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. =]

Let me walk you through my scaldingly hectic day in unimaginatively intricate details. I have gone accustomed to the routine waking of early morning six, and since the beginning of the rain-laden mornings of July, I have always expected a dim incipience. The blue sky defeated in a vantage position by the more aggressive gray clouds; but patched here and there are little windows of opportunities where the light of the magnanimous sun slice through the insolence of rain-burdened clouds. This morning was different than the rest of the mornings I have gone accustomed of staring as I pull half of my body out of my dust-infested, mattress-covered bed. Outside, light was tangible. Shrouding every nook and cranny my eyes can set on. I reckoned then that this is going to be a skin-biting day.

I don’t want to be making an entry narrating my whole day’s activity. That is going to be bluntly boring. The things I did this day were less than quixotic, but the person I was with, made everything worthwhile. Amidst the lackluster day came an experience I’m going to be treasuring for a long time. I don’t want to say for the rest of my life, for may be, if my memory betrays me, I’m going to be forgetting what happened.

A trivia on myself (this is only to those who are interested; I could care less if you are not): I forget more than I remember. I’m still youthful, but my physicality is slowly degrading. That includes the convolutions of my brain catastrophically gone jumbled, the trigger-happy neurons gone erratic, and my reflexive joints percussively squeaking. Unbeknownst to all, I am a stark critic on the countdown of life. Why put ourselves in a position where we have to be aware of how long we have been here on earth? I mean, it’s not that big of a deal really. But the thought it connotes ruins the sensation of youth. Once you reach your 20’s, society starts to label you to be someone responsible; you must have by now finished your studies, you must have by now earning your own way out of brokenness, you must be self-sufficient, independent, and castrated your training wheels on your bicycle called life. Who are they kidding? I mean really. We never finish our studies. Learning is continuous. We learn every minute of our lives. It is not limited, as is infamously believed by the bellowing majority, within the incarcerating, fear-mongering four corners of the classroom. The school, if anything, delineates from the true nature of learning; coerced, spoon-fed at times, and reiterative. Learning should be iconoclastic. We, who are students of life, should be iconoclasts; breaking from the monopoly of the structuring of learning. As one teacher of mine in USC once said, and I quote, we should study for life. Let me append to that just a little whiff of antiseptic reality; since life is transient, fleeting, and temporary, we should not be limited only within the gates of an architecturally fabricated institution. Learning is everywhere, inquire a bit more.

Self-sufficiency and independence, two socially-aggrandized and encouraged way of living. Two idealistically extolled attributes. Ironically, both are non-existent. Why do I daresay so? Let me breakdown and dissect each first. Let me start with the former, self-sufficiency. If you tautologically expound on what that means, it just basically means being sufficient with only yourself. When are we ever sufficient using only ourselves? We need people, and I cannot stress that out as strong as I am stressing it right now. We are connected to everybody else in this god-forsaken, half-barren-half-fertile world. Have you ever heard of the “6-degress of separation” concept? If you haven’t, let me gladly introduce it to you (assuming people do read this forsaken blog of slothful conceit). It basically means that we are separated to anybody in this world with only 6 different people. In between you and anybody you think you don’t know, but you idolized, are only 6 people. Huge world, but everybody is suffering from claustrophobia. What I want to blatantly blurt out is that we NEED people. Self-sufficiency is a mysteriously, sycophantic, ever-chased but never attained characteristic. That goes out to independence also. As Morrie said, “Whatever is wrong with being dependent?” We depend on something, and since we have an adequate provenance of the thing we depend on, we obliviously take it for granted. Independent people (as they categorized themselves) just have that enough source of the thing they depend.

Society labels independence as being someone who can live away from one’s family. I don’t call that independence, I call that desultory. But if you put this ideation within the spectrum of culture, you immediately spot the difference in beliefs. As a Filipino, generally part of the eastern region of the capitalistic world, we are a collectivistic culture. We rely so much on relationships that we tend to put ourselves and label ourselves closely resembling the way society puts us and labels us. We are slaves of rumors and hearsays! It’s always better to be the best of both worlds. And I don’t mean that to be fairytale-ish. We can always have the better of two worlds. Let no one persuade you otherwise.

A squeak on the door followed by the clanging of chimes suddenly ended my nomadic traipsing. I’m a maundering vagabond. I remembered when I was lost in my walking home from a strenuous day in school. It was a silent night where only the complains of stressed-out vehicles intermittently occurs. With every step heavy, and every sway of my arms affecting my gait, I conversely inquired to myself: do we know when we have changed or do we remain oblivious until someone smacks that fact right into our heedless faces? As we know change is constant. Change is the only thing governing everything in this conglomerate of a world. If you try to refute such assertion, then I’ll rebut by saying that someday you are going to be changing your refutation. I’ll leave the answer to that question on my next entry. I’m in a hurry and I don’t want to be putting any less of a half-baked entry. Not that my entries are perfectly baked, I’m not a good baker, and I don’t even bake. These are just inefficacious tries on amusing and satisfying the wanderer side of me. For now, let me just wander for a while! =]

I have been recurringly taking breaks in making my blog. My passion towards writing volatile entries is not yet lost; if anything it remains kindled within me, all that’s lacking is the jiving of my schedule. You heard it right! This has been the first time ever in my life that I can reasonably complain about how time apaces, and how it leaves me biting the dust. A bevy of school works to be submitted, a plethora of tasks to be made, and a myriad of thoughts to ponder, all clumped up in one solid mass of Armageddon-capable, astronomical ball of fire, ever-ready to destroy and create raucous on my still, seemingly-amicable mind. I don’t want to mumble and whimper about how hectic each day lately is, I still have free times which I do not use wisely. Yammering about things like that will only waste precious time, time which you can allot to fruitful work. The irony of life begets other ironies.

This week has been hellish. And even that is an understatement. To say that this week has been hell for me downplays what I have been through thus far. It’s not that strenuous, believe me. I just wanted to exaggerate on things to make it more dramatic. I have a thing for drama, you see. The existence of it makes my living worthwhile. Life needs a little spicing up every now and then. A little touch of turmeric, a pinch of salt and pepper, a whiff of sensuous vanilla, and a dash of imagination is all you need to make your existence a flavorful cauldron of exaggeration and theatrics.

I really do not have the slightest of ideas as to what to put up here. This is not forceful writing, for I am not forcing myself. Away from the keyboard, I converse. Well, monologic introspection is what I call it. I have a one on one talk with myself on things obliviously penetrating the semi-permeable membrane of consciousness. There are hundreds upon hundreds of wondrous things to contemplate upon; from the simple flight mechanics of birds to the incessant fencing of awns of trees as they get rushed by the indiscriminant chilly wind. There are also those that catch your attention, even if your attention keeps running away from you. One of which is the fulminating of thunderous clouds, bringing with them the giddy rain whose welcome has long been overdue.

The rainclouds have come back. Mornings have been cold. And to the corpus whose only after-sleep activity is rolling over the mattress, these instances are cornucopias of capriciousness. But to those who upon the squinting of the eyes from the faint light swathing the dead-to-the-touch skin, these instances are the most difficult to decide upon. Whether to stand up or go back to the realm of quasi-death, one tasked to wake up will always be faced timorously with the deciding motion of the legs, or the twitch of the eyes, or the electrocution of the limbs as a result of being encumbered.

I remembered one day, mentioning the pulsation of fired up neurons, when I was about to stand up. I tried to raise my hand to grab hold of the edge of my bed. To my astonishment, I sighed more of awe to the fact that my hand is zombified to the point of it being uncontrollable. I will it to rise up, but the weightlessness seems too heavy even to the will of the awakened. I waited for it to be filled again with the vitality of circulation, and once it got filled, I felt the tremendous charging of chagrined blood. I came to a halt upon thinking that I once refused entry to the life-giving nutrients of marching crimson renegades, and upon the unblocking of the one entry they so longed to destroy, they rebelled in insolence. I felt the thousands of needle-like pinches on my bed cloth lined skin. The pain was bearably frustrating. But it was a great wake-up call. I woke up fully awake, eyes opened wide, legs plodding the steep stairs down, and hands dangling like useless wires on quaintly inclined posts.

I’m really going nowhere with this blog entry. I’m going around in random. I’m putting not only myself in a labyrinth of verbose preposterousness, but also those who is reading this time-wasting blog. But before I end, I just want to share how much I enjoyed watching an old-fashioned clock, whose ticking tickles the ear. There were two students who were playing with it, dangling it in its chain of silvery entrapment, using it as a pendulum as a crude-effort of hypnotism. All to no avail! The clock, who is peremptorily hanged on a chain, bellows in mournful activism. That instance there, time got killed by a duo of disappointed students.

Breath-taken. If people may ask why I made that my title, I could only answer them one candid answer: whenever I see her smile, it’s as if my breathe gets punched out of me and I start to engage in asthmatic breathing. I’m continually breath-taken by her incessant sweetness, and it is by that that I dare not lose her from my side.

Thinking of her, maintains my state of breath-takeness. Keep me in this state, will you?=]