Friday, April 26, 2013

Mortality Rate


Today I massacred a few dozen black ants. It was a painless, quick extermination with simply a wish of wet cloth and a bath of dishwashing liquid. The bubbles froth on the grey rug which seems to evoke the souls of the deceased insects, still unable to comprehend the immediate death they just encountered.

My hands reek of invisible blood, permeating the air in various convulsions. Nausea-ish, I finished washing the dishes and contemplated the number of lives eliminated by these same hands: four kittens, a few hundred ants and mosquitoes plus the unknown number of doomed kangkong blossoms and aloe vera I tried to plant with these un-green thumbs.

Blood-stained and guilty as charged, I rinsed what remains of the unseen goo along with the plates and forks we utilized for dinner. By the time we have breakfast on the morrow, our lips and stomachs too will be painted.

Summer Soundtrack



There's something about a summer song that simply vibrates a sort of bubble. It floats from the stereo and bursts effervescent energy, sparkling and sprinkling on warm dancing bodies. It has a spell that evokes cocoa and jasmine scents and tropical breezes and forever wildness.

But there are also those that simply float and mellow the universe. The kind of songs that brush on your cheeks and remind you of melodies from a time long ago and baby's breath blossoms wreathed on feathered hair, of summer love affairs and nostalgic gallivanting

The summer spell continues. And I guess I have good music to make it through. Cheerio.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

363rd


Drowsiness is a daily spell one combats with this feverish April month. And as I float here in infinite boredom, the swell of balloon memories burst and bit by bit, I recalled that summer 363 days ago.

Strangely, all I could remember well were the windows, bright and sepia, filtering into the room golden summer shimmer; while the rest are images, vague and hollow memories, broken shards of a yesterday afternoon like when the sun hit the back of his nakedness, of his strawberry kisses, the palm of his hands and of how he tried to help me wash my clothes. Fragments fluttered furiously like an explosion of stars on dark lightless nights and every thought blossomed into how I fell in and out of love with your impossible adorability and a**hole-ness.

A hurricane remained welled here in my chest and I guess it was wrong to choose to cuddle loneliness and disparity, it prolonged the agony when I could have easily just shoved all these thoughts aside. But looking back. it doesn't matter. A complete "moving on" requires time, patience and acceptance and I guess I have that now, a renewed sense of self.

And as I float here in infinite boredom, the swell of balloon memories burst bit by bit. And there they float to infinite oblivion.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

The Conundrum


How do you share your loneliness? How do you cleverly put in words the absence of getting in the moment, committing to the present, without betraying what it is? How do you define emptiness when there's nothing to describe? How do you say floating minus the logic and the letters? How do you say hopeless when the mere thought evokes multiple strings of hope? Is there really real hopelessness? Because I don't know if I am.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Sheer, Utter Randomness


Transitioning from blue pen to black and now to pencil, yet the dire drive to weave words out of brain farts is certainly still a struggle. I tried to brainstorm and web ideas but I guess trying is fruitless when your definition of try is think.

Mostly I'm in space these days contemplating on how to make rainbow colored coke or rainbow colored mushrooms in canned coke containers (I have a fascination with c-words, sorry) and I guess my most productive activity these days are my daily house chores.

I'm not complaining. I mean, a clean house is a clean house, and a little break from all this couch-potato-ing is refreshing. It's just that I wish that there was something else I was doing. Like a vacation to the moon or something.

But yeah. A summer vacation ain't a summer vacation without a little boredom to sprinkle on top, eh?

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Literally Bittersweet


With slow and unconscious pilgrimage, I ate the E and let the milk chocolate melt in my mouth. Only had half the triangular bar, but it was a defining moment for a budding diabetic future but despite that, I take pride in the fact that these Toblerones are from Saudi. Smell that? That's luxury, camel puss and sun-baked sand inscribed in sexy Arabic.

And though I am not entirely an ignoramus to the wonders of Hershey's, Nutella and their Belgian counterparts, imported and foreign made chocolates are a luxury to a family like ours. I can only count with my fingers the number of times I've eaten such within one year and fortunately and unfortunately, today was the first time I gobbled the aphrodisiac in 2013.

The irony however was that I'm eating these sweet confections in the verge of a bitter moment. The dark chocolate would have been more fitting, eh noh?

Friday, April 5, 2013

Sand and Sun


Sandy feet and sun-kissed skin. I guess my summer began with the right amount of dipping and tanning. These thoughts and more as I sit here, at home, reminiscing yesterday's fun overload (read: pizza and ice cream ♥)  on top of me bearing the pains of sun-burnt skin.

To be honest, I crave for the sea: I love the breeze, the azure infinity that stretches across the horizon, the endless sun that glimmers, the baked sand that filters in your feet and simply the thought of how the sea connotes summer fun and summer escapades.

It was a wonder though why I opted for the pool instead of the beach. Chronic bipolar-ism? Or maybe I really am impulsive. And to think I've never bathed at sea for more than a year now. Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Curiosity Did Not Kill The Cat


Life, no matter how very much alive it may be, is a potpourri of deaths. Death in various reincarnations and phases that occur at various intervals, sometimes even simultaneously, is faced by the everyday man that treads a mortal Earth. The decaying of skin, forgetting, the death of spirit, all but normal and natural kinds.

But the worst of these is the dying of intelligence, the drying up of curiosity, assigning to oblivion entire civilizations of knowledge that could have been grasp by the turning of a page. This is the worst because this  in itself is dying before the incoming death. The cessation of an idea is but the most tragic.

And as I sit here, musing and entertaining thoughts of my accounting literature, I've come to fully comprehend the horror of my intellectual  drought. I am a directionless boat floating in an ocean of knowledge. I can grasp what's below me but decidedly I didn't. I can grasp what's beyond me but decidedly I didn't. Placidity has ways of conjuring folly and the stagnant state that I am in is decidedly putting me in danger.
xii: Death

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