Don't think about tomorrow - tape 2

I walked all the way from the GT Toyota Center at UP to Technohub just to kill time. Call it a deviation from the unpleasant to make sense of things. It's Friday after all, and I don't believe that there should be anything to be done on a Friday night, let alone anything that wants to get done.

I've been trying to loosen up, this week most frequently. Just trying to feel how things are like when they are not so cramped up within the tiny lobes of my brain, or when I could not feel the slightest tinge of fear run down my nerves anymore. Maybe then, things will not be so bad.

So UP.

I have this volume of Childcraft encyclopedias, which delighted me as a child. I never read them. At that time, I couldn't yet. I was drawn first to the pictures. I'm talking about 80's to early 90's Childcraft: definitely not new photos now, but not completely old either. I loved those photos. I still do. I especially loved pictures of houses in forests, countrysides, hills, and what people do in them. They're all so simple, yet whenever I look at them, I wanted so badly to be in those pictures - in that exact situation, at that exact time frame. It was magical to me.

This afternoon, UP and its expanse of land - the shadows of branches on red bricks, the rustle of leaves in tune with the cold whistle of the monsoon, the range of woods beyond every lamppost - all laid out those photos in front of me, displayed them within my reach as though they were real, alive. I was living in them.

The sun is setting.

I had wondered before how things would be had I been allowed to take the test in UP, and had I passed. I realize now that that doesn't matter. Fact is: I don't know, and I will never know because it never really was a dream. I could never really transform it into one, try as I might. I feel at ease knowing that this is the only perspective in which I shall see UP. Best that I not ruin the illusion that I have of it as I had destroyed my previous dreams.

I was there this afternoon, just walking, taking in the reality of being there, and yet never actually making it. I felt magnified by time, scooped up by its hand, cupped into a feeling of security. It's okay, it seemed to say. Everything will be all right.

I'm okay.

It got dark eventually. The lampposts could only give ample light for writing, but I wanted to stay. I just wanted to be there. It was exactly childhood, that simple and that real. That beautiful and breathtaking memory of childhood to which I could never serve justice. I want to return to it, to be coupled by the greenness of being a child. I'd live there forever, I swear to god, if I could. I'd give anything to have it back.

It would take me an hour to find my way out.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.

- Robert Frost

Grotesque

It is the night of the grotesque. I cannot seem to remember what date it is today. But, if you could only see this night and reflect with me, you might understand why this is so.

I am sittng at a ledge outside the SM Fairview mall, illuminated by one lamp post that is soon bound to extinguish. It is half past 10 in the evening and the mall is closing down, calling it a day; unfastening its individual parts as one would do Lego blocks. I hear the sound of tires skidding in the highway right outside, their horns blowing for who knows what. I am writing. I seem to have lost interest in that one craft.

I feel mad writing about the abstract. Whoever reads this the first time will never understand. I have learned recently that there are many things in the world to which we give space even though it is never absolutely necessary. This is one of those things.

I say that it is the night of the grotesque (or the Night of the Grotesque, it doesn't matter) because of the uprising in my core of a number of things that I could only surmise as so painstakingly real yet hauntingly surreal that I cannot quite put a finger on them within the lobes of my brain. They are my definition of the grotesque. I do not heed them very often. Yet, intriguingly, they are very real, ready to eat at me, whether I permit or not, to show me how things are and how much I am trying to refrain from their reality.

I write romanced by a play - a theatrical act, the first one I have watched in the beautiful haven that I can finally call my alma mater. I am laded with the word "Oresteyas", hanuted by beautiful concepts of love and hate; salvation and revenge. The very first play of my stay and I feel enamored with the diversity of emotions spewing at me at a night like this. I had felt this way the year before about an art exhibit. I feel stronger coming head to head with what is Filipino: Filipino art at its best.

The city lights of Katipunan could not compare to those of Intramuros, not even of Vito Cruz, if only in the sense that I felt more sentimental walking away from them an hour earlier. I was cold yet whole. Unafraid; free, as though I could do anything. Fluttery, along with the roaring of the trucks as they whirred down the avenue. No picture could speak on its behalf. I felt great coming out of that gate tonight. Uplifting to the soul; sacred to the heart. I had lost this feeling recently that I had forgotten how it felt to be romanced. I never wished for it anymore. Or maybe I did, more and more each day, but could never quite admit it to myself. Perhaps, I didn't want to be disappointed.

Yet, here I am, reminiscing about it. Knowing that it is real. That the InTACT session was real. That Block TR is real. That the CBA was real. That catching up on RAW at the Rizal Lib was real. That the buildings and the benches and even the trees are real. That getting the call last summer was real. That the Ateneo is real. That everything is just so completely and absolutely real that I could never figure out what it was that I was doubting. What was I so afraid of? I am here. This is real.

The flower in my hand smells sweet. It's the perfect flower. It's a sampaguita, the national flower. I could never feel more at ease knowing that I had bought it from her: the young lady that was trying to sell it to the last groups of people exiting the mall. I had made the mistake of sitting far from her, thinking that she would be stubborn. I made another mistake when I did not go to her when I asked how much the flowers cost, prompting her to walk towards me. She is pregnant, I realize. Then, I made the next mistake of getting so dumbfounded that I eventually forgot to offer my wafer, though I had it prepared.

She left after the next sale. I watched the transaction, and it made me sad. I wish to see her again.

This is the uderlying ugly usually associated with what is grotesque. Unadulteratedly ugly. If only people could see how much people like her work hard for the money - no drama, just the flowers and the child in her womb - then maybe, the world would be a much better place. If people just see people, and surrender to this notion. If people could just try.

I feel sad and ugly because of what transpired. Guilty, for lack of a better word. Guilty, in the sense that I do not quite understand. Is it because that I have so much? Is it because of the nice home, nice clothes, and even a good, if not, the best education? Is it wrong for one to have all these things when here are these people, striving to achieve ends meet? Trying to actually exist? Was it some act of God to be randomly selected this way? To become the person writing this useless prose and not as the next girl inhaling the sweet whiff of sampaguita which she relentlessly offers to all these people that seem too busy to even acknowledge her diminutive presence?

I am ending this recollection with the cars still whirring, theirs horns still blowing. The rate has slowed down. The wheels easily slipping down the road. The lights are fewer. Everything - a quite drab of the city - a nostalgia within nostalgias, masked by the heaviness of one heart. Rapid walks towards home. A night's reflection, one that refused to appear for so long, illuminated by freedom and glory and independece and everything realistically ugly that accompanies them.

The world surely could not be worse. The world should be so much better than how it is now. We just have to look towards what is more out there, and make it real.

The flowers smell really nice.

Wala nang halaga

Sa pagsulat ko ng liham na ito, papikit na ang aking mga mata. Tila wala akong maramdaman liban sa antok at pagod. Walang saya, walang lungkot; walang emosyon. Hindi ko alam kung ano sa wikang Filipino ang tawag sa kabuuan nito. Manhid? Posible bang manhid ako sa aking sariling damdamin? Ewan. Basta, alam ko kung ano ito sa Ingles: devoid. Kumbaga, ako ay devoid of all emotions. Kumbaga, ako ay latang walang laman: pilipit, pulupot, baluktot - at kapag tinapik, mababaw ang tunog. Parang... wala lang. Walang laman.

Nitong mga nakaraang araw, madalas kong naiisip ang buhay. Madalas, hindi pa rin ako makapaniwala na naririto na ako sa kinalalagyan ko ngayon. Sinusubukan kong alalahanin kung papaano ako nakarating sa puntong ito; iniisip ko na ang paggunita ang tanging magbibigay sa akin ng lakas at inspirasyon upang magpatuloy sa daang tinatahak. Pero kahit anong pagbabalik-tanaw ang gawin ko, tila wala akong maalala. Parang hindi sapat.

Totoo palang maraming namamatay sa maling akala. Nagbakasakali ako noon na gaganda na ang lahat. Naitatanong ko tuloy minsan kung importante pa ba? Bakit ba ako nagpumilit pang talikuran ang lahat? Paano ba kasi ako nakasigurado na handa na ako noong mga panahong iyon? Papaano mo ba naman kasi malalaman kung handa ka na? Iyon ba yung pagkakataon na kaya mo nang sabihin sa sarili mo na madali lang lampasan ang anumang pagsubok? Iyon bang ikinagagalak mo ang hinaharap dahil alam mong may karapatan ka? Iyon bang pinagsisigawan mo sa buong mundo na - "Sa wakas! Nakarating na rin ako sa puntong ito ng buhay ko. Subaybayan ninyo ang muling pagbangon ko!"

Ano? Paano?!

Hindi ba't ito naman ang gusto kong mangyari? Ganito ba kapag nakuha mo na ang gusto mo? Kapag nakamit mo na ang lahat ng bagay na importante sa iyo? Kapag wala ka nang mahanap na inspirasyon? Kailan ko ba masisilayan ang liwanag? Sawang-sawa na kasi ako sa ilang ulit kong paglapit sa madilim at mahabang eskinita na kailangan ko pang gapangan para lang ako ay muli nitong layuan.

Hindi ka bobo, hindi ka pangit, hindi ka mabagal, hindi ka mahina, wala kang sakit, hindi ka mahirap. Nabigla ka lang. Kaunting kembot pa at malay mo... baka ang maliwanag na dulo naman ang lalapit sa iyo.

Masaya ba ako ngayon?

Kontento.

Pero hindi na ganoon kasaya.

Ang pinakamalaking sayang

This is going to be a vague entry. And unless you are Bet or Alain, you will most likely have to decipher what I am going to blab about.

Going to Intramuros yesterday at 5 PM was the best decision I made that day. I was there to alleviate the pain of having spent an extremely bad day at the places that I thought would bring me hope. Yet, I now bear the literal scars to prove my battle with the odds that were more than certain wouldn't be in my favor. I lost again. I was wrong. How very, very stupid I felt.

I found myself in the jeepney, veering out. Ikot. I was going in circles, viewing these massive hectares of land and grass and trees that bring only the freshest aroma of crushed spirit. As though I was forced to bid it all farewell, to look one last time at the view that will never be, obstructed by one's own foolishness and complacency. It felt shitty - the hurting that came to me afterwards. The idea of getting close enough to win at life. That's the sad part. Being there and watching it slip away. Made me wonder what's even fair anymore. Or what's even worth it anymore. I ended up feeling bad for myself. So bad that I actually cried in the FX hearing the song with the lyrics, "Kahit mahal kita/ wala akong magagawa/ tanggap ko 'to, aking sinta/ pangarap lang kita". I didn't even care if that's a love song. The lyrics were just spot on.

Then I strove under the heat of the sun. Waited for half an hour - only to be snubbed by the authority that mattered the most. It made me wonder why I even wanted it. Was it just a self-worth thing? Why? Oh but I had to leave, didn't I? I had to get out! I had to squeeze myself in the line of other desperate people looking for a shot because I really thought that I wouldn't be satisfied unless I did it and made it!

I had felt so close, close enough that I could taste it. Thought that, finally, here is a real shot for me to turn over all the wrongs of my life. It was there - right in front of me! I had it yet I lost it - again! Felt it vanish right after it had slapped me across the face. I was suddenly angry. Very angry, thinking that I was the biggest and most undeserving waste of skin in the planet against whom the fates have conspired.

That was when I slipped on my way out. Caught myself on one knee, and then stayed genuflected there in the puddle of mud for a good five seconds, my ass handed back to me. That's how I got the scars. Some of the skin ripped out of three fingers. The hips and the arms that ache tremendously now as I write this. The pants that were soiled at the knee.

That's how I got to Intramuros at 5 PM. To relieve myself not of the physical pain, but of the emotional hurting that came with it. Nothing is more difficult to heal than just that. All I wanted was a second chance. But not me, right? I can't have that, no! Well, I presently stand before you, a hollow shell of a human being, deprived of all hopes, dreams, future, and everything else that relate to this package.

I'm sad.

I just can't believe that after all this, I still don't deserve anything.

On Leaving

Normally, when the school year reaches its most climactic moments, I tend to be happy without even trying. But, that doesn't happen this time. There's something wrong with this picture. There's just an overwhelming sense of grief over the fact that all is finished. It's as though there's never enough time to compensate for all the things that I want to say. I'm leaving, and I feel that I have left something behind, or lost it - that one irretrievable thing that only really seems to matter to me. This makes me sad. Reminds me of the Pokemon trading card that I had as a kid. It was a Jigglypuff. And from the time it was handed down to me, I grasped the privilege to take it with me every day, anywhere, to show off to the other kids in the neighborhood.

Then one day, we all went to this restaurant - the really fancy one with the fountain and fish pond. All I had to do was to keep the card in my pocket. Would have saved me the anxiety later on. But no, instead, I leaned too close into the glass overlooking the pond that eventually, I dropped the trading card into the still waters below. I just stood there, this little kid of five or six, trying to determine all the possible ways for me to come down and get it without causing a raucous. Nothing could have been done. There was, at that early part of my life, that feeling of hopelessness, plunging down at me. Even that night, when I went to bed, I was still thinking about that card and how sad it was that I could have had taken it home with me. But then I was too small to take matters into my own hands, too small to try. Hopelessness, exactly. That's what I feel right now. Not a good feeling.

The reason why Alain and I were at the gym the full hour last Wednesday is quite ridiculous when I look at it now: we just didn't feel like going home then. It was just after this grueling practical exam in PE2 when I felt that sudden wave of grief rush through me - that alas!, the last class for the semester had finally concluded. I was thinking of those things that I would have regretted and the things that made me feel good that day. Then I was thinking that it's finally over, the long and winding first year at college that never seemed to end.

There is an ominous foretelling of the future, one that neither Alain nor I could see. One of us is going to get in, I'm sure of it. And I am more than certain that it isn't going to be me. I wish it were me, but that's never going to happen because someone deserves it more than I do. We sat there on the bleachers, just talking about what we plan to do with our lives after all this, and about the people that we've met and will most probably miss, and all the good things and bad things, all the while trying to refrain from the very topic that terrify us.



It was a sad day. But when I think about it, that was the best sad day. Because, I was thinking nonstop and was just trying to figure things out for the sake of friendship. Will we ever get out? And if we do, will we ever see each other again?

I don't think I can do much justice for last Wednesday, the beauty of it, or lack thereof. The sound of sneakers thudding on the gymnasium floor. The unease of having to wear a dress for PE class. Waiting for six o' clock before we decide to leave, the lights closing down on us, the short walk to the dormitory. There's so much heaviness and confusion in everything. It wasn't happy. It was sad. It was the best sad day.

When the water gets high above your head

I haven't been writing, though I think I should lest I lose the drive to want to. I don't know if you feel that way sometimes. When you do things because you have to in order for you to want to. I feel like that most of the time, especially when it comes to writing. It's frustrating having to feel this way about such mundane matters because it would often come off as an excuse until eventually, I'd grow uninterested altogether. I don't know if this makes much sense to you. But, I've thought about this just now, and the idea seemed right when I wrote it down. I feel that I have to keep thinking like this so I will be inspired, so I cannot be broken down into a hopeless and desperate fragment of a molecule.

It's March today. I feel an overwhelming relief rushing through me that finally - it's here, that the worst February of my life has come to an end. Things have been really bad lately. Been spiraling out of control, and I'm afraid I can't patch this one back up. No cure, no way out. Less than a month and sooner or later, summer will once again be knocking at my door, ready to catapult me into yet another adventure.

I spent a time of my day skimming through long-lost photos of Summer '11 - the great seasonal escapade, the forgotten story, the best one I had. Now more than ever, I miss everything that represents that summer: the Oxygen scent whiffing past newly-painted classroom walls, the mixture of sweat and perfume on body protectors and floor mats, the morning sun beating down on my face as I backfloat on the swimming pool, the sound of Latin music on an eight-year old keyboard.

The song that gave me the summer feels today was Hard Enough by Brandon Flowers. I remember listening to it last year just before graduation practices began, and becoming completely at ease with it, completely one with it. And those were the tough days, when I just wanted to leave high school behind, just turn the damn place upside-down because there was nothing more in it for me. It was hard enough for me, not wanting to get up in the morning and see all these people that I hate and who hate me in return. I don't miss that feeling. I don't miss those moments.

Yet, when I think about last year, and I think about that song, and all the elements that force me to unearth the nostalgia that binds them together, I can't help feeling as though everything is going to be all right after all. And that I don't have to be anxious anymore, or angry, or sad. Because, I got though that period. I got through those days. And I shall crawl out of them again if I have to.

Let's not let time's bitter flood rise before my thoughts begin to run. I think I'm getting older now. 

- Brandon Flowers (Hard Enough) 

Yung Gusto Mo Nang Sumigaw

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil naiinis ka. Dahil simula palang ng linggo ay pagod ka na. Pagod dahil nagbabad ka sa harap ng computer mula alas-7 ng gabi nang Sabado hanggang ala-1 ng hapon nang Linggo para sa isang proyekto na kung tutuusin ay groupwork naman pero napipilitan kang gawin mag-isa para hindi ka na naghihintay pa. Ang hirap hirap hirap kasing maghintay sa wala.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil importante ngayong makahanap ng Microsoft Publisher pero wala nito sa lahat ng computer shop na pumapalibot sa dormitoryo mo.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil hindi ka na makapag-focus sa iyong pag-aaral dahil hinayaan mong masakal ka sa isang putanginang organisasyon -- at sa huli'y hindi mo rin pala makukuha ang parteng inaasam-asam mo dahil wala silang oras para sa'yo. Kaya sa tabi ka muna.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil may presentation ka pa bukas at gusto mong maniwala na wala ka nang pakialam pero MERON. At gusto mong maging maganda ito dahil mataas ang ekspektasyon at nahihiya ka na sa iyong propesor na halata namang minamaliit ka lang dahil minsan kang nagkamali sa klase niya.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil ilang araw ka nang hindi natutulog kaya pwede nang lagyan ng gamit ang eyebags mo.

Wala ka nang makain na matino kaya gusto mo nang umuwi sa bahay mo.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil insecure ka at kahit anong gawin o sabihin mo ay mayabang kahit hindi mo sinasadya. Wala ka ring magagawa dahil ito ang hadlang sa iyong mga kakayahan.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil pasan mo ang mga tanong ng 16 pang tao sa community service. Mga tanong na wala ka namang kasagutan.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil hindi ka pa rin marunong mag-cha-cha-cha at hiyang-hiya ka, at liit na liit ka na hindi masaya ang pagtapos ng araw na ito.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil hindi ka pinapansin ng isang partikular na tao, na kahapon naman ay nakikipagkulitan pa sa'yo. Yung hindi niya pagpansin ay hindi naman ganoon kabigat - pero yung pakiramdam niyang okey lang na hilain ka niya pababa sa kanyang paggiging miserable ang nakakabwisit.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil sa tingin mo ay hanggang dito ka nalang at walang tutulong sa'yong makarating sa mas magandang alituntunin ng buhay. At gustong-gusto mo nang makamit ang mga bagay na nararapat sa'yo.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil hindi nabibigyan-pansin ng iyong mga magulang ang mga pinagpapaguran mong makamit sapagkat masyado silang higop ng kanilang walang kwentang pagtatalo kaya't ni-isa sa kanila ay walang alam na tatlong buwan ka nang walang binabayaran sa eskwelahan dahil binigyan ka ng scholarship.

Yung gusto mo nang sumigaw dahil Lunes palang ay GUSTONG-GUSTO mo nang umuwi sa Novaliches at Miyerkules palang ngayon.

Yung pagod na pagod na PAGOD ka na at gusto mo nang matulog o magpahinga pero kinukulong ka ng iyong OA ng sarili sa iyong mga problema.

Kaya gusto mo nang sumigaw. Kasi, pakiramdam mo ay walang nakakarinig sa mga daing mo, walang nagpapahalaga sa mga pagsisikap mo. Kasi, pakiramdam mo, kapag sumigaw ka na eh mawawala na ang mabilis na pagpadyak ng puso mo at nang baka maubos na ang sakit na dinadama mo.

Yun bang TITIGIL muna ang lahat at hahayaan muna nila akong huminga dahil hindi ko naman laging alam ang mga ginagawa ko at kung bakit ko ginagawa ang mga bagay na ito. Dahil hindi ko alam kung sino na ba ako at kung bakit ang layo ko na mula sa taong ako noong nakaraang taon. At kung bakit Valentine's Day na bukas pero hindi ko pa rin ito nakikitaan ng importansya, o kilig, o nostalgia. Kung bakit ang hirap hirap hirap ng BUHAY

KAYA GUSTO MO NANG SUMIGAW

Transform

It feels different to look at art when you're sad. The picture weighs heavily on the soul. Every strokes of the brush painfully grips at the heart. Whether the picture becomes more special or less intriguing is not a matter of fact. But there is so much more conviction with the meaning that you have worked up for the piece.

I went to a Place of Religious Breakage. That's what I'll proceed to call it because I refuse even to recognize if for what it is. I had thought that I wanted to be a part of it while I still have the time. I had thought that I could be part of something that I always wanted to know better and understand despite my contempt for it.

So I went there. It was close but its adjoining building - a museum - remained open. I didn't like the way the lady at the counter disregarded me and my inquiries when some foreigners lined next to me. I was serious with my intentions and to be blown off like that by my own color - for tourists! - seemed rather cruel. I had to wait patiently.

I was then directed to an office, wherein I was "interviewed" (or interrogated) by three persons in authority. I didn't mind that they didn't seem to get me, that they were suspicious of my intentions, that they laughed at all my answers as though trying to get in touch with something that I have lost is the most absurd thing in the world, that they thought I was looking for a job when I'm not and that they put me down and mocked me and told me that I was a little way over my head but I didn't bat an eye because damn it, I wanted it!

And when it seemed that all hopes will be lost, that when I easily understood that there's no way that a place like that, viewed by world populace as a welcoming home, is ever going to be much of a home to me, I had to leave, more disappointed than angry. Made me feel stupid, actually, that I had to do that. An incredibly big step in my estimation and all I got in return was a crushed spirit.

That's when I saw the art.





I wish I could say something profound about it. It just felt different. Love, Sexuality, and Transformation. The first time that I ever felt an aching longing to love and to be loved. That was the painful part. That was what broke my heart.

Iyak-tawa

Sawi

Nanakawan ako ng wallet. Wallet na iningat-ingatan ko sa Manila pero, sa lahat ng lugar na napadparan ko ngayong araw na ito, sa hometown ko pa ng Quezon City nawala. Ayoko nang i-elaborate pa. Ayoko nang i-emphasize na katangahan ko lang din iyon. Basta nawalan ako ng P300 at ng Laking National card na may 40 e-points. Ang sakit-sakit.

McDo Happy Meal: sabi nila Pokemon daw 'to?

Sa sobrang lungkot ko ay bumili ako ng bagay na sa tingin kong makapagpapasaya sa akin. Itsura nung babae sa counter nung hinahalungkat ko iyong supply nila ng happy meal toys. Natawa naman ako sa kalokohan ko.

Wala na namang makain sa dorm.

Pagkatapos ng isang buwan mula noong nilagdaan ko ang mga papeles sa bangko, sa wakas at mayroon na akong ATM card!

Bangag pa rin ako, chura...

Muli kaming nagkita nitong kaklase ko noong elementary school na si Justin. Mag-e-engineer ito, wala kayo! Plano talaga naming sumakay ng FX pero dahil alas-5 na ng hapon, medyo nagipit kami. No choice. Bus talaga. At alam naman nating lahat na ang *kalma-kalma* ko tuwing sumasakay ako ng bus. Pero okey lang naman ang biyaheng ito dahil bukod na nga sa binigyan ako ni Justin ng chewing gum (laban sa biyahilo), marami pa kaming napagkuwentuhan. At, nilibre niya pa ako ng pamasahe! :D Ito lang naman ang nagsimula ng isang kapakipakinabang na linggo.

Yun lang.

BASTA kapag may naramdaman kayo, YUN NA YUN - ninanakawan na kayo, isipin niyo na agad!

Still alive: conversations with myself

I wasn't going to write. Was going to make my lack of sleep another excuse, almost seemingly deceived myself of its validity. You know the drill. Maybe I just didn't like knowing how long I've lost touch.

I can't help wanting to write about something romantic. Romance on a night like this? When the uncertainty of tomorrow's school day gives me a lingering hope that it will be suspended. When I am all alone, somewhat cold because of King Electric Fan, the dew from the precipitation moist in the air I breathe. When I have again picked up a pen to write about feelings and emotions because, in some such way, this thing seems to matter to me, very,very much. When two weeks ago, I had a lot to say, but now cannot remember a word of it. I guess neglect puts a figurative gangrene on the old and lonely mind, replacing all good things with hunger and desperation. I used to dislike this feeling. But, right now, there seems to be a fine line between what I wanted and what I despised, and to tell you the truth, it doesn't seem that long anymore. Perhaps, this is the romance that I had initially proposed, after all.

Call this a eulogy to all good things about me. A phase perhaps to keep me from getting too close to myself. I read somewhere that that in fact happens, that some people reach a certain point in their lives when the thought of having to bear themselves clings with the urgent need to unconsciously drown out their souls. Tonight, it's Sweet Apple in my ears, singing "I wish I could drive away... I've got a feeling that I won't change". But I am changing, whereas, before, I had taken pride in the belief that I never would.

The past few weeks have left me disgruntled, sad. I'm worried, very worried. Yet, I am inclined to display a poker face against all the odds, so no one sees this. I don't know how to handle it really. I don't want to be alone, especially not with thoughts that almost always come up now - the ones that make me question who I am, or what I am doing, or why I am lonely. I feel as though I will be stuck here, chained for all eternity, my entire existence to be marked with uncertainty, and that any chances of breaking loose would not make me any less sad.

I don't like who I am, which is a fact that I am reluctantly coming to embrace. I've come to accept that I have trouble mingling with people and that people are having trouble communicating with me. "No one looks to me for nothing", so they say. I do not complain out loud as often anymore except when I am around certain people that I intend to annoy. I hate writing and the thought of it, with passion. I now look old in all my photos, due to stress and misgivings. I believe in a lot of unbelievable things, yet do not believe in a lot of believable things. I hate staying up late, but do it for the sake of this goddamn prose. And, as what a few of my classmates learned last week, I have no such patience, whatsoever, and I don't care because I don't. For this, I am, most likely, a bitch.

Fuck that. Fuck that goddamn motherfucker train of thought because things are different now. So different that my refusal to morph into someone I am not yet ready to fill is drastically shattering. I guess some egos need their divine intervention after all.

Pardon these inklings of a highly-confused, old-looking, depressed and lonely wannabe writer. I hope you understand.

This is me, Kat (or rather, x KAP x, the mystery that is not quite a mystery; the masked/unmasked owner of this blog), as of September 26, 2012.

Not hoping for any more.

Nasaan ka na?

Late, rainy night. Coffee and sad songs. Hindi kulang, hindi sobra; perfect mix.

Dati, tuwing mayroon akong sentiments, naisusulat ko ito sa mahiwagang journal, balot ng kamao ang mahiwagang roller pen. Sa ganitong paraan ako nakapag-re-release - lahat ng emosyon, kirot, inspirasyon, naipapasa sa papel. Pero ngayon, para bang hindi ko na ito magawa. Parang ang dami pang mas importanteng (o di kaya, pa-importanteng?) gawain na kailangan kong tapusin kahit ayaw ko. Miss ko na nga eh. Miss ko na iyong mga bagay na parte ng normal na pagdaloy ng buhay ko ngunit hindi ko na magawa.

Ngayon, mag-aala-una, at maaga pa ang pasok ko bukas. Plano kong mag-AWOL, ala-fugitive sapagkat minsan lang ako magiging bata. Minsan, parang hindi ko ito naiintindihan; tila sadyang dumudulas ang kaisipang ito mula sa diwa ko, pinaggigitgitan na hindi ko ito kailangang malaman. Well, ngayon maaari ko nang sabihin na normal sa bata ang unahin ang wants bago ang needs.

Tanging computer ang kaharap. Nakikinig sa malulungkot na musika, partikular Big Eyes na naman. Ka-chat si *Dorothy*, isang bagay na nakatatawang isipin dahil ito na ang pangalawang beses na naikonekta ko sa kanya ang kantang ito. Ang pinagkaiba lang ay, ngayon, hindi na ako nag-iisa sa pakikinig. Parang ang lungkot, parang ang saya.

Parang marami pa akong gustong isulat. Pero nawala ang lahat nang pindutin ko ang "New Post" button.

Matulog ka na, Dorothy, at kailangan mo pang puntahan ang Wizard of Oz gamit ang iyong magical red shoes.

Mahaba pa ang daang tatahakin mo.

Don't think about tomorrow

"Once last summer I was coming home from Fort Stockton. I parked the car out at the sandhills, and walked a far way from the road, so that I didn't see the lights anymore. The moon wasn't bright  it seemed to say, I'm tired, I'll shine some other night. But the sky was like cloth, close enough to touch. I sat there, kind of burrowed down in the sand, and I just knew, for that little while, that I was part of - of everything. That if I put my hand out what it touched was far away from Basin, far away from my whole life right now. I realized, if I just hold on, I'll find out what I'm supposed to do."

- Walking Dunes by Sandra Scofield, p. 188

I saw the vast expanse of the ocean glitter under the eternal skyline, the self-luminous planetary bodies of heaven and the night lights from edifices reflected on its waters - a steady reminder of how beautiful humanities can be. Debris has lined the shores of the ocean, but in the distance, it is nothing short of scenic beauty. For a while, there was a sweeping feeling of tranquility pressing unto my soul that all worries and apprehensions had seemingly subsided. This is South Harbor at the dead of night.

It was just the thing that I needed to view; a sign, perhaps, the one that we often ask for when we feel lost. It was sheer serenity, one that I haven't felt in a long time. Never had I felt so homely and safe than I ever did tonight. Never mind the lateness of the hour, or these things that I am obliged to do tomorrow - never mind those things that keep a a tight knot in my stomach. It's a slaughterhouse; discombobulation at its finest. But then, there it is. And I get sucked into a round of gratitude and comfort.

Tomorrow will be what it is: the future. Vague, incomprehensible; luminous, nerve-wrecking. Everything else is here. Everything else is divine. Everything else is worth it.

Of old friends (and self-justification)

... [her] birthday yesterday. Am I such a bad friend for falling asleep that I never bothered going online to greet her? Was I so shallow when I didn't plan to call her because she never greeted me on my birthday? Because I know that she’ll say she has other things to do? That’s just the thing. She just has so much to do. Go ahead and call me bitter or mean. Or a faker, even. She is my best friend, actually. The only one who really understood where I was coming from. It sucks that we don’t talk much these days. I know the deal: there just isn't anything to talk about. I know I shouldn't blame anything on her because she has her own plans, her own issues - all these other endeavors. But… it’s sad not having her around. And I really fucking miss her. I just hope she’s not forgetting about me.

~ from 8/18/11

I never got to write about my long conversation on the phone with Charet last Saturday. I was the caller - mainly picked up the phone to tell her about the good news that has befallen me recently, and in which, I must interject, she played a vital role. We ended up talking about various other things, like our high school "love lives", which both ceased to exist before they even took form. We talked about college, and how it doesn't seem much of a big deal anymore that we never got into the schools that we dreamed of. Now that's something amazing because up until last Saturday, we had been talking about high school. And although we went to different schools then, the conversations were nonchalantly fun.

We're in college now, still in different schools. Yet, talking to her is still a hilarity, like she hasn't changed a bit. I like that about her: the way that she can just carry the conversation from one form to another without wearing out the receiving end, the way her affability remains constant even amidst self-deprecation and loneliness. Perhaps, it's the way that every time we talk about things - even of the most nonsensical of the nostalgia - I know that she'll forever be my friend.

It's a pity that I worry about myself. I'm afraid that if we all meet again, when I return and present myself, I would be a much different person: more serious, more pragmatic, more despicable. And, I know that I have harshly changed from the person that I was five, four, or even two years ago. They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I am stronger, and, more than anything, I am bitter. I used to carry those changes next to the chip on my shoulder, could hear it along with the John Rzeznik song, "And how could the world want me to change? They're the ones that stay the same". But I am just about comprehending the wrongs of it: I don't want to be the one that had a lot to change. You have no idea how hard it is for me to write this one.

What's in a package?

I wish I could do more justice to the beauty of yesterday, but I'm afraid that if I elaborate, the words will come out as cliches.

There are some packages that seem too important that there is a gnawing reluctance to share them because, after all, when they are opened, the only person to whom they will matter is you. Once it's there, words are never enough to express gratitude over such a thing. There will only be memory, experience, and the deafening beating of your heart pumping in your ears, the racing pulse in your wrist. You wonder. How can something so small mean so much to someone, anyone at all? How rarity connotes significance. How momentous and life-altering. You deserve it; you got lucky. Blessing; determination; Lady Luck. Yet another rejection or an acceptance? At the end of the day, it's there, in front of you, in your hands. And, it's yours.

This is one of those packages - a packet in an express mail delivery bag that might have been lying on the coffee table for the past fifteen hours, and would have continued basking there for the entire week had not my mother pointed it out. An invitation. For what? For who? From whom? The worst feeling is listening to the peeling of the scotch tape, smelling the fresh special paper tucked neatly inside. Yet the best one is knowing the content and finding yourself crying and shaking at the same time. A salutation. And it's mine.

Legit: the most important things are the hardest to say.

How I never met Rey Mysterio

This is basically the only angle that I had of Rey during the entire event.

What psyched me up the entire week was the news that Rey Mysterio was coming here to the Philippines for a meet-and-greet. The vow that I will never miss that for the world blinkered profusely in all parts of my mind, "never again", it seemed to say. So I went to Trinoma yesterday to catch that. I even attempted creating a Rey Mysterio mask, hoping that I could still be eligible to enter the contest, which a certain television network concocted to form a VIP legion. But then I had to discard that option due to the lack of time.

A little obscure fact: the first wrestling match I ever watched was that of Rey Mysterio against The Big Show. Rey won, in case you are wondering - even though I rooted for Show. So, yep, it was a rather big deal that Rey was going to come. VIP or not, I just have to be there. Maybe he'd sign my magazine! - the one with him on the cover, Holiday 2010. So I brought that along.

Hm. Contrary to their usual tradition, Studio 23 didn't chop up this episode. Interesting.

Upon my arrival, circles of inquisitive people were already closing around on all floor levels of the mall, huddled to witness the event at the activity center, in which a replay of RAW's 1000th episode was being displayed. And who would I find in the VIP section but... kids? Kids! Little kids, who, I bet, do not even watch wrestling or did not watch it until last year when CM Punk made it big again. A swarm of spoiled, rich kiddies whose parents happen to be well-connected with the media! While there I was, outside the barricade, shunned out of Rey's sight, when it was me who have been watching wrestling for eight years - at least half of my life - even before the VIP kids became sperms in their father's testicles!

Since I was way behind the stage, I never in actuality got to see Rey the entire time he was taking pictures with those spoiled brats. Instead, I was screaming "Rey! Rey! I love you, Rey!" at the top of my lungs like some psychomaniac freak. Yet, as soon as I said those, LEGIT tears formed in the corners of my eyes - all the things that I have ever wanted to say, summed up in a ball of words that furiously rolled towards open space, as I hoped - I really hoped - that he would hear them and notice. Of course, he never did. I was drowned out by the noises, the Booyaka Booyaka 619 profusely playing as the meet-and-greet ensued for what seemed like ages. I only caught glimpses of him as the event was about to close. And, by that time, I, along with my fellow "nobody's"/"non-VIP's"/"peeps without connections" were shouting our support for Rey-Rey, hoping that he'd just look behind him for once. And in fact, he did just that.

Nganga.

Sad, isn't it? That he never got to sign my WWE Magazine or that he never got to slap the skin of my hand were not the bad parts of it. It was that feeling of self-loathing that came to me after he had turned around just to see us that broke my heart the most. I've been meaning to understand the sequence of events on my way home. Why I felt so sad. And, in fact, I think I got it already. Was it because there was no such kind of redemption? A smile, a wave, anything? Perhaps I was just tired.

I can also play the blame game. And, believe me, if you know me at all, I am not one who would play this game for the world. But yes, I think it rather puts off the stress when I try. I blame the event organizers and their sucky arrangements. I blame the fucked-up security guards who insisted on blocking our view of Rey, just so they could, more or less, get their fifteen seconds of fame when the cameras arrived. And because of this act of vanity at katangahan (no other words to top this, I couldn't emphasize better), some fans outside the barricade, actually got past the railing squeaky clean! And these same security guards have the audacity to be angry when that happened? Ha! Unless my theory that the VIP's bribing the event organizers is true, as far as I am concerned, those suckers never paid a dime to get in! The resignation was a matter of luck via online registration, that's all.

So yes, now I also blame the rich spoiled brats who have powerful daddies in or within connection to the networks, even that sumbitch who presented the plate of adobo. The nerve of some of them sporting a Daniel Bryan/CM Punk shirt, which were only either purchased abroad or online for a high price. Those bitches. And they were chanting D-Bry's "Yes! Yes! Yes!" for NO apparent reason at  all WATTAFUCKISUPWITAT?! And to stand on seats AS THOUGH THEY WERE NOT CLOSE ENOUGH TO REY ALREADY! What an insult!

Take notice of the guy with the hat who is about to block our view  - again.

This event doesn't change my view on the man that Rey Mysterio is. I will forever like that guy. I will forever love the company he works for. Yet, it was a sad day, no doubt about that. I was so close yet so far. Soooo close. Too close. I could have studied for my midterms exam but didn't out of love and respect. Yet, I don't feel as though it was worth it. Not one bit. I had a circle of emotions on my way home, even now as I write this, but the ones that sink down most painfully are self-deprecation and dislike for everyone in that event - bliss being out of the picture.

Suppose I get lucky next time. I'll earn money and buy tickets. Then I'll come back for everything.

Maybe then, I wouldn't cry in the FX going home.

Nagpaganda pa si Ate...

Yet, from the get-go... consider this event a failure. All my hate.

The first time ever I saw your face

For my Hum1 assignment, I created this mosaic made entirely out of plastic strips. I call it "Big Eyes" after the Bouncing Souls song, which lyrics seem apt to me more than ever. I view this art as an expression of confusion, uncertainty; dubiousness. I had initially thought that coming to Manila everyday would suit my fancy, yet what I have perceived has not satiated my expectations. What I have witnessed so far has left me sad, even a little angry.

This is the first time in my life that I've had a liking for someone so much so that I can call him my "inspiration". I used to disregard that kind of crap, for I simply never believed in it. But here is this guy who is living proof that an infatuation can actually lead to motivation. For some days now, I've been finding myself striving to do well in class because of his genius, which, for the most part, has surpassed our professors' demands. Relatively, the guy is, well, brilliant.

It is sad for me to realize that that feeling of inspiration has expired today because I lost. No chance in hell. I am not envious, never. But I feel dejected for losing that drive. For being keenly interested, but for being indifferent now. For not being able to summon any other sensible topic to write about other than this. I feel silly thinking about it. A month has barely passed after all.

Today, I lost an inspiration, not to someone, as I like to believe it. But I lost it only to myself, whose perspective sporadically and drastically alters. No harm in that.

Feelings suck.

You left home for the first time when you were seventeen

Searching for a life, beginning a new dream

Drove the car all night to learn your way around

Feeling so alone in the parking lot downtown

You had your love to give, so much life to live

Hey little girl, don't look so sad

It's not the end of the world

Seen this film before

Already know the ending

Some of the faces change, but the plot it stays the same

Take my hand

Let's walk away

What did those big eyes see

A world where nothing's free

Your innocent beauty, slipping quietly

With every turn you found no one to understand

Why would you feel so down, no one to really see

What a woman you could be

Hey little girl, don't look so sad

It's not the end of the world

Seen this film before

Already know the ending

Some of the faces change, but the plot it stays the same

You gave your heart

Every moment when no one can

They made you small

They couldn't make you fall

Hey little girl

Hey, hey little girl

Hey little girl

Hey little girl, don't look so sad

It's not the end of the world

Seen this film before

Already know the ending

Some of the faces change, but the plot it stays the same

So take my hand

Take my hand

So take my hand

Let's walk away