Thursday, January 17, 2013

This Isn't Goodbye

The author is currently busy juggling academics and personal issues; and though he does not wish to abandon, even temporarily, the blog that has made his life way more exciting that how it actually is, he must. A break is necessary not only to rethink and reconnect with his literature, but also to make sense and make way for life outside these spaces. He wishes that his readers will still be his readers when he comes back. And by the grace of God, he will. He must. He's made his mind that he will. 

And so until then, au revoir. This isn't good bye. Only a brief interlude of the songs we've sung together.

Post No. 222

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Serious Blabberings

Haven't blogged since forever and I may have a serious case of writer's block. Yet to discover how to read well because the last time I savored a book was Kafka on the Shore, my latest read, which spanned a good one month.

Feel like floating these days. Self-induced insomnia is a bitch and proved to be an un-sexy way of mental degradation. These thoughts have made me resurrect my fear of Alzheimer's.

Also suffering attention deficiency, both from inside and outside-ish. Inside in a sense that I cannot focus on a lot of things and outside, from outside parties-signs of a premature KSP (Kulang Sa Pansin) Syndrome.

There really is probably death while still alive because right now I feel like I'm six-feet under in an old tattered knock-off designer suit buried beneath a thick sheet of stress. And I thought stress had a 'til death-do-us-part vow,

Meanwhile, in other non-death news, yet to check Life of Pi. So yeah. Cheerio.

Much love, 

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Post No. 220

Words and thoughts fluttered above my head and the eerie feeling of floating resurfaces while Lana del Rey with her rich velvet songs sings in the background, her dark hair, clouded in circles around her face. I feel death by the window. Dark marshmallows cover the azure sky and my lashes are dry of gazing at the grey emptiness.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

A is for Ash

Words jumped up and down the pages of my journal as I flipped them one last time. I fingered the corners, the dust habituating in between fluttered in the air and the many memories of time spent scribbling verses here and there exploded with bittersweet nostalgia.

My memories of you are the parasites that I've buried in this notebook and for the many months that passed, these have stayed in these leaves, caged in metaphors and cerebral poops that have unfortunately, ultimately poisoned me. Writing about you was therapeutic, but in the long run, the words that I have expressed are the very same words that haunt me in my dreaming.

So I fingered the pages, and triggered by the sense of renewal, tore them one by one and burned them in the middle of a clearing somewhere back. The embers glowed in anticipation as they fiddled and licked the ink of my paper thoughts, reducing them to nothingness-ashes of the what could-have-been's.

And as the afternoon sun danced it's tendrils on my face, I watched the wind blow the ash-turned memories into the sunset.Oblivion is such a fanatical concept. But we can always assume that it is achievable.