Friday, December 28, 2012

The Nevermind Boy


To just let things fall into place and just let love, life and happiness find it's rightful course.
To just go with the flow and enjoy the ride.
And to not mind things that don't matter anymore.

Yep. The Nevermind Boy will be on the loose this 2013.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Ends and Endings


There are many kinds of endings. There are those with literally earth-shattering exclamations, moving and rearranging mountains with great frenzy and wave upon wave of sea crashing unto every bit of human civilization.

There are also the quiet types. Those with solid, sordid and solemn periods enveloping existence with eerie silence. Silence is scary. It connotes tips of icebergs hiding what's underneath with a veil of false serenity.

But there are also the commas. The endings of novel trilogies. And while the author contemplates the grand finale, the characters lie still in the cupboards, also contemplating the pseudo-life they just had.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

How to Make Mayhem


The sky is the first thing that I take note of when I begin writing something. It's a serious cliche but it gives me the excuse to mix and mingle words to get me in the mood. For example, "The sky is a blue canvas splattered by milky bits of clouds", would generally mean that I'm on my poet mode and I'm also probably hungry which would explain the "milky bits" which would mean that I'm craving for marshmallow. Make sense? Also, it takes care of my length problems. Like right now, one whole paragraph just got constructed. 

Sometimes when I don't think of the sky because I'm somewhere without a view, I'd either lie or describe the coffee I just had or begin a post with earth-shattering thoughts (e.g. pencil marks and shavings , coffee stains, doughnuts-anything that catches my fancy is generally of earth-shattering importance). If you've been reading me for quite some time now, you'd realize that most of my most-read posts are those that involve none of the things that I've just describe. So yeah. This paragraph is basically crap which would perfectly describe most of my second paragraphs where "the block" happens.

Of course, after introductions, the flesh of most stories usually begin in, three, four or five paragraphs (not generally speaking, mind you) but in my blog, most of the flesh happens in two or three, which would reflect the difficulty I have in building lengthy stories and lengthy third paragraphs. 

The conclusion is usually my forte and I end my blog posts with pound for pound realizations, questions, even more realizations, moral lessons (like to never ever cook food when you're incapable of doing so or risk killing the relatives which you'd probably still do anyway), more randomness, blabbers and the like or sometimes I just end posts out of nowhere. I'm lazy like that.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Battles and Boxing Bouts

There will always be that one great loss that will scar your insides more than any form of cancer. It is the unrequited love inside you. It is the pain of getting left behind. It is the embers of that emotion that dries up your thoughts, wells your eyes and burns you inside. Death could have been sweeter.

And while the world mourns over a fighter's loss, you contemplate on your personal battles and the many loses you've made along the way. It is a game; everything is. "Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose". But what's important is that we learn to stand up after every fall and face the crowd unscathed, unburdened but very much enlightened.

Regrets, they may be many, but there will always be that second chance to prove yourself worthy of the title, worthy of the ring. Fight. Go. Win. Life is not a domino. One downfall won't mean the next day's doomed.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Post No. 204


Something is wrong with me. Emptiness. The emptiness that gulfs me is continually crashed by the waves of life, carving it bigger and bigger that the void is sucking me inside.

I am passing through life, unseen and unperceived. My absence will not make it sad. My presence won't spark jovial celebrations. My handwriting is chicken shit; reflection of what I am, what I feel, what I see.

Borderline psychosis. Depression. And a bulging tummy. Demn.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Blog-O-Versary!


Wow. To be honest, I actually thought that I'd be having my third year anniversary tomorrow. Haha.

And since I am in the utmost state of unpreparedness (promise, I was gonna do a post of my favorite posts the past year) I'm just gonna thank the 55 dearly beloved followers I have. You have increased! Yay me. The humble 11341 page views (as of today). And of course to everybody who have read, will read, and will continue to read my blabberings, thank you all so much! You have made me happy :D

Cheers to another year! Cheers to more goodness and creativity! Cheers to life!

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Never Yours

A poem wriggles with the wind.
Its verses tangled with the malevolent waves of zephyr as it travels the earth.
Yet with all this expression, I'm never yours.

A song travels the desert;
an oasis shimmers and sprouts with every lyric that touches the ground.
Yet with all this reverberation, I'm never yours.

A painter colors the sky.
Shades of magenta and cyan splatter every bit of cloud and expanse.
Yet despite the kaleidoscope, I'm never yours.

I am a painter. A poet. And a songstress.
Yet despite who I am, I'm never yours.
viii:Tracy Chapman's Never Yours


 citybuoy    ♔ıǝɹɯɐı♔    ןıuǝ oɟ ɟןıƃɥʇ    Orange Wit  Spiral Prince  Leader of the Opposition

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Cafe Americano


Americanos he discovered are best served with conversation and though the potato chips paired with their caffeine confections were obviously inappropriate, they ate them anyway, chewing and sipping at unpatterned intervals.

The sun's rays were soft and filtered just right that it's beams illuminated her face in just the right angles. He realized that her cheeks blush every time a puff of steam touches her face and decided that she looks beautiful that way. Rosy and blooming like pink May blossoms down Aunt Rebecca's garden.

Conversation clouds floated everywhere from Murakami to Tacloban to ponderings after graduation and bedroom interior decorations. And later that night, she'd kiss him and he'd have involuntary tremors from having too much caffeine but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Just the soft dewy breeze as he rides home that November evening.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

The Boy on the Shore


The air smelled like the ocean. Like it always had every summery July morning by the mansion that overlooked the sea. The boy that lived there hated the scent and if it weren't for the dying sun, he wouldn't have tolerated walking down the beach at sunset when the scent was strongest. 

It is a magic scent, the ancients have said and the boy could only laugh at their ridiculousness. He was a boy of advanced thinking and such medieval follies were a waste of brain cells as compared to Nintendo or Physics or gaming capsules. He's simply admitted that some people are like that, rationalizing the unfathomable without even measuring logical reasons or explanations.

That particular afternoon, he frolicked farther than usual. The sun was buttery and salmon and its toasted tendrils swirled with the gray waters. He imagine holographic worms beneath the sea, consuming the light and glowing themselves in the process. He felt the waters rushed to the shore and he buried his fingers in the sand, slowly, lustfully, like fornicating for the very first time.

The sea is a mistress, malevolent and dreary, like Aunt Ugliana during her monthly visits.

He watches its waves crash on the shore, carrying with it its remnants: shells, abalones, corals, crabs and the breeze, that filthy breeze he inhales at the moment. In return the earth vomits to it pollution, dead dreams, despair, unrequited love and all the grime of human existence. The ocean accepts them all, enveloping the filth in its dreamy waves.

And just like all the others, he surrenders his desperation and metaphorical craps to the sea. Crashing his body to the foam, letting it lure him with its waves and drown him with its poisonous dreams of infinite oblivion.

It is always silent in the sea. The dead never speak.

"Perhaps that would explain the smell", he thought. And on his way home that summery July morning, he vowed to never see the ocean, ever again.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Musings


I suppose it's weird and unwholesome if I try to secrete creative juices from my already weary brain but I am quite missing this blog and the number of days without new entries have been translated by my brain as eons, so here I am, again, writing in a coffee-less November morning.

The past few days have been hectic. Taxation is obviously not a friendly subject and most of my other Accounting's are too, so I suppose I'm on the right track on my academic life. Besides, without these hardships, then there's nothing really fun about going to school right? Most recently, the greatest fun I had was flunking Management Accounting. And here's another great news: RETAKE! Bongga.

Now if only Accounting was a bit more whimsical. More dreams and and shells and arches and baroque influences (?). Less numbers. Less stress. Less blah. *sigh

Fairy Godmother?

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Two Tens


For some weird incongruous reason, birthday posts are compulsory in my universe. Maybe it is the drive to document the transition from teenage dreams to adult nightmares that made me sit in front of this canvas and once again spoil it's whiteness with lackadaisical blabberings. 

Maybe I am mourning the death of my youth but then again, youth is a state of mind and age is only a number-a really ugly number. Or maybe I am anticipating the life that I am about to live, the responsibilities that I am about to have and the many stresses and quarter-life crises I am about to face.

It is now that I realize that being 20 is like a Sunday night after a long weekend of adrenaline-overdose and youth addiction. The anticipation of the Monday, the nostalgia of memories about to be blurs, and the yearning for another round of the fun experienced; all these three are rolled in a curly ball with butterflies set inside my stomach. The feeling is uncomfortable but I am presuming that this is normal since the number 20, in my universe, is uncomfortable. 

It may take some time for me to answer age questions though. But you know what they say, practice makes perfect. And I intend to have as little of that as possible.
Happy 20th birthday to me! XD

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Bossa Nova, Yesterday and Paulo Coelho


It's official, I love Tuesdays and Thursdays. Caffeine in the morning and bossa nova overload plus the thought of not going to school until 4PM is the ultimate seventh heaven. For one, it provides me with bed-lounging time, perfect for rolling on the mattress from left to right (or whichever direction). Second, I could definitely do the the laundry and contemplate on a lot of stuff which for some reason happens simultaneously. Third, I could save my lunch allowance and maybe buy something nice come Christmas time!

The possibilities are indeed endless. And while one part of my brain drafts that part, let's linger on another topic that has me bursting at the seams with excitement, my first day of school. Didn't see him (praise the Lord!), had so much fun and quality time at most of my subjects-Law, most of all, and felt warm and fuzzy reconnecting with friends and crushes and realizing how much I miss all of them. Seriously, the semester break is the River Lethe, almost made me forgot all of them. 

Anyhow, I am in search of the perfect place to drug myself with caffeine and drown on Paulo Coelho's The Witch of Portobello. Baker's Haven, with newly refurbished chairs, provides for the perfect option but since I don't have a Kindle, or any eBook reader or tablet for that matter (even a laptop!), I guess I have no choice but read here, at home, in utter soliloquy and solitude. Chos.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

November Blues, Reds and Yellows


November came swiftly and in just a few days, I will officially mark my second decade of existence. To be honest, it's not something that I am excited about. The responsibilities, the idea of simply growing up and being illegally young, discussions of stuff to do and should do in this lifetime, urgh. There's simply a mountain of stuff to think about and I am not the kind who thinks about stuff. I'm more of the worry-about-stuff kind of  person and right now I really am worried about everything.

What if I turn into an utter failure? What if I am not what other people expect me to be? I mean, I know that I shouldn't really care about what they say, but I am pressured. Trying-not-to-disappoint-Mom is the worst pressure an only-son could ever have.

And so November is officially a cold bitter frost in contrast to the sunny skies just outside my window. With a lot of stuff on my mind, with a lot of things to do, I just pray that I don't go delusional or completely bonkers when I reach 20.

Or maybe I'm simply in a quarter-life (or mid-life *gulp*) crisis. Who knows. November just started anyway. Fingers-crossed?

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Morning Thoughts and Prada


You awoke to the sound of silence. And just like that, uneasiness dawned on you: so crisp, so tangible, even the impeding rain is an unwelcomed comfort. It's like waking up on the wrong side of the bed, or having the wrong kind of morning coffee or maybe the thought of those Prada's that could never ever really be yours.

And then you ponder at your uneasiness: on how unfortunate you are for not having anything to eat or anything to do because your whole life depended on electricity and this blackout is just pissing the shit off you; on how the rain is making things worse because the electricity people can never fix anything without getting wet and electrocuted; on how lonely your phone is; and on how goddamn expensive those Prada's are and you start blaming Bryanboy and that Muccia bitch for making them look so desirable. 

And so you ponder and wallow at intervening times while the rain pours over the metro. If only it rained Prada, now that would be a welcomed comfort. 

Monday, November 5, 2012

My Fair Lady


And since I don't normally watch horror films on Halloween, except for a very slight exception for Scream 4 and Bunshinshaba, I spent the spooky season watching film noirs particularly those that involved Audrey Hepburn.

Yes dear. I'm a 'fraidy-cat. And I thank Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's and My Fair Lady for keeping me sane last week.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

You Can't Remember the Title, Can You?


The things is, you are not yourself. And that's not a good thing. But it's also a good thing for a change, really. It's a cycle, a typhoon of personalities that shadow each other over each other, a merging of colors that practically define who you are at certain intervals. 

You take on persona after persona. Today you're the naive little Charlie, or the frenzied Holly Golightly while she searched for Cat that rainy day in New York-clutching to her only idea of a family, but tomorrow you could be anybody. You could be the cat by then darling. That would be charming. Or the chair. Whichever you prefer really.

You go to parties and street parties or the quiet types on hushed Roman verandas wearing those black alligator shoes that sweet old man gave you-or you could've bought those, you can't remember. Really. You can't remember. But the dress on the other hand, you're sure it was a gift from someone. Only you don't remember who but that doesn't really matter darling does it? I mean are we really gonna spend the entirety of today remembering where you got all those stuff? Don't be ridiculous. 

It will only bring up those nights you woke up with blood on your hands. But you were sure that was ketchup-with a horrible horrible stench. Even the body right next to you could've been creepy if it wasn't Mr. O'Riley. Or Mr. Something the other night. But you're sure this was just a Halloween prank. I mean, how else will you have blood in those perfectly manicured hands darling? You would never allow it.

Oh golly. The time. It's already 8:45 and you'd never want to be late for a party. O good heavens no! It would be impolite. And ratty. Off you go darling. And have you brought that handy knife in your bag? We wouldn't want any impolite men now, do we?
vii: Jungian Concept of Individuation

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

I Wish I Had A Typewriter


The canvas is bleach white and from time to time, a few stray words and letters blemish it's perfection. It's one of those days when you just stare blankly at the screen and pray that some ancient Greek Muse will slap you with inspiration and enable you to write about something, anything. 

Tap. Tap. Blah. Tap. Tap. Tap. Blah. Blah. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Blah. Blah. Blah. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Blah.

This is actually one reason why I falter at the idea of single-blessedness. My life is a bore and without a love life to spark fireworks and bitter tears, there's really nothing to write about. I'm an ordinary boy living an ordinary life and I doubt being ordinary will flicker anyone's interest.

Maybe I'm just being narrow-minded. I suppose everybody has stories to tell and it is of course a writer's challenge to pique a reader's interest or bring incredible insight to day to day encounters. Maybe I'm simply not good enough at telling stories-who knows. Or maybe I'm too engrossed at the monotony of my everyday life that I simply do not see the insights.

One thing is clear though. My idea of good stories are odes to love found, love lost and love remembered. There's nothing really wrong with that but I guess it's time to leaf through new pages and explore new ventures.

And yes. I wish I had a typewriter.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Today

1. Taking the Civil Service Examinations this morning was a giant blur on my forehead. Most of the items were difficult and I took it with profound courage despite my unpreparedness. And yes, through the grace of God,  I was able to finish the 170-item exam unscathed except for the blue ink on my thumbmark which is quite challenging to wash off. 

Now I must simply take a deep breath and let God do His magic.

2. We ate at Mang Inasal's after four days of home-cooked meals. Not that there's something wrong with it. I'm just saying that I missed fastfoood! It's not healthy to eat it daily though-which is a known fact. But it's a luxury that I'll always look forward for.

3. Attended a wedding at around 3:00PM after hours of selecting jeans that my Aunt will wear at the event. Seriously. I'm gay and all. But oooh may gulay. I had to stand up for hours waiting for her to finally pick up something.

Anyway, the wedding was beautiful. Beautiful bride. Beautiful groom. Beautiful food. Just makes me wanna think of beautiful stuff and prevent myself from getting goosebumps all over. I know. I'm dramatic. But weddings simply make me cry.

They had a chocolate fountain at the reception that I undoubtedly lavished myself in. Banana dipped in chocolate is j'adore. That, I think was the highlight of my day.

Much l♥ve,

Rei

Saturday, October 20, 2012

California Dreaming


Boys with polariod cams and fur coats and feathered hair.
And a sunny splat of boulevard that stretch the entirety of my vision.
The night was Friday
and the lustful waves of dusk was a batting of drums,
an ancient ritual when teenagers and young adults
come out at night to play and smoke weed and shag boys
and do crazy stuff with other teenagers and young adults.
A blanket of stars slowly kisses the day away
and the shy moon glows silently in the East.
Your motorcycle is a monster at night.
And it's engine was the solitary serenade the desert sings.
Your leather jacket, studded,
an inglorious banner, waves through the air
as I watched you travel that sunny splat of boulevard that stretch the entirety of my vision.
Boys with polariod cams and fur coats and feathered hair began dancing
and I, too, danced as a pillar of fire burns the last few streaks of wood we gathered earlier.
Charcoal and smoke filled the air.

My attempts at dreamy poetry

Thursday, October 18, 2012

The Birthday Wishlist

Unlike normal folks. I don't normally get jittery and Christmas-y when the '-ber' months come along. One of the reasons is that it's way too early and the second is that I've got a birth date to think of (11-15-92). Anyway, like last year, here's a random list of wishes that I'd like to have before I leave my teen years. But unlike last year's list, let's hope this one gets a happy ending, okay?

And let's face it. This is totally legal. A word of caution though, some of these are entirely ambitious. So, uhm, enjoy?


1. Clothes, shoes, bags and a camera to finally uplift that fashion career. 

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Stone Cold Sober


The backdrop was a chorus of dogs howling and the faint moon, hidden by a thin veil of clouds peeks through the window, illuminating the dark room.

He was never the party boy. And though some of his friends are raving about this Friday night, getting high and drunk, having the fvcking time of their lives, he lays still in his bed. He never liked getting wasted. Yes, he has the occasional cheap beers and wines, but not on a regular basis that he finds it sordidly absurd to have scheduled dates of drunkenness. There simply is no logic in alcohol.

And as he contemplates at the sheer "boredom" his simple life is, he also notices the pointlessness of this entry and how cold his coffee has become.

Now if only we had coffee bars here.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Just Give Me A Reason


By the time you read this, I'm probably already on my way to Zamboanga City for a school convention that I have to attend. And though I'd love to sit down and talk things over over coffee with him, considering that he texted me " I love you ", I simply couldn't. I have work to do. And besides, will it be okay to talk about it? I mean, was he serious? Because his succeeding messages pointed out that that was something that I should just forget. 

Last night I was at a moment when all of what I've been hoping for all this time is finally unfolding, but I became afraid, unsure and practical. The pain must've made me a monster. If I answered differently, would things have been different?

Tsk. My life is a blur. Thank God there's this trip to get away from things for a while. 

Friday, September 14, 2012

A Series of Blahs and Au Revoirs


1. I never thought it'd come to this, but I have grown weary of coffee, coffee products and coffee infused stuff. I guess my head can no longer take hold of the magnitude of caffeine that I dose myself, every single day. Haisst. Au revoir cafe. You shall be missed.

2. Punsa our beloved feline is missing. She may be dead by now which actually sucks because I wanted to hold her that last time I saw her but I didn't because I was too damn busy with other stuff. Au revior Punsa. You shall be missed. 

3. So he got himself a new boyfriend. I'm supposed to feel okay right? I mean, its been months-two months. And we're friends now. And I've already accepted the fact the he has moved on. And that he has found a new life. A new someone-whoever that is. Au revior? Not really. I think. I mean, di ba?

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Stain Stories


His clumsiness splattered the contents of his morning mug at the table. Caffeine reeked all over the kitchen and the summery hues on their walls became vivid swirls. It was then that he realized that the best stains are the coffee drops on his notebook, evidence of his trying to wake up writing attempts at momentous literature.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Adoration


Oh Lord Your love is glorious
and I am not a worthy receptacle
but please fill me. Let Your goodness overflow
for there is no joy like it.

My heart beats in fervent adoration
for Your name is worthy of praise.

I seek You. I love You. I worship You. 

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Post No. 171

I fear the inevitable. This afternoon, yet another crossroad will emerge and I do not know if I will be able to make the right choice. Lord, I do not know how I will feel looking him in the eyes. I do not know how beautiful his voice might sound to me. I do not know how another touch will bolt a gazillion watts of electricity to my system. I just want my shirt back Lord. But I do not know what the effect of him returning my shirt will have on me. I do not want to be the loser here Lord. I do not want to emerge out of all these unending pains and flames still undaunted by the lessons that you injected on my brain. I pray for guidance Lord. Vigilance. Self-control if I may need so. But please Lord. Help me. You know that there is nothing I can do without your help. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.

Friday, August 24, 2012

A Thousand and One Nights


And then he finds himself in a desert-a kaleidoscope of sand and stars that filled the expanse of his visions. An ancient caravan passes over the horizon, and the putrid smell of cinnamon and cardamom was tangled in the malevolent vines of air that traveled eastwards. 

He rests on a maroon carpet that weaved his stories; hatred and failures, disappointments and depressions, borderline psychosis and insipidness. The carpet, it seems, is veined to the sands and like film noirs that flash through projectors, he views his life in the starry darkness above him. 

Sometimes he enjoys the desert and the stories it tells. The sand, moon and stars, to him, an ancient romance that intensifies the surrealness of the experience. But there are also those nights, dark viper nights that reciprocate the frost of his soul. The longer he stayed there, the colder it becomes.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Serenity and Solitude


These days, his afternoons are empty films. Slow, monotonous, senseless conversations and images that jumble back and forth across the screen. It reciprocates his thoughts, fragmented as they are, but beautiful in all its betrayed glory.

That sickly tree, graceful in its deathly state, overlooks him as he gazes up the sky. The thin branches blocks his view of the feathers and marshmallows that glided gracefully across the blue canvas. He ponders at how boring placidity is. He yearns for a splatter, a sabotage, an exclamation of emotions.

But then again, boredom is a gift to artists; to observe controlled chaos, to wrap all of it into words. And as his pen utters monumental poetry in his notebook, a flock of birds steadily flies ahead, breaking the stillness of the serene sky. 

Saturday, August 11, 2012

That Solitary Line


The boy stares blankly at the screen. His thoughts, an endless slide of images, takes him to the dreams of mad Kings and their being; to the sun, as it dies slowly in the West and to the Indies where the spices  lay tangled in it's jungles, ready to be uncovered. 

The horizon was a dangerous mistress as the sailors once foretold. The infinity of that solitary line sends chills to the backbones of seafarers and as the ancients put it, it was the tail ends of the world. The legends died slowly with the tide, when the expeditions of the valiant proved that the world is not a flat surface. 

But what propelled these men, mad, mad men?

Was it sheer desire to have the riches the new lands have to offer? Or is it ingrained in the spirits of men to not be limited to the confines of what society and culture tells it?

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Lazy Days and Thursdays

Unlike popular belief, I am not dead. I'm just in a perennial state of laziness. And while scrolling down to infinity mat not be the most productive activity on Thursday mornings, I did just that, because, as I said, I am lazy. 

I smell like a corpse and frankly I do regret not going to school this morning. Oh well, it can't be helped. As I am writing this, the clock is already on PM, so I'll probably just go to school later and catch my 4PM Law class which I cannot afford to miss since our Professor does not allow absences unless you're on comatose or dying in an Emergency Room somewhere.

Forgive the long lackadaisical sentences. Laziness is unforgiving. Even the period on the lower right hand corner of the keyboard seems too far away. 

And while Paloma Faith sings in the background, Lady Gaga graces the cover of Vogue for September and the dearly beloved Anna Piaggi (who I always mistaken as Anne Piaget-a person I do not know) died who I seriously did not know until the fashion world mourned for her. Love her blue hair though. And the hats are spectacular. 

Anyway, you should commend my efforts for trying to squeeze blogging in the middle of my "busy schedule". Though I doubt this will generate a lot of approving nods, comments (comments of outrage, maybe) and  attention from my readers, I'll push through anyway. It's my blog anyway. And babbling senselessly is better than doing nasty stuff. LOL


Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Sleepless Nights and Paris


It's nights like these when I just let my thoughts drift into subconsciousness, a daily escape towards surrealism, where fantasies and reality coexist.  And as I lay here in bed, wild of thought and highly immersed in that wonder drug they call dreaming, I thought of Paris and the solitary moon that hang above it. 

It was July and like most summer nights, the sky was an adobe of stars that twinkled heavily in twilight. The sun was salmon, hazy in the west and the macaroon I held was peachy in the sunset glow. I took my cigarette and puffed a halo of smoke a la Audrey Hepburn. I imagined that Yves Saint Laurent dress, billowing, as I gallivanted in front of an unknown metropolitan chateau. I was, am, stunning; an epitome of youthful vitality.

And as the slumbers fall dutifully on my lids, I remember the last scenes of my dreaming fade. A blurry photograph. A boy, with me, in that vintage Volkswagen. And a furry cat, Persian, that sat on my lap this whole time.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Twisted


My life these days is as stagnant as Lake Placid. It's not that I don't know what to do-hell, I've got a lot of things to do; it's just that there are a lot of times when I just find myself staring blankly at things and it is in between these moments when I get worried. Yeah. Yeah. So the break up screwed my brain. Big deal.

The insanity of these moments, if I may call these as such, are actually funny. Crazy as it may seem, I do enjoy catching myself red-handed drooling over some past mistake that I regret every single day. No, I do not enjoy committing mistakes ladies and gentlemen. I just find it ironically melodramatic, like the ones in movies with matching background music and face fractures, because you see, in the olden days, I used to just laugh at these moments. And now they're becoming my realities, like some Movie-Karma god has avenged its failed ugly Tagalog children! (No offense to Pinoy romance fanatics.)

Urgh. Haigoo. And now I am forever cursed with that curse. Dear readers, I advice you to never laugh at Kim, Sarah, Bea and the likes ever again. The Movie-Karma god has ways of getting back at you, you know.

Anyway, my mundane existence will now be disturbed by the "arising" of our College Intramurals for which I play a big part as an audience-blame my Mom for my sports-less-ness. We'll also have our Regional Midyear Convention in Zamboanga City sometime in September soon. And I'll also get my hands full on some Accounting subjects that I need to review (and first view).

Pray I don't die of stress or go completely bonkers in the process. 

Much l♥ve,

Rei

Points to Ponder


Look at yourself. You're a disgrace Mond. You're eyebags are so palanggana na these days and at the rate things are going, you'll never prove to Superman that life can be better and brighter without him. Truth be told, they are. The day after you broke up, you got a 92 mark on your Management Accounting after days, weeks, and sessions of 70's. Your JPIA Days was a success without him boggling your thoughts.

So pick yourself up. You're not lonely without him. You're amazing. And you can even be better than what you are right now. Don't make him the center of your universe. The cosmos is an endless possibility and the probability of finding happiness is infinite per ounce of sadness. 

Keep your head up Mond. You're awesome.

Friday, July 13, 2012

That Little Thing They Call Change


Life is a plethora of endings and new beginnings. Just like how a green being sprouts out of the ashes of volcanic lava. Just like how the pupa morphs into those fluttering butter beauties. Or maybe as simple as that haircut you got this morning. 

Change is beautiful. Accept it. Rejoice with it. Change with it.


Thursday, July 12, 2012

Old House


What lies beneath your cobwebbed doors?
A house in full abandon
Tortured etchings on the wall,
each stroke, a story, I reckon.

Shattered windows, shy of light,
alley cats that littered
Empty patios, gray and blue,
its once upon a time splendor
muted by oblivion.

Old house, old house
Whatever are you now?


Sunday, July 8, 2012

Dreaming of Water


Last night I had a dream of brown murky waters. It was a flood that me and my friends bravely passed through. We were riding a truck, like the ones they use to collect garbage, and I remember the strong currents filling it with more water. My bag fell, the messenger, sopping the paper innards. 

The vision changed and I see a car stuck in clear blue mud. I hear someone say that you'd have to dig a particular number of inches to successfully save the car. From my peripheral vision, I could see him, a working scholar of our school tattling about with his yellow shirt on. 

It's strange but the next thing I remember was that I was accompanying my aunt to another aunt's residence. The house was located atop a hill and on the edges of its crevasses was a spring. The same rusty spring we had on our elementary school. It was bubbling-or it bubbled, dunno, the details seem too blurry, and I saw my aunt touch the water and I see the ripple gliding on the surface. I remember wooden monkey bars and the faint color of varnish on its dusty surface. 

The scene shifted to a coffee shop and I saw Superman singing. Maybe it was a school program, the students filled the space outside. He exited the cafe when the song was about to hit the chorus, it was Tagalog and I seem to know the tune but all I can remember were the lyrics. "Ikaw ang pinapangarap ko", he'd look at me, discreetly but with matching gesticulations. I suppressed reacting-but I put my tongue out to react anyway. This was the only waterless part of the dream. 

Then we were in a house, a classmate and I. I remember being in front of the urinal. My classmate was beside me and a strict spinster lady was monitoring us from whatever could happen. I grasped for the tub filled with tap water, dark in my sight, I knew it was clear. The handles were broken so I reached for the pail beside it. My classmate unzipped his pants but before I could see it, the spinster came in. I went out and I remember her face, my Grade 4 teacher.

And then I woke up. I'm not superstitious but the gravity of water images on my dream scared me that I remembered rebuking all of the bad things that could happen. It was 3:00 am

Friday, June 22, 2012

Rumor Has It

*A semi-Gossip Girl rampant from a boy who loves the show.

Spotted: The Princely Pauper, condemned by friends for loving a boy. Who wants ice cream? Make way for Rocky Road.

XOXO
Gossip Girl

Thursday, June 7, 2012

In Search Of

Inspiration


The author is currently in the brink of losing his sanity due to some unknown disease that won't allow him to construct a decent paragraph. He thinks that this is the moment to reflect and reshuffle his writing techniques since typing has not been kind to his craft and fingernails.

And so, 'til the odds be ever in his favor, and the writing gods proclaim him good enough for another round in the blogosphere, he'll take his time off and focus on something he's bound to focus on in the next few days anyway: school. 

Who knows, he just might find that needed vial of inspiration there. Ciao mia amicizia!

Much l♥ve,

Rei


Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Wide Awake


The spell of summer was finally broken and the illusion of scorching days on the beach were replaced by last semester's afterthoughts of what proved to be a mediocre school performance. Yes. The dreaded grades have arrived and since June is just around the bend, the Princely Pauper can't help but feel utterly panicky since he can't actually remember the last time he opened his Accounting books though he knew that there's a 5000-page catch-up he must do.

Looks like the boy got too focused on his summer revelry that he forgot that there are a million responsibilities to handle. But who can blame him honestly? Summer's the time to bury your feet on the sand and just lounge in bed even if it's already high noon. Summer's the time to just breath the breeze and let loose all the worldly worries-that's why they call it vacation, right?

But it's that moment before the new semester that's got him so tensed up. A bundle of changes will happen-new house, less Twitter, Superman at school, harder Accounting subjects; he can only pray that he's geared up for these significant life alterations. 

The summer sun has indeed worked it's magic and though he'll miss the carefree days it gave him, he must  now shoved it's sweet promise at the back of his closet and face his favorite responsibilities -_-

What he's happy though is that he's finally awake and can finally begin doing what he must. Nobody wants to be surprised by a surprise exam on the first day right?

Monday, May 14, 2012

Sandy Shores and Seas


I buried my feet on the sand while the lazy shore kissed the ocean. I watched its blackness slowly swallowing me and savored the sensation. The softness is orgasmic and the crazed me continued the afternoon excursion while the orange sun burned the blue gray skies.

I love the sea. It reminds me of freedom and danger, that life is still a vast expanse of unknown and only the brave dare see what lies beneath the waters.

The sea breeze blows my shirt while the whirling waves drench my shorts. I wanted to plunge in it's salty eternity, but health concerns forbid me.

And so I buried my feet on the sand while the lazy shore kissed the ocean. Someday soon, I'll kiss the sea too and I'll savor the sensation of its lofty waves swallowing me.


Saturday, May 5, 2012

Thirst

"When artists fall in love, their work invariably suffer."
~Gossip Girl

The dire need to write is tickling the corners of my mind. But unfortunately, all I can do these days is scribble a few verses here and there without the ability to construct a decent paragraph.

The thirst to write; is a desire I can never satiate. Wish I had the decency to make sense these days.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Nesting


The Daddy is an educator; excellent in Math, humble in character. He keeps the family in tact and though appears stern, we all know he has a soft spot for his daughters and often treats them with succulent dinners made by his own fingers.

The Mommy is a secretary for a government agency. She's an extreme organizer and keeps track of the house's cleanliness. She's the classic wife but she's allergic to kitchen duties and often leaves me to the dishwashing task.

The Ate is a high school student fresh of youth and ripe of pimples. She's the house supermodel, taking credit for her beautiful face that she got from Mom and Dad. We love dressing her up with laces and chiffon and she loves exchanging them with denim and cotton. She's the family artist and she spends her free time drawing or playing the piano.

The Bunso is the family singer, belting rhythms and melodies at the utmost ease. She's my confidante,  and she's got a fat bank account.

I ,on the other hand, am the frustrated family member; the red out of the all the blues, the spotted out of all the striped. I clean, I wash, I mop, I scrub; trying to earn a spot of the family I pictured to have. And although they nest me, the color of my feathers will never be enough to make me belong. 

Deep inside, I'm small and frail; broken shards decorate me. I just wonder how I'd look like displayed alone. 
i: Matryoshka Dolls


Wednesday, April 18, 2012

I've Gone Primitive


Seriously, thunderbolts should be a little more careful and make a U-turn every time they see telecommunication towers or broadband wires ahead. A careful drive won't hurt right? 

Anyway, I'm back from a three day hiatus after losing access to the world when both phone signals in our town and our internet connection jammed after an unprecedented thunderstorm last Sunday. Our internet's a bit lucky; it got fixed by a professional today since my efforts at hurdling wires and looping them all over weren't exactly helpful. But the unfortunate phone signals were still unfortunate. 

Being cut off from the fast lane made me realize that the life I had really was fast. Tweets to take note of, FB statuses to like, GM's to send; time literally takes a back seat every time I'm facing the computer. The last three days provided a breather that I realized I needed most.

It wasn't an easy road of course and I still am haunted with thoughts of living those past three days but one thing I'm thankful of is the focus it provided me. My chores at home were done with a bit more passion-if you consider humming tunes while doing it passion; it gave me time to read books thereby satisfying the literary thirst, and it gave me time to take care of Cousin Deb while she was in the hospital-which was both pain and pleasure.

Boredom well spent and a few learned lessons later, our internet's back with a vengeance that I'm too willing to satisfy. Now if only that phone signal starts catching up. Hoho. 


Saturday, April 14, 2012

Rumor Has It

*A semi-Gossip Girl rampant from the boy who loves the show.

Spotted: The Princely Pauper finally losing his stupidity. Looks like he stopped living with lies. How's the slap R? Did it hurt? The truth always does.

And as a word of advice to my Upper East Siders, it's never wise to brew bitterness unless of course, if its the early morning coffee.

XOXO
Gossip Girl

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Peeling Off


Because yellow is mellow
and everybody loves lemonade.
Say hello to skin burn. :)


. . . . . .

Happy 6000 views to my blog :D

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Rico and the Leather Cases


He fingers the leather wallet and let his hands caress the contours of the python skin. He opened it and removed the green entrails, careful not to make as much noise as possible. He counts the cash. One. Two. Three. Five hundred. He thinks of Rico and the torso he longed to touched. It's been weeks since and the stirring in his pants is more then he could bear.

He fingers the suede wallet-the red one from the fat lady.Opened it and once again counted the insides. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Seventy. He thinks of Rico whom he hadn't seen in weeks. He thinks of his member and the juices he never hesitated to swallow.

He fingers the purse. He couldn't remember where he got this piece, but the thickness of the embroidered case pushed  these unnecessary thoughts away. He unlatched the lock and retrieved the goodies with anticipation. Papers. Receipts. Visa's. Passport. He was disappointed 'til he saw a silver ring. I wonder how much this costs. He then remembers Rico and the warm feeling when he inserts it,  the way he plows his back, and the way he moans in between thrusts. 

He fingers the last one. Crocodile. From an aged priest he bumped into this morning. He opened it and pouted his lips when he saw the crumpled hundred peso bill. He was frustrated. If he'd never reach ten thousand, he won't be able to take Rico home.

He grabbed the leather jacket and strolled silently on the streets. Holding the ring on his fingers, he walked, hurriedly to the nearest pawnshop.

The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Obsession


Tuesday, April 3, 2012

The Irony of Decay


Amnesia is not always a disease.
Sometimes the decay of memory
brings solace to a dying soul.
So plunge into Lethe
and relive the life you've always breathed for.
Because Cupid is a tease
and decay could only be sweeter.

The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Amnesia

Friday, March 30, 2012

Road to Recovery: Day 14

March 20, 2012
It's All Coming Back
"I'm slowly drowning in memories of him" <12:51> Krissy and Ericka
Slowly, the memories creep back. The vines of the past strangle my neck and I realize that I am suffocating, simply by the thought of him.

How do you forget when everything reminds you of him? How do you continue breathing when even the air that you breath carries with it his remnants, the carcasses of a past long due? How do you survive knowing that the best part of you has left?

What pains the most is that you can never fight for a love that's wrong. What you can only do is let go, let the film of happiness roll by and silently wish that you never thought of watching the movie in the first place.
Lesson No. 2: Do not stalk. Do not text. Trust me Mon, the more you get attached, the more hell will break lose. Keep your composure. Keep your distance.
The truth is, I still love him. And the many denials have done me no good.

Monday, March 26, 2012

Summer Stain Anthem


I grasped the butcher's knife and pressed it lightly against my shirt. Dusk has fallen, and the gasoline station in all its abandoned glory felt even more cold and uninviting.

"Perfect", I thought. The setting is movie-like, that scene  where the boy and the girl met one scorching afternoon in April. You were a perfect gentleman, nonchalant at first, but my constant gazes finally made you look my way.

You promised me forever and I unbuttoned your shirt.
You told me you loved me so I lifted up my skirt.
. . . . . . .
Our whirlwind romance, they never understood,
so I murdered them. I murdered them.

The last one was my favorite. She was my mother and her screams while I scraped off her skin was the most beautiful melody. Left her warm though, in the back of that van we once owned. I wonder how Mrs. Colombo would react seeing her dead body next to her dog house. 

She told me you were ugly, so I cut off her tongue
Saw that she was struggling so I stabbed her left lung
. . . . . . .
Our whirlwind romance, they never understood
so I murdered them. I murdered them.

I grasped the butcher's knife and pressed it lightly against my shirt. Oh crap. Now I have your blood on my H&M's.

You laughed at my thoughts, I spit on your carcass
Our whirlwind romance you never understood
so I murdered you. I murdered you.
. . . . . . .

The sound of children coming home  from school woke me up from my revelry. It's time I make a song.


The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: A Criminal Mind


Sunday, March 25, 2012

Road to Recovery: Day 5

March 11, 2011
Taking Flight


For the first time in the last few days, I am speechless. Maybe I've grown tired of everything, of heartaches, and the endless Adele songs (that's me while listening to her "One and Only"), and of course, the many regrets one commits whilst trying to move on from a failed relationship. 

And so, since I'm starting to feel utterly exhausted from yearning for stuff that aren't supposed to be mine, I have concluded that this is the time to stop wishing for the past to return. It's too unhealthy. 

So have I recovered? I suppose so. Thuogh I expected that I could go on for months doing this, but I guess I just cannot. Writing these, I believe, have helped me through these crazy five days but to continue doing so would only bring back the memories of something that are not meant to be remembered. 

I wanted him to read this. I suppose that'll give justice to my work. But somehow there's a part in me that doesn't. 

Maybe it's the part that wants him back, not now. But maybe in the next few years, when both of us have matured enough. We're young, I get it. And if ever that time comes, I wouldn't give him any reason to let me go, because by that time, I will NEVER let him go. 

Or maybe its the part that had enough of him. The one that cried so much on sleepless nights, the one who dreamed that everythng was a nightmare, the one who wanted the happy mornings back, the one that got hurt.

But whichever part of me, its clear that he will always have a part in my heart (and this is a crappy line).

They say that freedom is a gift...
I'm ready to accept it. :)