If I will be posting this entry on my blog, this would be the very first to be made and posted on an afternoon. My mind is tediously wan during afternoons, and I just couldn’t seem to organize any coherent ideation during such time. This very moment, I’m thinking about the tons of pallid black and white write-ups to be read as a consequence of summer school. Summer is impinged with a connotation of being a fun-filled season: from cold and rowdy beaches to finite shorelines, from the scorching caress of the grandiose sun to the whistling chill of the night zephyr. Whilst I here am in a committal. In servitude towards an impending hectic heinousness catalyzed by a paced, haphazard summer class. I’m not one to complain, I did choose this at my own volition, perhaps away from coercion (I’d like to think I made this choice on my own).

Bereft of anything interesting to do, I just turned off my exhaustively grumbling AC. For the thought of it perturbing the atmosphere inside my outlandishly childish room (this room was not mine to begin with, so do widen your understanding as to why that is so, as for further elaboration on what made it so, will be for another time other than now) without rest and intermittently killed and resurrected, springs feelings of guilt (one that is easily bludgeoned to oblivion). I do fear that someday my AC would give up on me, suddenly cough its last breath and muffles its last hubbub of farewell. Do not give up on me now, for the thought of the disappearance of your gelid embrace is ominous, and a plight I do not want to be experiencing. Give me a little whiff of candid moment: I do have a hard time keeping myself comfortable when it’s torrid. I desire the chilly touch and goosebump-inducing caress of circulating mechanically-fabricated breeze, one that is only conceived by an AC. I have once again turned it on, not with a peevish intent to ruin it, but because for only 10 minutes or so, the chilly air escapes even the tiniest hole pervasive within my room. AC! Do not think of me as someone who is abusive towards you, I care for you, and I need you! Our existence is symbiotic; for without me you’d be in your slumber, and without you I’d be in my primitive way of torpor.

I’m a desultory person, and this first ever afternoon entry will not be an exemption. I have currently read a snippet of Terri Cheney’s “Manic”. And my favorite line thus far is “Death sounded like a vacation to me, a holiday!” I was like flabbergasted and at the same time astonished as to how she made the idea of death so freeing and easily swallowed. I have always asserted even before I loved my life, that death is the quintessential teacher of every sensate, sentient being. If juxtaposed with life and living, life and living cowers and sulks face-facing-the-wall position. Death teaches us that nothing is in a day beyond forever. Life ends, simply put! And anything in it does too. That tenet may be obnoxious, as it clearly is; for who would ever love the thought of being temporary? Death is like a vacation! How else can you make it more alluring? None else.

My second favorite line thus far as I was reading my sixth page, and reverted back to reading the first page is: “Suicidal ideation can be the only thing that keeps you alive!” It smacked me right in my face; in a smack of pugnacious intent. I felt the pain as that line smacked me. That line holds so much though succinct. Thinking of death keeps the steam engine rolling. As some point in our lives we do think about dying: When will we die? How are we suppose to die? What do we do hours before we knew we’re dying? What is beyond this bodily entrapment? Is there life after death? Questions we cannot answer when we are not yet on that point, that rarely occurring point in our lives. I do believe that when we have not yet thought of these things, we have not yet desired to live our lives to the fullest zenith of which we are capable. It is only during the anxious fantasizing of dying, the thought of savoring your last breathe, the idea of slowly losing grip on the blurred fringes of life, and the sensation of having to touch the last people dear to you, that we feel the importance of life. Think of dying and see your life in a much vivid and panoramic way.

I do not want to sound creepy and all, it is not in my outlandish intention to fear-monger. Life is imperpetual. Death on the other hand is the inevitable wall with which no man has ever surmounted. It comes once and it lasts. Sometime, after I finish this, I’d be continuing my immersion on Manic. I have found the spark that would make me read this kind of books. I have not been a fan of books with stories; I find them conspicuous and inveterate, but full of vivid scenes (not sexual in my connotation of vivid by the way). I hope this becomes a start of many more reads in the uncertain future.

The rainclouds outside are gathering; and rightfully so. They cannot effectuate a passion-imbued downpour of scarce rain if they do not rip themselves of their pride. I hope it rains tonight; better if right this very instance. I have been loving the rain since my lapsed memory can trace. I’m loving the rain more as it reminds me of a sneaky idea; it reminds me of someone and I’m assuming (impertinently) that it too reminds (her) of me. Wishes are free! What ifs are incessantly ubiquitous! YKWYA (I’m hoping you know what that means too)! If there is one thing I want to happen right this very moment, it is to make it rain. The rain is the representation of the love story between the earth and the sky; the sky’s way of embracing the earth, and the earth in turns emanates a soothing aroma of dust-meet-rain. 5, 4, 3, 2… And I just noticed I started making this at exactly 3:15; what is up with 5? Perhaps, and rightly so, it’s life’s way of narrating a boring, yet beauteous story of boy-meets-girl. Let me end now in 1… =]