God himself taught; although it is no argument. They did not fall short on the action and motivation to instill those values and their motives of doing so may be in and of itself worthy of recognition, it is their action contradicting such teachings that is beyond deception.

Whoever speaks of the name of the University of San Carlos automatically has in mind a stereotype of prestige, poise, and incomparable discipline. Not knowing that behind the façade of such stereotype is a paradox worthy of castigation. A scenery sore to the eyes of the critical and those who keep vigilant eyes contrasts the landscape of decade-old trees. My eyes were one of those that ceaselessly squint when it catches a glimpse of the paradox that hid behind the tall walls of a catholic institution I proudly belonged.

But like every story, there is always an antagonist. There is always that one group, no matter how small, who refuses to keep silent and considers silence as cowardice. We, the students of the Environmental Sociology class of Mr. Aloy Cañete were a rowdy bunch. A small group of not exceeding 25, decided to take up arms and battle against the giants of the institution we are in. With a mindset of catalyzing change, we, together with our passionate teacher, planned a movement that would go up against the paradox right in the backyard of where we were holding up our classes. A feeling of dissonance persistently whips us back to awareness; we are stakeholders and we have as much right as the honorary priests running the said institution into voicing out our opinions. We are students of this university. And whatever is boiling inside the school we are studying in is information that must pass through our ears.

After careful deliberation on what steps to take and what errands to run, we came up with the idea of going against what is closest to us. As students of an environmental sociology class, it would only be appropriate if we rise up against an abuse towards the environment.

Behind the immaculate façade of our university, is a tragedy waiting to happen. Mountains, that took millions of years to rise up to its peak, have been degraded into flat lands. Thick vegetation that held its ground against the most malignant of storms, pose no threat to the iron-hand of mechanical machineries. Fertile soil, that has supported who knows what since time immemorial, has been sloughed off the ground leaving it barren and lifeless. A quarry concealed technically by redundant laws as a site development, has been going on atop the university; an activity that goes against any teachings of God. A paradox we were keen on stopping.

Utilizing technology, I took a glance of the place on Google Maps. It is a software where you can view virtually anywhere on the surface of the earth. And for a sad reason, the place was not difficult to find. This is due to the salient and significant contrast of colors; a puddle of yellowish bedrock hidden behind a wall of tall trees. But, from a bird’s vantage point, the trees disclosed its dark secret. The quarrying has been undergoing even before I entered the institution. Its scale is gut-wrenchingly large, and its effects on ecology are haunting.

We took a stand. We decided to make good on what little voice we have and use it to reverberate our castigations and aimed to raise awareness to the silent many. We refused to become silent, and be a part of the conglomerate that takes up arms. Our arsenal is our voices, our principles, and our passion. We may be few, but our cause reverberates to the deepest corners of the institution itself. We hoped to tickle the sleeping majority, point them out to the issue right behind their backyards, and promote awareness of those who were like us before we joined the class. We organized the Kontra-Quarry sa TC movement. Our fundamental aim was to go against the quarrying that is killing what little is left of our school’s flora and fauna. We endeavored for change.

It is a movement an amalgam of diverse students secretly contrived. But in all honesty, at first I wasn’t really that passionate about the said activity. It was way beyond me, and I was too pre-occupied with errands I have yet accomplished. I reckon it to be a burden. And I could have never been more satisfied to be proven wrong. As the movement shaped up into what was once a surreal idea, and became a tangible force, I began to unclench my fists and embraced the aim of the movement. It was a cause worthy of immersing myself into.

And now, the semester has ended and the movement, I personally reckon was a success. Having stirred up the drowsy administration, our movement woke them up and opened their half-closed eyes that the students refused to stand quiet. A successful forum was organized by everyone involved in the movement tackling on issues revolving around the quarry. Our goal was clear: to put an end to the un-Christian works of quarrying. Also, t-shirts were printed for free to those who show support to our movement. Subsidized by the So-An department, the students involved were keen on spreading the protest. We also visited rooms, talked a bit about what our movement was about, and called for more students to join. Overall, it was arduous. But the fruits of our labors were sweet.

Having been a part of the movement convened in me a lot of learning. A value that has been etched into the deepest part of my convoluted brain will linger till the last tree on earth drops. I have learned that we are enmeshed in a giant cobweb with nature. And that whatever happens to a corner consequently reverberates to the other corner. We are one with everything else. Say for example, the quarry happening on top of the university led to the catastrophe-like flooding beneath and outside the school premise; a dilemma that hasn’t been addressed even though the situation has gotten worse and worse. We are all connected in a single strand of string called nature; a predicament we are innately tied with, and where we are bounded to death. And even to death, we remain tied to the encompassing grip of nature.

I have learned to love nature more. I have learned to remain vigilant, and continually ferret for more abuses against it. We are part of nature, and if anything, we are nature itself. The mountains, brought about by incomprehensible forces, grew freely. And it should be left free. The adulterated mountains of the University of San Carlos is an epitome of how dangerous we humans could be, provided we keep a blind eye of the adverse effects of our actions. The once pristine condition of the university’s ecology has now become a rugged, malevolent tableau. We must keep in mind, and steadfastly at that, that we owe our existence and subsistence to nature. We, together with many other, should be the guardians, not the delinquent specie. We are nature.

My eyes are now wider than they ever were. With a fear that may be, someday, my children and their children’s children, and so on, might not be able to see what I have seen, to experience what I have experience, touch what I am still able to touch, I grow weary every day. I am niggled by the thought that everything might be lost, and we, as a specie, are the instigators. I ought to foment awareness. I believe that in every human lies a dormant will to stimulate change. All we need is a little shove at the back, and the momentum will build up for itself. I will be the “shover” if given the opportunity.

As an agent of change, I consecrate my word that I will continue what we began. And it should also be a troth for everyone involved to perpetuate the prolific start. It is not necessary to rally in a rowdy ensemble. Little commitments will suffice. In our own little actions, we do good with what we have consecrated. As agents of change, it is what’s closest to us that we have to draw the starting line. We start within ourselves. To promote change, it is to ourselves that we should start promoting it with. I am an agent of change. And as Edward Everett Hale insinuated, “I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will.” If everybody’s mindset will be this, then as the many ones convene, will make a conglomerate of agents who aims to preserve what little is left of our breathtaking nature. We are nature.

I have a vision. That someday, I will be able to see what my ancestors saw; an unadulterated condition of nature, a pristine backdrop. I will be able to swim the seas without fear of contamination. I will be able to walk the road without worry that I might inhale a putrid stench. I will be able to climb trees without irk that it might be my last. I will be able to photograph the sublime features of nature whose only fear might be the insufficiency of memory space. I will be able to tour my children, and my grandchildren to places I deemed breathtaking, and still they are there. And when that someday comes that I knock on the door of the place everybody is destined to, I will be confident that the place I will be leaving is still the place I have lived, or be better.

I am part of nature. I am nature.

I'm pallid tonight; dry as a desert during summer. An incessant sharp pain, sporadically followed by a blunt one constantly occurs inside my head. The instance I try to think of what to make, the untamed migraine halts my whimsical journey inside my own vagary. I am limited by the ceaseless tapping of an attention-deficit headache. Aggravated by the eye-squinting dazzle of the screen I have befriended for the past few months. It has been my closest ally during nights where the chill of the rain-supervened wind whistles in desperation. It has been the accessory to my procrastinating crimes, my contriving buddy during which I do what I do best when I am alone. But during this night, its blinding light forsook our contrivance, played Judas on our collaborative contract. And now all it has done thus far tonight is exacerbate my head-banging ordeal.

For countdown number two, I’d just be posting a poem I have written for her; the first poem I have haphazardly made for her. It’s not really worth aggrandizing, but it is after all, all I could do for her. I hope by merely reposting this, I wouldn’t degrade its worth. It happens to coincide with the theme of what I was hoping to accomplish. For number 2: the 4th thing I admired about her: her relentless sweetness where even my sweet tooth could not get enough of. I have been insatiably craving for her sweetness every day. She never fails to conjure little shivers to my arrector pili muscles and induces rare goosebumps to me. I want her to know that I want her to continue to be sweet. She’s divinely irresistible when she is. Not that I can resist her when she’s not, because I still can’t. I just can’t.

I’m happy you got to spend your birthday with me. Selfish as it may sound, I am hoping that you did enjoy as much as I enjoyed too. I only got one wish for you: More birthdays with me! =] Here’s the poem. I'll be living my life with you, will you live yours with me? I’m yours now! Ask me tomorrow if I still am. =]

I lie awake
on a rainy dawn
where hours ebb
as long as age.
And I thought of how
my love for you
got conceived.

Was it your hair?
Falling freely with gravity.
Who shines in almond
as light greets its
aromatic surface.
Whose scent placates
the toil of temper.
It mimics the residual aroma
of wherever we've gone;
reminding me of the places
we simply enjoyed.

Was it your eyes?
Who make servants
of the unbendable.
Sparkling in little shames
and emanating secret joys.
I can stare at them,
and they make cotton
out of my igneous armor.

Was it the tone of your voice?
Who combines compatible notes
and plays the song of joy.
If there'd be such one,
it would be that.
Who ceaselessly force a smile
on my face.
I ceaselessly wait
to have to hear it again.

Was it your exuberant youth?
Who gave a new vitality
in my once tedium life.
Who made young
an arthritic fellow,
and whose knees bend
only from your stare.

The rain has fallen again.
A prologue to a new season.
I fell in love during summer
That rain could not help me
find the reason.

I, here
lying half-awake.
About to enter slumber.
I fell in love with you first
during the summer.

This was supposed to be the number 1 on my sequel-blog of countdowns, but due to some unexpected arduous days, I wasn’t able to follow the synchrony. But I avow to finish the countdown; this is the least I could do.

Tomorrow’s her birthday, and I haven’t really thought or even considered giving her extravagant materialisms; I am not fortunate myself to afford on lavishing her with things I could only own in fantasies. Being naturally programmed to engage in self-serving bias, I only have subtle tirades for physical luxury. But believe me; I have welcomed the sneaky thought of giving her something for her birthday. And by the way, this is her first birthday with me, and that in and of itself is already worth the accolade of specialness. I was hoping to just be with her on that day; excuses aside, I just cannot afford anything lavish as of this point in time and some points in time ahead. I thought of saving, but due to some unwanted and obnoxious incidents of money-burning, I just can’t seem to persist. What little money I have, I spend on the little time we have for each other when we are together. I love the spontaneity of our itineraries (could it be even considered to be such?). The unplanned trajectories of our constantly undecided fates keep us guessing, nonetheless, the predicament of being on the blurred fringes of where-to-be’s and what-to-do’s makes up for the fun. Then again, that may also still be a self-serving bias statement. I may only be the one who thinks that being spontaneous in whatever little things we do is fun. She may have thought of it to be exhaustingly boring. I hope not.

3. What of it? The last 2 sequels were 5 and 4 synchronously. 5, being the hopefully visually-nourishing narrative of how I admired her divine eyes, and 4 being the taciturn effort of spotlighting her smile, which by the way I could never get enough of. What would be of 3 then? The 3rd thing I admired about her. The 3rd thing I yearn for everyday. The 3rd thing, that when is imperceptible, fails to complete my strenuous days.

Her smell, like the scent of sweet innocence, ever-captivating, never ceases to capture my access attention and alarm me of impending beauty and love. It is the prologue to her visually-stimulating radiance. The introduction to a whirlwind of emotions, one of them would be a rush of excitement. If I close my eyes and smell her scent, I could imagine no less of a heaven-sent entity. One of which I could never imagine of ever holding close to me; but I have and I won’t be letting go any time soon. I am frivolously addicted to her scent, deductively, I am addicted to her. She may not be my cocaine like what a glowing vampire said to the girl he could not resist imbibing, but she certainly qualifies to be more than that. She’s more than that, for I could no longer imagine the uncertain tomorrows without her. She’s a prerequisite for tomorrow to exist. I am not keen on it without her. She’s a part of me.

I don’t want to flatteringly say that I cannot live without her, for I have been even before we were together. All I’m ever going to say is that since I found her, met her, knew her, and have her, I don’t want to imagine the continuance of my flaccid life without her. Though I continue to breathe, though my heart continues to beat, my eyes dilate, my muscles twitch, I refuse to go on. She’s too significant already in my life that not having her would mean a certain perilous ordeal. I am addictively wooed by her uniqueness and grace, by her eyes and smile, and by her scent only those who sit on the thrones of the sky wear.

She’s the love of my life, and it’s her birthday today! I cannot shower her with things afforded by money which I do not have, and I cannot lavish her with externalities. All I can ever offer her is this insignificant blog where no one even reads, my undying, elating, and steadfast love, and of course, my irking presence beside her (more often than not on her left side). I wish you the things no one has wished for you yet. What that is, I do not have the slightest of ideas. I want you to be happy (with me, of course..=]), and may you continually be showered with blessings, friends, smiles, and love (which I hope to have filled already..=p). I hope that, no matter how docile this blog is, I have tried my very best to imbue this with the over-pouring and overpowering emotions I have for you.

I still have loads of photocopies to acrimoniously turn, still hundreds of rectangular jails where semi-readable notes are sentenced, and a pile of itineraries to run through. I am lost in the jungle of multi-tasking, only taking a detour to make my piglet feel a little special during her birthday. And I hope I did. Now I have to head back to the paved road with which I am burdened to trudge for a long time. I’ll be taking little detours every now and then to spend a little time (or more than little time) with her. Will you live your life with me? For I have decided to live mine with you. I’m yours until… =]

A patterned twitch just above my eyes is putting me in an ordeal of arduous willingness to finish the things I have to finish. Insofar, I have accomplished two; and may you not ask how many it is that I still have to round up. But it’s better to have done a few things than not to have started on anything at all. I procrastinate, I do not engage in slothful nothings. But what is technically the difference of both, if one might ask? Let me hang on that up for a while and elaborate more on the “4”. This entry is the sequel of my last entry which was numbered 5. Although I’m a day late, I’m confident I’ll finish.

Now for the difference between laziness and being a procrastinator. What is much worse, I have not the slightest of ideas. All I have are mere subjections of what I think should be the worst. And since man is and will always be bent on self-preservation, he would never betray himself. I am a procrastinator, therefore I would subsequently think of laziness as being more atrocious. I would not dare make myself the antagonist. Back to their difference before we go further astray. For one act to be considered procrastination, one must have the commitment to do and finish a certain task, while laziness on the other side of the coin, do not have this commitment. In plain simplicity, laziness is doing nothing and not even thinking of doing anything. Now, which are you? The lazy or the procrastinator? By the way, procrastinator sounds technologically abiding. It’s like a futuristic cyborg exclusively fabricated to destroy the studious and the diligence of scholarly erudite. The horror! Lazy on the other hand does not even elicit a horrific ideation; thinking of it just makes me think of a soporific entity visiting those that answers its knock and induces shut-eyes.

A sudden outburst of anger from the sky: a blinding, ephemeric flash of electrically-excited light consequently followed by a fulminating roar of vengeful thunder shook the ceaseless flow of absurdity. I’m back, and I’m out to regress on what it is that I was purposively aiming to accomplish.

My previous entry, I singularly took into distinction her eyes that allured and drew me near her encompassing embrace that once I got captured around, escape was ultimately impossible. This time, I’m going to advertently elaborate on the second feature of her that I deathfully admired.

Her smile, supervening her eyes, makes for a lethal combination of admiration-worthy features. I was weakened by her eyes, now when I got to see her smile up close, figuratively killed the rigidity in me. Her recondite smile keeps me guessing. The quaint curve that it ensues compliments her eyes like no other. A perfect combination: one trembled my knees, the other shivered my spine. When she smiles, or even the thought of it, seems to reflect a smile on me. I saw her smile up close during the clandestine meeting of quasi-rebellious, semi-frustrated students. It was a commonplace night. The chirps of crickets sensibly in chorus with the patter of the fatigued AC seem to collaborate with the implicitness of our purpose and how we would go about it. Silence governed the atmosphere, only mumbling whispers were reverberating on the secure walls of where we were staying. The weather was accommodating that night, appropriate of my first up close view of her paralyzing smile. Although she had no recollection that we were actually in the same room that moment, it doesn’t matter anymore. I saw her, and it was not my intention for her to notice me. Consciously, that is what I wanted to believe. But sometimes our demeanor and body gestures betray our conscious thoughts and actions. I do not know if I was betrayed, maybe I wasn’t for up until now, she has no reminiscence of such. I was staying leaning my chair against the mirrored wall, sitting beside my friends who were also called to offer their priceless ideas and skills. She, on the other hand, was in front of a proportionately gifted guy, which was against the cards on my hand. I could only see half of her divinely sculpted figure, her smile I could only glance. And I’m thankful that all I had that time was a glance, or if I had a much better view, I would have gone instantaneously insane. The frenzied soup of emotions I felt that time was already tough to control, what more then would I be in if I had the opportunity, the privilege, the coincidence of having to look at her hook, line, and sinker. I was fortunate that night for I have kept my sanity all the while having a vivid picture of her smile (half of it though).

What I loved about her firstly was her weakening eyes. Secondly, her “I can’t get enough of” smile that supplants and compliments her ever-alluring eyes. Going home this afternoon, I was awe-struck by the opening of a slight window where the beam of the migrating sun shun. Although it only appeared for a little while, the breathtaking effects it ensued were already glued within the constructs of my shallow mind. I realized how lucky I was for having to witness such rarity: nature’s wonder showcased every day. Nature is seeking for attention; we are just too immersed in our little world of dilemmas that we are inclined not to ever notice the grandiosities of natural occurrences. Nature is the embodiment of all things sublime.

Sublime. The thought of having to spend the rest of my waking days (might even be the whimsical nights) with her can only be described by that one word: Sublime. Up until now I still have not fully grasp the reality that I can call her mine. Inasmuch as I would anxiously get hold of that reality, it still leaves me in an awe of disbelief. But I believe. Way back when, when I was just a witness positioned from an astronomer’s stool observing the journey of heavenly bodies, right now, she’s close that she can perceive my skipping heartbeats. Before, I was just a hoping romantic, hopelessly fantasizing of the moment where what we have now would happen. And voila! Now happened. The past, if I take into rosy retrospection, incarcerates my believing of the present. Smile! Do not deprive me of such splendor. I’m always secondly addicted by it. Live your life with mine, for I have decided to live mine with you. I’m yours, always! =]

The date is a bit misleading here. I was supposed to have finished this last night. But due to some unwanted incidents, I have to delay the making of this. I was supposedly going to start my countdown on 5; and this entry being 5. But that can be assuaged by making two entries today. We have to make compromises in life; we are always living on thin wires of compromises, cursed by constantly having to trudge on the high-wires of sacrifices that demand no regrets. All we have in life are aimless hopes, never a certain promise of attainment, nevertheless, we always get what we need.

What that unwanted incident that delayed my making of this entry is the love of my life’s predicament of pain. The scrunching pain that she’s feeling ensue feelings of helplessness. But what could I do? The arsenal with which I am both laden and cursed with precisely consists of only words and the knowledge of modifying their positions outlandishly. Some of them, although blunt have fighting spirits comparable to traditional renegades: intrepid, brash, and chivalrous. But are they quip to assuage and relieve her of the pain? These are the times that the words I have so long trusted become timidly useless.

The only thing I did was to come with her into the realm of hypnagogia, then to the universe of impossible possibilities. I decided to just put this entry into my constantly proliferating shelf of pending cumbers. Now that I have the whole night, gelid at that, to finish this entry, and that is what I am apparently trying to accomplish. But the alluring success and the prospect exultation of this is betrayed by the head-jerking effort of trying to organize my waking thoughts and integrate in them some capricious nothingness. Sometimes, well, most of the time, the whimsical army of my dreams invades my waking world. The equally fought battle is won by an appeasement of both factions.

At this recent moment in time, she’s still in pain, and while I am here staring blankly on the glaring monitor waiting for sensible thoughts to infect my docile mind, there is that part of it that is worried for her. This is one of those times where words, no matter how creatively constructed, means practically nothing. If there would be a word that can magically free her from the burden of a painful circumstance, I would have used that from the onset of this labyrinth of a manuscript.

It’s raining hard tonight, and I am betrayed by the connection of the internet. I feel I am taken into a singular distinction of being the only person tonight who is bereft of a frivolous connection. The climate is shivering, and I am deprived of the warmth of the privilege to forage the unlimited cache of the World Wide Web. It’s not only frustrating, but also makes you feel caveman-ish; someone whose main mode of entertainment and information gathering is crude and, well, caveman-ish. Need I elaborate more? I guess not.

The main purpose of this entry is to narrate, visually or otherwise, the things I admired about her. So, this would not be the conventional blog of eccentricities and deeply fabricated and thought-provoking preposterousness. Let me start with the first thing I noticed about her that struck deeply the fabric of my dormant sensibilities. I remember vividly what that was. It was like a backdrop opening the main theatrics behind, a gift opened after an outpouring of anticipatory emotions, a strike of light after a day’s worth of cave-peregrination. Her eyes, that glitters like nothing else; a feature of beauteous only found in fairytales. And although I do not have a slight recall as to when was that, I do have a snippet of a reminiscence as to where. Though I get to see her in school, and even that incidence is scarce, she never really stopped to notice me (that is what I wanted to believe). I never really got to see her up close in person before the day she sat down near where we were sitting down. Before that, the only view I have of her is from the top, and even though we were on the same floor, the distance between us is incontrovertible and indomitably permanent (so it seems before). Regardless, even a glance of her flushes every doubt of a hopeless tomorrow. Reverting back to the unforgettable moment where the distance between us is but a hair’s breadth, and having some survey in hand, thought of an ingenious way of trying to attain her name. Indirect as it may seem, it is much better than having to be oblivious to the name of the one person I admired. I had to know, that was what I precisely thought back then. I grabbed my friend’s survey questionnaires (and by the way, that friend of mine is now the special someone of one of my closest friend, kudos to them!), offered to help and thought of having to hit two birds in one survey questionnaire. Another piece of the puzzle that cohered together that time there was the presence of a neighbor beside her. I hesitatingly gave the paraphernalia, at first to Eula (my neighbor which I have to thank for being there), then to her, hoping all the while that she would be putting her name on the giddy lines after the “Name” word. This was one of those times where words are your closest ally, and all you have to do is gamble on the efficacy of those words. I jokingly uttered that that blank there was necessary but optional. Although it was in a jocose manner, there was a shave of seriousness in it. I was hoping she would heed more the serious part, not the façade of a comical smile. Crossing fingers, I entered our class’ room (PE32) in a hopeful trot, only to find out “armagedonically” that she did not even scribble a nickname. The latent frustration which was concealed by the hope of having to know her name was again conspicuously donned by my face. Things, no matter how much they are in place for you, do not always arrange themselves the way you want them to. I killed one bird, but missed one. Then again, you can never kill a mocking bird using a piece of scientifically structured paper. It’ll never do.

Forgive my crude narratives. I am novel and am feebly equipped with the necessary skills to elicit a moving scene within the precepts of your imagination. And although there was no happy ending on that incident, I did saw her up close. Her eyes, alluring as they may be, became blurry during that time. I was choked by the pressure of having to say something that I forgot that it was actually something else that I intended to do; look into her eyes and see how they glow even from afar. I don’t want to sound like a desperate sycophant, but it is what it is.

Happy endings. The greatest paradox we so wish to attain, and that we are so oblivious about. How could something you wish to happen to have to end be happy? Life has been governed by a myriad of paradoxes, its complexities promulgated by the never-ending unfolding of vestigial moments, one of which was the time when I was happy to have not killed the mocking bird aforementioned. For what if, what if, I would have gotten her (your) name, everything else that followed would have been substantially different. Things happen for a reason, which our current reasoning adroitness is insufficient in grasping.

Her eyes, one of the things I genuinely admired about her, never cease to tremble my rigidly aged knees. I am a slave of your stare, addicted to the point that rehabilitation is no longer a remedy. Nothing seems to anymore. I crave for them every day, although I crave them more on some. I love how they glow in perfect harmony with the hums of all things beautiful; a symphony that keeps me desiring them more. I have taken your eyes in singular distinction in this entry; the other things I admired about you will be reserved for the other entries. And if you might question why 5, I could only answer one word, a countdown. What that countdown is for, I will not yet disclose for even though I cannot lavish you with exorbitance and luxury, I can at least, though least appreciative in my point of view, immerse you in verboseness. What could you better offer to the one person you love than something you love also? I’ll bring you to a voyage to the past, the present, and the future, one of which nothing luxurious can do. Take my hand; grab it tight, the countdown has officially begun. Live your life with me for I would gladly live mine with you. I’m yours! =]

The spirit of things. We do not see things as mere objects of practicality and utility. We also see them as something of sentimental value. Our sense of sentimentality evades our conscious thought. We are not usually aware that we put spirit into things. Apparently enough, we do it to seemingly everything we own. Hau is the New Zealanders term for the spirit of things. In everything we have lives a spirit. And if such spirit of a thing is not reciprocated, an ominous consequence befalls a man who did not reciprocate. It is a spirit that reminds you to give in return when you are given something. An odd, though interesting belief that circumnavigates our materialistic nature. We do not only value things because of the thing itself, but also because of the sense of sentiment we attach to it.

I don’t know what came in to me to start with such informative trivia in my entry today. It may seem that I no longer have any material to talk about tonight. The incipient of my entry tonight vindicates how humdrum my day today is. The perfunctory life I live has taken its toll on my lifeless mind. I could no longer feel the twitches inside my hollow head. The clang I hear every time I knock on it is replaced with a bang of rigidity. My imagination has been limited within the walls outside the box I have so long ago struggled to escape. I was once contented with the scenery I am immersed with when I was within the box of staleness (forgive the with’s recurring mention). But as I noticed how little there was such scenery offered, I felt I have to break away. Destroy the corners with which I have so long been living around. People always say to you to think outside the box without them knowing what is actually outside of it. As I severed the chains that has been locked around my wrist and started to take peeps of the brighter outside world, I noticed how little different it was although bigger. I reckoned it useless. Sometimes, we put so much blame on the box we were incarcerated that we often tend to forget how limitless our imagination is. We deem it subservient to the things around us. Contrary to normal belief, our imagination goes beyond what we can sense, what we can see, and what box we were in. The moment we think of it as dependent on the box we are in is the same moment that we have refused our imagination from augmenting. Being in a box does not say what the size of the box is. We don’t have to be outside of it to be able to look at things at another perspective.

The box! Inside my box floats a crooning moon; desolate and gloomy. The gelid climate of my rowdy room lulls me to the realm of sleep, but I have to will myself to keep me awake. A potty crowing of roosters, complaining about the coldness of the wind outside collaborating with the disturbing beat of an unknowingly desperate singer. Perhaps the rooster crowed in response to the ear-busting scream of a maudlin drunkard, bellowing oddly to request to that drunk singer to cease its tuneless whining.

I have left this entry pending, and it is only this welcoming morning that I got to get back on it. When I woke up, the morning was silent, probably still asleep since everything is shrouded in a chilly embrace. The sky today is gray, but the mood it set is not of despondence. Upon waking up, the first thing that came to my mind is a thought of motion: the queer, instantaneous smile simultaneously with the sparkling of her eyes. A thought I want to linger but is difficult to maintain. For if I would maintain it, makes me suffer from this deep emptiness. An abyss where when I look down, I see nothing but a pitch black of insurmountable void where even the silence reverberates its soundless voice; only she can light it up. And upon looking up, I see a blinding light; only she can dim it down for she is the digger of this abyss.

As the light of morning slowly becoming brighter and brighter, the silence of today embraced by the chill of anticipation also slowly disappears as the streets become laden with busyness. A burdened clarity: the morning will never be as quiescent as it was before. There is only a breath of window where you feel the calming nature of the morning, and even that time the populace is still within the phlegmatic universe of possibilities, floating uncontrollably around the current-less ocean of fantastical consciousness. Wherefore then do we compromise the beauteous welcome of the morning for us with something we forget when we take our fifth step? Dreams are awe-inspiring, but it is during when we are awake that we get to live these dreams, we get to live these pesky lives, burdens and all. There is no greater escape in life than not escaping it. The handcuffs that are trapping our hands contain in them the lock entry for the key that can un-cuff it. Don’t let dreams be dreams! Mornings such as these, are but in paucity and its stay but a hair’s breadth of time. Savor the moment like the frolic chirps of birds singing in chorus to the beauty of morning.

I’m going to be wearing my Artwork shirt today. If you come to look at it in the perspective of an observer, you see it only as an ordinary shirt; commonplace, aesthetically functional, and airy. But within my perspective and hers, we see it as something symbolically significant. The hau of our bought shirts will continually linger like the mornings after dawns. I’m looking forward to her wearing it. =]