I really don’t have anything in mind tonight, so I’ll just be dedicating this entry to one of my beloved friends who in 2 hours time will be celebrating her 20th birthday. What better to say as a dedication than to simply put it in conventional greetings; Happy birthday Marji! That’s not her name actually, not even her accustomed nickname. It is something I call her for the sole purpose (before) of irritating her. I like to inflate her temper bubble, it is something I am interested in doing most of the time when we are together.

And if you may ask what type of friend whose sole hobby is irritating his friends is, then you’d be in for a blatant answer. Only true friends, or so I believe and will continue to believe, are able to stick it up to their friends what they think, what they feel, and what they want to say without compromising any bond there is. Our circle of friends was deemed to be dysfunctional by many others, and rightly so. We are aware of our dysfunctionalities, and so we function. We do not conceal the fact that we have issues, and we, more often than not, disagree on things. And yet, we remained intact. With minor bruises and scar tissues here and there, we stuck with each other through thick and thicker.

Tomorrow’s birthday celebrant needs no deep and classic shenanigans as an introduction. Everybody knows her, or that’s what I want to believe (and I’m pertaining to the little psychology world of USC). She’s a genuine person, one you find in rarity. And when you do find one, you know it’s already for keeps. She’s pretty much one of the most sarcastic person you’ll meet who when you reflect sarcasm against, would squall in empty vengeance. The first time I saw her, I knew she got this seemingly endless wall that protects her from outside interference. She doesn’t want to be touched; she’s too sensitive to be even grazed with alien infestations. Her spastic mood keeps you on your toes, makes you guess every now and then. But amidst her being moody, she’s the most blatantly obvious person I know. She’s too ostentatious in her expressions that missing it would virtually make you a blind man.

She keeps reiterating her being corpulent, which is not the case, as was encouragingly repeated to her. That being stated, I think she just wants to hear it over and over again that she is not fat. Marji, you are not fat! Voluptuous is the best adjective I can think of which would somehow fit your perspective and my perspective. But I candidly believe that you are in no way close to how you see yourself. And even though your smile is blandly the same each and every time (I’m exaggerating, but more often than not, it is the same smile), you know it looks good on you. Your smile that can light up a dark room full of doldrum, deflects the tiniest reflection of lugubriousness. Keep smiling!

You’re getting old, and you’re no longer in your teens. But believe me for I have been in that situation for 3 years counting, youth does not deteriorate with age, and if anything you can opt to stay youthful without compromising maturity. Feel young, always! 20 is just a number, scary at times, especially when you have just entered the realm of the semi-forties. And I know you may believe that I have left you while living the life I am supposed to be living, but let me dispel that as I’ve always done. I stayed on the same spot where you left. You chose to enjoy the liberation you never had, and in a sudden stride of lengthy expanse, though unknowingly, you left. You keep on insisting that I did, or we did, but frankly and right-in-your-face speaking, we stood on the same spot where you took a huge stride, never left. And in times when you needed us, all you have to do is go take those steps back, and you’ll find me on the horizon waving in anticipation for your return. Friendship is where you heart is Marjiiisan.

Enjoy the delectation of quasi-freedom. It never last, nothing does. But when the time comes you need a reliable shoulder to lean on, hesitate not, for I never did left, I simply lived my own life, enjoyed my own life’s transgressions, and starred in my own love story. So are you. But I’m here, like I know you’re there. You, after all, is the best friend I had. Once again, happy birthday! But it wouldn’t be me if I surprisingly flatter you, right? So when tomorrow do come, which it inevitably will, and a camera would be present to record the moments, can I request you don a different smile? I have had enough of it. Do the McDo smile and do not delete it. It takes practice, I was no exemption. Welcome to the 20’s. Life starts each day. Start it right. =]

Last morning, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed (again). Take it literally. Figurative configurations of such statement is forgivable, but will be somewhat verging on the blurred fringes of absurdity. My bed, though comfy and bouncy has this spot where even the heaviest of weight could not nudge down. I woke up with my face firmly planted on the stiffness, cheek down motionless. I’ve got to repair my bed, and make it a top priority. Honestly put, I’ve got to let a professional with an adequate knowledge on bed repair fix it. If I’d be doing it myself, I’m sure to aggravate the already non-conforming spot of my bed.

But in spite of waking on the wrong side, I got something beneficial out of it. I don’t know if it is beneficial, but it did give me an early brain aerobic stretching. Usually when I wake up early morning during class days, I tend to either unwaveringly decide to go to school or unwaveringly decide not to go to school. Either way, it’s a decision so hard to make that it takes me the totality of my sleep to make a firm decision. But this morning was different. I got ambivalent as to whether or not I should show up for my On-the-job training in my alma mater during highschool. I lied down like an obese worm would. Tangle myself with my dust-infested blanket and looked fixedly on my plywood ceiling.

I noticed how it was arranged in a predestined pattern. One ply wood carefully placed adjacent to another, with a fixed and proportionate distance amongst each and every one of them. A work of art found in the simplest of quasi-accidental, everyday objects. The patter of half-witted droplets conceived by the prattling of my just-cleaned AC is noticeable despite the palaver of modern pandemonium. The quick-appearing and the quick-disappearing grumble of three-wheeled income generator, hearing it behind the thinly put up walls of my room, seems to be persuading and encouraging everyone to wake up. I woke up at around six in the morning, with nothing in mind but a corruption of ambivalence. I closed my eyes again hoping to be revisiting dreamland once again. Forceful sleep will never lead you to the realm of cloudy dreams and crystalline fantasies. If anything all it ever gives you are two-ton eyes. Up until now, the after effects of such weight is still perceptible, and is causing me a lot of havoc and dilemma of want and propriety.

This was my second day on my training, and I’m starting to get the handle of things. The nuances of having to serve is novel to me, and if anything it made me fully understand that being commanded to do things you do not want to be doing is a step towards your goal. Sometimes, we have to swallow a great deal of our pride for us to realize that humility is always a golden medallion where only few are worthy of ever donning. Although I do not like the routine life, and believe me, I have avowed myself not to ever live a life of routine, but sometimes we must take routes we normally would take and get the hang of things before we shift our attention towards something we are ignorant at. The secret ingredient of a life of happiness is knowing that there are no secrets. Life is superficial. What you see is what you normally get. If you do not get what you would normally get, it means that you got what you deserved, which is a much better thing than any other.

I have once again lost track of a structured material to be writing with. I am not the person who grabs unto pillared bylaws and standards of writing. And really, I must stop making myself the limelight of my write-ups; it would not do me any good.

Let me just share that March 05, 2010 is the first stride which paved the way for everything. March 03 was the gun blast. This was a Friday, and it was a night like any other night which ended nothing short of a very memorable moment. I saw her up close in person. What transpired was an underground meeting of people who, having realized that nothing has changed, carried the flag of change. She was just a chair in front of where I was smilingly sitting. Behind her was a person of incredible proportions (pun intended), which made it harder for me to inspect what made her what she is. She sometimes took a side-view position which made it angularly fit for me to lay eyes on her oblivious face. Actually, I never had the perfect chance of perfectly looking at her. Time just wasn’t on my side. I have that person behind her to blame! Although she recently reported not having noticed me there, at that night, it doesn’t really matter now, since I can already look at her unintruded and up close.

Tonight, I’ll be sleeping with no burden of waking up early the next day since my alma mater doesn’t have any classes. I will be lulled by the thought of having a straight night’s rest. They say that you must surround yourself with inspiration, I am surrounded by an inspiration of mine (I hope she knows who she is), and it never felt so excruciatingly reveling. I want to celebrate the momentous moments where, when I look at her, makes me realize how life has been kind to me lately. She’s the one person that puts up a smile on my toiled face by simply smiling herself. Her residual aroma ensues a deathly embrace of emptiness, that when gets stuck on my anticipating skin, makes me gab the things I admire about her.

I am being lulled by the soporific climate inside my room, and I am not so much of a strong-willed combatant to deny the nightly visit of Mr. Sleep. I’ll be entering the realm of the unreal and take my perfunctory bow towards the beauty of life behind the first-person view of reality. I’m loving piglet! And I know why. =]

It’s been a while now since my last write-up (call it what you will, it doesn’t change the fact that I wrote it). Summer has been blistering, torrid, precariously parched, but memorable. The plight of having to sweat instantaneously after bathing, to be sucked out of esteem when you feel that your underarms just doesn’t feel right, to be constantly and perfunctorily wiping of excess sweat, and of course, the irritating feeling of desiccation. During this summer, your closest ally is always a tumbler of water; then again, it could be your greatest enemy since a limited amount cannot squelch entirely the sensation of desiccation. The after effect of having to drink less than what you desired is an anathema even to the strong-willed.

Obnoxiously so, I have experimented with almost every deodorant appearing on television; all to no avail. The abominable fact of being befallen with the summer epidemic lies unscathed amidst my indefatigable effort and incessant research of alternatives for mollification. Simply put, I sweat like a broken faucet during this summer. But I’m proud for a fact that I do not stench. And I have my continuous stream of sweat to thank that for. I simply do not break a sweat, I produce pails of it, and so I do not dry up, therefore a rancid stench cannot proliferate. You can always benefit even from the least benefitable source.

But what is with summer that made it memorable? Is it the artillerous barrage of tasks? Or the lenient treatment of teachers on sleepyheads? Do extend your patience on grammatically deviant sentences and out-of-the-blue words (fabricated solely to fit a statement) where even Mr. Webster’s nose experiences epistaxis. Have I ever shared in any of my entries on my unwavering and pertinacious love for words? Logolepsy is what it was pre-contemporarily called. I am indebted so much with words because they have freed me from even the seemingly unescapable predicaments of writing traps and quagmires.

Let me hark back to the memories of summer that made it a summer I can never forget. I always tend to go astray when I tap freely on the keyboard of my exhausted pc, so do bear with me (whoever may have the patience to bear with an unstructured, half antisocial-half morally inclined lunatic that is me). This summer, though scorching from the mighty sun, turned out to be one of the best, if not the best summer of my life. Like any other story, it started rough. Have you tried to smoothen down a crude log with a chisel? It took patience, before the smoothest chiseling transpired. My summer started with an emotional constipation, and a conflation of weary turmoil. I was in dire need of commiseration and a wall. A wall that is just willing to listen, although hearing me will just suffice. The emotional shift started on the reminisce-worthy day of March 3.

I remembered, though vaguely, during that night I was about to ditch a downloaded book by Tamara Horowitz (actually, I did ditched it), when a middle notification on facebook popped up in fiery red. Nobody, in their right mind, would ever send me a random message; I just felt nobody had the guts. I hesitantly clicked on the message, and started reading through it with a childlike curiosity and awe. It was the underground collation of chosen students to be running for position under the banner of anonymity. I replied in flattered haste and asked them if they are in their right mind to be choosing me; since I am not in any way qualified in any possible positions existing. Then unexpectedly, out of nowhere, someone not the slightest familiar to me replied in jocose. I clicked her name (you know who you are), viewed her profile, then I somewhat had a little familiarization. Right there and then, without hesitation and ambivalence, I added her (on my wishlist…:p) on facebook.

Let me just for now leave it at that. I don’t want to be spilling everything on my first entry in so long. Let me utilize this infinitesimal diarrhea of emptiness as an inspiration to write a socially desirable entry for tonight. What that infinitesimal diarrhea of emptiness is an unquenchable missing towards someone, who even with her presence still remains unsated. I am separated from her behind an incarceration of digital circuitry. She seems so close I could send ingenious emoticons, but in reality, not even the most completely dimensional emoticon could describe how and what I am feeling right this moment in time as I speak and murmur her name. I just want her near, that is simply putting it.

Tonight, I am condoled by the petty and desperate voices of a gambling crowd adjunct to where I am currently staying. Thudding reverberations of repetitive upbeat songs destroy the shroud of silence the night has long been protecting. The wheedling of the clammy nighttime breeze towards the unpredictable weather is ostentatious now than ever. Summer has bequeathed its temporary throne towards a new season. Summer has ended, but never the memories that it has brought. Summer has transferred to another kingdom, but the moments that we shared during this season will persistently stay. Let’s have another summer, shall we? But as of this moment, let me share with you one of my favorite phenomenon, the rain. Hold on tight! =]

Behind the background
of revitalized trees
is an endless distance
of gray clouds.
For the rain has once again
returned.
The once ever-blue loft
is now a fulminating staleness.
Not a speck,
not a sign
of sun-flecked hope.
It's gonna rain,
I reckoned.

I sat behind
an unmatching curtain
staring blankfully;
for the ignition of modernity
has once again
quivered in paucity.
I am at lost in deaden silence,
I hear but i do not
stop to listen.
My thoughts are congested
with vivid mem'ries
of you with me.
I yearn for you.
I am at lost of your presence.

In between the distant
backdrop of rain clouds
stood rigidly,
but graciously
a conception of novelty.
Leaves on twigs
are once again voluminous
bringing them down
with their cheerful weight.
A graffiti of technicolor;
a rainbow of botany,
dominated by green subtlety.
The trees have long waited
for the clammy breeze
Like I've been waiting
to see you again.
I yearn for you.
I am at war with emptiness.

The light flickered in surprise,
my cue that civilization
has again been ignited.
I bid goodbye
to the distant sky,
to the deaden silence,
to the rainbow of botany,
and embrace the digestion
of hours between now
and when we are together
once again.
I yearn for you,
my rain,
my ignition.

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.

Let me tell an old secret of mine, one of which I never wished to disclose until tonight. This secret is all about why I came to and how I loved the rain. You heard (read) it right! It’s the perfunctory topic of rain once again; I never get tired of it and I could care less if people are. The rain, with its carefree and unbiased nature, never ceases to infuse a myriad of thoughtless meanderings to me. I came to love it when I realize that it is the one force of nature that conceals whatever emotion you are feeling; happiness or sadness, satisfaction or craving, regret or content, whatnot. It erases the tears that flow down your cheeks when you cry; it straightens up your smile when you are happy. It is a phenomenon that unearths and emboldens the reclusive nature of man.

How I came to love the rain I could only vaguely recall. The hazy retrospection as to how I came to infatuate with the rain is plaguing my sense of concrete vividness; but let me try. It was a raining afternoon, the crashing of pebble size droplets of suicidal rain growls as it hits every sound-producing element. It was like the sky has waged war with the puny and petty earthlings; a war we are improbable of winning. The sound of warring factions distinctly shatters the inefficacious barriers of thinly put up walls. I was lying down and it’s as if the rain is just close to my ears. My eardrums are indefatigably beating and my mind fabricates melodies that don’t even exist. The rain is in an uproar, a pandemonium of nothing to lose, and a reverberation of all-or nothings.

I headed outside, just a little beyond the protection of a protruding roof; a roof bludgeoned by thousands of rain pebbles. Below me is a sea of people. A sea where the currents are likened to the pace of different people; the fast and the slow, the patient and impatient, the recently repaired and the currently destroyed, the happy and the sad, the frolicked and the bored. All of the distinctively indifferent people promoting the erratic gyration of the sea they are a part of. But under the crashing of the rain down below the helpless world, all of the labels you put on the people as an off-hand judgment solely and unjustly basing on the faces they display disappears like the dust desperately clinging unto the flat surface of the window behind me. They all looked the same under the rain. No smiles, no tears. No Duchene smiles and no fake smiles. No heavy shoulders and no light feet. All of them, under the rain that spares no one, become the sea they obliviously represent.

I loved the rain after that. That when I am sad, or when I am happy, under the rain I don a face of indifference. Nobody is going to stop to look at you under the rain as they are fixated on their own, contemplating as to how to reach the point of their destination and getting wet the least. Under the rain you can clearly see the salient selfishness of people; they are bubbled up in their own little corner of perceived reality. The rain after that moment became a savior for a contemplative, meandering, no-nonsense person like me. Like the bat symbol vividly and fierily carved by a megavoltage light unto the surface of the clouds, which subsequently calls the underground hero of Gotham. The marching rain clouds as they start to gather on one spot call forth the hero that I so desired.

Enough of the rain-talk. I just wanted to share that part of me that nobody wished to know. Now I have returned to the seat of conscious judgment, intermittently pricked by the peeping tack of my malnourished rolling chair. I’m contemplating as to what to put here next after introducing one of my favorite things in this reality. I guess I should put here the next best thing thus far. Gladly so, but things may go out of hand. But I could care less. I shouldn’t, that is why I will.

Let me start with secrets. If one mentions of secrets, the first thing that always come to my mind is a hidden past that one wishes to share but is hesitant because of one’s perceived reaction of people one shares it with. We all have secrets; nonsense and no nonsense, dark and no effect, painful and giddy. You can never force anybody to share their secrets if in the first place they are not willing to do so. But amidst those, I do not see people solely basing on the secrets they keep. If I do so, it would be like putting off a matchstick using a fireman’s hose; a reckless heuristic to say the least. I admire people who has it in them to keep what they deem is worthless information. Well, in the first place I do not believe any information to be worthless. For as long as I am ignorant to it, it is always worth many things. We keep what we think to be things that may ruin our reputation towards others, or things we deem that when people know of them they might use it as collateral towards you. We always want to be of an advantage position over many of our friends. A black-mailing position if I’m not too pert. But so long as we keep the secrets, specifically the one’s we think will ruin our reputation to the one person we are trying to promote an immaculate outlook, we will be in a vantage position.

But as for me, I do not care what secrets you keep. It does not make you an obnoxious person. I am oblivious as to whatever secrets you are keeping, whatever things you chose not to say, they do not change how I see you. I admired the person I knew before I knew you have secrets. And when, if when, I would know of them, would I bargain the very thing I admired from you? Again, that is like putting off a matchstick using a fireman’s hose; a reckless solution towards a simple problem, not even worth the mention as a problem. You keep what you can, that is your prerogative. I know what I am capable of knowing from you, that is my opportunity. An opportunity I would so die if I do not grab. You are worth everything, that I am sure.

The things I may know, or the things I may not know does not change the things I already know. People have many sides to them, as to what are really them, I daresay all of it. We are a multitude of selves. We are the person we ostentatiously show, and the person we desperately conceal. You are the person I knew, if I knew something new, you would still be that person I knew. Nothing is ever going to regress, if anything, I’d only know you better, which is a much better position as to when I know you no other else. You are the person I am learning to be falling for, and I know that I am falling for. Would I trade any of how I am feeling to the things I am uncertain of? A diamond for a piece of coin? I’d keep what I can. You showed me a side of you which I know I am dying to know better. I know you have a side of you I still do not know, a dark room of uncertainties and only-god-knows-what. Would I wrench in hurt if I knew? Maybe I would, but is being hurt tantamount to unloving you? If anything being hurt is an encompassing sign that maybe, just maybe, I am really falling. Happily at that.

As I am in a hurry today from things I am not in control of and from things I do not wish to do, but I must. The incessant private battle of want and propriety. That private battle never ceases to tear me, and make a primordial shred of uneasiness and indecisiveness. But all to no avail, as propriety always has the upper hand.

I should end it no other way; the only way I know how. A way that is difficult to believe and a way that is somehow squeamish to the eyes of the unbold and masculine, or so they seem. Let me end in a way that I know, a message from me to you, a message I am scared that if I do not share, would just decay in the draft folder of my crumbing cellphone: “I love you for who you are, not for what you are trying to keep. You’re secrets are yours to either close or disclose to me, that doesn’t make me love you less. But whatever they may be, it will not change what I’ve been feeling for you. For I have loved you, secrets and all.”

The melody of the ever-anticipated rain has played frantically outside. The thousand of thudding reverberation when droplets of rain shatter as it clash with earthly objects (humans included). The sound of the rain never ceases to make me feel melancholic and sentimental. It is not only soothing, but also induces contemplating. I am here pressing the keyboard key as I stare on the glaring Samsung monitor following whatever letter appears on a blinking dwarfed vertical line; it’s like this little line opens another dimension and as every droplet of rain knocks on my bucolic door and thinly painted roof, welcomes a thought sneakily crawling sporadically in my mind. I love the rain! How can I ever emphasize on that statement? There’s nothing in and of it that I can explain and pinpoint as the consummate source of my love for it; in the first place, you do not need any reason to love, you just do. Same goes for my admiration and infatuation towards the calming rain.

My heart melts every time the ground exudes an aroma of joy and relief; a result when the dust-blanketed ground glorifies when the thousand little raindrops splatters. I too glorify when the rain touches my normally warm skin. It’s a joy I cannot explain; an inexplicable euphoria. Though there are not many who are ardent admirers of the rain, it is not reason enough for me to severe my untraceable love towards it.

The rain has stopped, I hope just this instance. A downpour of rain when you try to sleep is one of the most wonderful experience one could ever encounter. It lulls you to sleep smoothly, and consequently it makes each waking day vibrant. Do come back and touch the humble earth again, invisible rain! You, whose gentle touch makes one look above, shower the precariously parched imagination of the idealists.

Being desultory once again, let me jump off from another stupefying view this morning. While I was going out, throat-parched and lethargic, with one thing in my mind, to sate my thirst, I was dazzled by a shimmering halo. It was the likes of which I never saw in forever. I stopped awhile to let my eyes get accustomed to the radiance, and unswervingly notice the source of such shimmer; the inanimate drinking fountain on the second floor of the AS building. You were there for as long as we were, and you hid yourself in a bland façade. We used to just step on you so you may mechanically and automatically deliver quenching cold water; I felt guilty for not being able to notice the significant role you play in the lackadaisical lives of coerced students. We clamber the inclined steps towards half-a-heaven and half-a-hell, vigorously sweltering in early morning sweat, whilst intermittently wiping off excess (those dripping sweat tickling your still torpid skin). You whose lips have been kissed by countless and heart is broken by a romance that never be. You whose hips are evanescently held by strangers and guides you to a dance you do not know the steps; and as you gradually enjoy, those strangers let go of their gentle grasp on your hips, and you are then left desultory once again. You who dance with a single step; you reward those who keeps you company with a quenching water magically coming out from your silver lips. You, who that morning shun your true extravagance (maybe thinking no one will be looking at you). I saw your grandiose halo; a shimmering, pusillanimous crown existent only as when you are struck by the reflection of the sun’s ray. You stood there in solitude, where nobody kissed you on your coldly sweating lips, and nobody stepped on your flatly placed foot, and nobody held your smooth obdurate hips; your satiety cascaded, externally perceivable as your halo. You find contentment in solitude. But I asked, ‘Should that be?’ No one fit survives the bitterness of aloneness. I approached you in a wildly stalking manner; hands closely flat on my side, walking in a sliding manner (producing a rushing sound), staring steadfastly at you. But as I got nearer and nearer, your halo slowly disappeared, lost as my presence may have startled your contemplation. I drank from your lips a sating essentiality of life, grab your quasi-smooth hips, and stepped on your bruised pedal then I moved away. Upon entering the door of doldrum-generating incarceration, I looked back; I saw again your halo, a silver glow rendered by the omnipresent and omnipotent radiance of the sun.

Sometimes, at some little point in our lives, we desire solitude. We would bargain even frolic events for a piece of prized silence. It is only when we are alone sometimes that we get to excogitate every minute thing in our lives. We sometimes avoid the perturbing crowd and find ourselves a little corner for ourselves. Have you been alone lately?

The rain has not yet descended; though the sky is heavy and the fulminating echoes of silence reverberate the outcry of inevitable emancipation. I’ll again be waiting for the next arrival of my long-time infatuation. The rain, who when falls, makes mushy marshmallows of adamant pebbles; who lubricates my static imagination and coaxes emotionally imbued ideation; who when shattered emanates an earthy aroma that reminds me of where I am standing and where I should be standing; who when invisibly grazes my febrile skin, transiently sketches a beautiful love story. The rain relays the message of the sky to every irrelevant corporeal being below; ‘you are all standing on the same ground, no one is above or below another’. Under the encompassing splurge of the rain, we are reminded of our being insignificant. That we are all temporary; even the most beautiful love story of all, gets devoured by dust and dirt. We are all transient beings! It will incessantly rain, even though we cease to breathe. We are all but a passing of time; no one will ever be in a day beyond forever, whilst the rain transcends forever.

No exemption to the temporariness and passing of things is our untold story. Few know, and uncertain is the outcome. But amidst the covertness of whatever it is that we have, I am as satisfied as when I am alone; perhaps more. I yearn for every moment with you as when I yearn for every droplet of rain. I childishly crave the pitch of your voice; the batter of your eyelashes, the motion of your lips when you converse with me, and your ambivalence towards want and propriety. I wish for the two of you to meet; a walk under the rain. But as of this fleeting moment in time, the rain is still in paucity, and our time together is but borrowed, that wish remains a yet attainable and capricious wish. But I’m looking forward that our hidden and borrowed moments together becomes like the rain; carelessly pouring wherever, whenever. You who the rain reminds me of, is a wish I continually cling until you, or the thought of you reminds me of the rain. Pour ceaselessly! =]

Let me start with a question, the likes of which has been explicitly asked by almost every teacher in biology: “What can we not live without?” It is something that when we are deprived of even in a transient passing of time (let’s say, in a few minutes or so), we pass out. It is something we cannot voluntarily bereave ourselves with; we can only try for so long, and find ourselves imbibing its omnipresence. We yearn for it every second of our routine lives. We are subconsciously in committal to its every command; we are there when it is there. It is the limit of our flights, the final frontier of a man slowly pulled by the carriage of lifelessness, the penultimate though ignored desire of every corporeal being; but we do not stop to notice it anymore.

I laud whoever has an answer towards that corollary question. Indubitably, not everyone (speculatively) got the right answer. I’m pretty sure, and I can confidently grip that unempirical conclusion, that some (assuming many do read my soporific blog) answered water. Well, it is partly correct. Water is essential to our survival, and we, as corporeal beings, contain in us a substantial percentage of water. No doubt water is a life-giving element. It recuperates our gluttonous thirst and maintains a teetering homeostasis. But in all actuality, the answer to that question is air. What else when we are deprived of even for a few minutes will make us pass out? What else can we volitionally not intake? What else do we imbibe that is everywhere? It is the last object (if it may qualify as an object) that a dying person utilizes to whisper his/her bequeathing words. We ignore it because we do not see it; and whatever is not visible to our sensate eyes, we do not consider essential. Whatever is essential is and will always be invisible to our eyes. The air is no exemption to the essentialities of which we depend so much to.

Now, how is this relatable to the title upon which I have preveniently placed atop this entry? Assuming that my hunches are correct, people aren’t able to decipher and connect the dots between my title and the essence of my entries; it’s not you. I do not connect my titles from any of my write-ups; I do not work that way. I have my own unconventional way. The titles of my blog entries may either be of the two: the first thing that comes to my mind after opening the all-hailed, ever-glorified and aggrandized Microsoft word (you heard it right, I’m no longer using notepad, as it is erratic when I post it), or the last thing that comes to my mind right after I press the ending period of every nonsensical, and totally unconnected closing paragraph of my entries. It is not whatsoever connected in any way conspicuous to the essence of any of my entries. But let this time be an exemption, and this entry somehow traditional.

Humans as we are, and shallow as we can be, we do not understand and comprehend everything that surrounds us and stimulates our senses. Whatever we cannot comprehend we subsequently label as impossible. We have categories of seemingly everything, and whatever that strikes our senses that we cannot categorize, we inherently believe as an impossibility.

Nothing is impossible! All is possible; it’s just that not all possibilities are probable. Oscar Wilde once said that man cannot readily believe the improbable. We are a species of apparent desire to be sure of everything. We cannot readily believe on things we are not yet sure of really being what it is. We do not want to live on the overtures of probability. We always want to be safe on the solid and stable grounds of surety.

I find myself tonight really quite pallid. The imaginative juices seems not to flow nonchalantly; I have to force and squeeze these juices out so I may at least place here something that outwardly looks like a blog entry, but in all actuality this is a disguise. I am hiding beneath all this a feeling of indifference. I cannot spontaneously write when the object of my whimsical and capricious wishes is not around; even behind the pixelized screen that renders me hypnotized by its alluring though glaring light. I want to end this entry with a bland farewell wave. For formalities sake, let me add to it a creepy wink. Just remember that what is essential is invisible to our eyes. Breathe in! Breathe out! Air is omnipresent; therefore we should not ignore it. So is love. So is hope. So are wishes and dreams and imaginations. Believe in dreams coming true. I am in one. =]

I believe this has been overdue; but nonetheless, this is still considered as an entry. I’d like to think of my write-ups as a testimony; not as a confession of anything not worthwhile, but an expression of the beauty and divinely organized poesy of nature. The subject and object of my queer ideation has always been nature itself. I mean, why look for anywhere else when anywhere else is right where you are right now? The things that can elicit unique peregrinations are only found in nature.

Let me avow this for this entry: I’d be making this entry quite crude and easily comprehensible. It has never been my primary intent to make people understand the things I type here; I want them to think deep, delve into an abysmal pit of imagination. I want them to utilize the faculties that they, we are gifted with. It is a privileged to be the only specie on earth to be able to imagine the things that has not yet unfolded or will never unfold realistically. I’d like to think of it that way. No other, and I mean no other is capable of such; and by having that singular distinction of being the only specie able to think in terms of intangibility, not using it to our heart’s content defeats the purpose of being a quality distinct to us. What’s given to us, we must use. The law of use and misuse by Charles Darwin may evoke a slight nudge of fear; that when we do not use or not constantly use that of which is inherent in us, there might be a possibility that it might go down the drain.

While I was sitting on a fringed ledge in the morning, and as I was contemplating on the beauteous, simple yet inconspicuous poetry of nature, I happen to notice that even as trees grow on the inclined sides of clambering mountains, they still emerge erect. I noticed no one tree heeds meekly towards the inclination of the mountain sides. They fight the force of which every man has been archetypally plagued by: gravity. They fight so they may announce to everybody else that they, amidst the trials and tribulations, can still manage to adroitly manifest their will to go on. If humans be that way; look beyond the plight of wretchedness and look at these tribulations within the context of temporariness. Life is a flux of regularity, one that is too obvious that even the blank stare of apathetic eyes will notice. Cliché: “What comes up must come down!” If we hold strongly to that tenet, and not put ourselves in a singular distinction of being the only person bombarded with seemingly insurmountable odds, we might be able to get out a much better person.

Back to these underrated trees. They sway carelessly. They go with the blow of the mountain breeze. Their leaves, the striving and the dead, rustle as the mild breeze of the morning sweeps indiscriminately. The melody as the leaves of diversified trees graze each other is but music to a tone-deaf. Nature plays a melody even the deaf can hear; I included. And atop the branches, which grow at a glance in wild randomness, are little birds that chirp exuberantly and in revelry towards the liberation with which they were so bestowed inherently upon. One bird that caught my captivated and awed eyes is a bird clothed in bland black and white plume. Its downside is perpetually white, whilst atop it, the plume that protects in from the heat of the vengeful sun is blindly black. Even though the dualistic nature of its feather and color arrangement, it is not without a purpose. Nature does not fabricate something useless; it may be out of necessity or out of compulsory. We too are gifted with the capacity to ideate and imagine that of which is not yet tangible. Tangentially, the trees too are gifted with the rigidity and strength to go against the force of gravity just to reach the canopy of where sunrays are of abundance. Everything is of a reason, which at our current faculties of reason yet knows. Everything has a purpose; the works of a divine entity? I cannot prove or disprove. As of this current still moment in time (still as when I am writing I tend to corral myself away from the pressure of time-conformity), I am still indebted to the iota of inspiration nature has emanated silently, though loudly. Listen to what nature has to sing, look what nature has to offer, its eccentricities are all too common and salient for us to remain destitute and oblivious. They are there! We are tasked with, given the weapon of boundless imagination, to decode what nature has been esoterically showing. We are, as nature concludes, a part of it.

Look beyond the surface! Look below the mirrored and reflecting façade, it shows you nothing but a vague misrepresentation of yourself. There is more to nature than what is ignored. Sleep is also nature’s presage that we are in dire need of solemnity. Once in a while, we have to recuperate that of which we have lost when we were mechanical. Sleep is automatic. In an instant after now I would be heeding the call of the somnolent hums of the aggressive goddess of sleep. But the little lenient time given to me before I enter into the dark realm of quasi-death, I’ll be thinking of you. Not to be a satiety towards an insatiable desire of closeness, but as a temporary remedy of impatient waiting. How can one satisfy something insatiable? You can’t. What can satisfy your whimsical wishes but the object of those whimsical wishes itself. I hope even within the universe where real is what is intangible and what is bona fide is everything imaginable; I get to be with you. Dreams come true! They really do. For how else could you explain the happenings of recent unfolding if they don’t? We’ll be where we truly be; right where we are right now. =]

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… =]