Manic Everything

Convulsing lids, fluttering lashes; the once hushed hum of the alarm clock buzzing, building up to a thunderous roar. Reverie no longer cradling, actuality slowly shaking your body back to the still dark corners of your space. Breathe in, breathe out. You down a few seconds to adjust your eyes to the darkness and recognize the things that are ahead of you today. “Oh God, it’s Monday again,” your subconscious almost shouted in consternation. You are suddenly reminded of the ogres, ghosts and monsters you mindlessly clothed with invisible cloaks and locked in metal pits of your run of the mill prison. You realize that you now have to pick up the papers and fight battles that were frozen in time by procrastination and insurmountable amount of excitement to leave the battlefield early armed with a thousand promises of rest, relaxation, recreation. And then it once again crossed your though— the way the word rolls in your tongue, its tip gently teasing your teeth, pushing your mouth to feign a kiss and briefly letting go just before vibrations escape your moist lips—Friday. Gasps. Orgasms. Sporadic outburst of weekend memories. You shut your eyes tight, as if sending a message. And yes, you tried to communicate something, a silent plea that’s almost like a prayer but not quite. For the second time you woke up and realized you just slept again, you’re late, your recent call did not go through and it is still your most hated day. You spent a stupid amount of time paralyzed in rage and rejection from the lack of attention that seeps into your veins with no intention of expulsion or redemption. Or perhaps rehearsing, in between your inner turmoil and hissy fits, what you have to say when he asks why you didn’t settle for the life-affirming psychobabble optimistic peddlers say. Instead, you went for a solid middle man salute paired with an angst-y “because fuck you, that’s why”. For what point is there to explain to someone omniscient, omnipotent, omni-everything?! You gingerly left your no longer comforting bed and decided to give yourself and everyone else a hellish time. And whilst you bask in the glory of your sanctimonious suffering, a billion things continue to unfurl, unfold and reveal all around the world. An intricate web of sunrises and car crashes, commencements and conclusions, first cries and last breaths, prolonged life and ended sufferings, all of which are oblivious to you. Unless of course you realize at the end of the day that one thing will remain certain, He may not always be there when you call him but he is always, always on time.



Of impulses and prompts

The little line pulsated impatiently against the sprawled white canvass, almost like a heartbeat—only it was less dramatic and meaningful.The unending stretch of void surprisingly evoked a sense of mystery rather than the bore of something empty, of starting from scratch, of filling it. I was daunted…as I vowed never to stain such immaculate and promising blankness with my nonsense. Yet it shamelessly presented its naked self with the invitation of being touched, used, and made into something more significant.

And as if the brazen proposal wasn’t enough to stirthe spectator’s lust,the cursor, thirsty for meaning, rebelliously flicker as if asking and daring to spill the bottled up emotions. Needless to say, with the sudden invigorated music of tapping fingers, the union of the spectator and the once immaculate sheet was a success. I gave in to the need to release the negativity suppressed inside me despite the lack of verbose and strength to even fully describe the events that took place. Clearly, the need to release the darkness, seal and throw it away is stronger.

So I will try to write again, another attempt at chasing Mars.

Nostalgia and Hope

We were sitting on a bench at the park located just a stone’s throw away from my office. I just had a bout of nose bleeding–third for the week. During that time, I was a regular visitor of Makati Medical’s emergency rooms especially when my work shift is unfriendly. “I’m sick”, I whimpered like a little girl and he nodded slowly in agreement. We fell in silence, a different kind, one that is heavy yet comforting, telling but not deafening, warm but not too much so as to overpower the dampness of the newly-bathed greenery. It was a gloomy afternoon in June 2011.

“We are all sick, one way or another,” he gently whispered. The peacefulness in his voice sounded like music; I listened to his words until each reverberating sound dissolved and blended with the humid air. I don’t know how it started but somehow we ended up talking about death and passing and for the first time, I felt fear emanating from his almost always calm self.  It was amusing to know he’s still human because really, I don’t believe anyone could be as strong. And then suddenly, it dawned in me–his fear of people leaving, his own fear of leaving, the passing of his hated dad.

Yet I took advantage of the situation by putting him on the spot because I rarely get to do it. Between the two of us, I was always the one getting bullied or thrown into awkward situations.

“Say, what if I’m dying in a year?” I asked intently. He gave me the usual stern WTF-are-you-talking-about look. “Don’t give me that look…it’s me we’re talking about here, not you,” I probed. He was shaking his head and feigning a smile when he answered. “Maybe you should stop seeing X and start seeing me instead, if that’s the case.”

We laughed at the impossibility of the thought. Then there was awkward silence.

He looked at his once immaculate looking handkerchief, the one I just soiled.

“Write me letters,” his voice was hoarse and it cracked like a hard-headed walnut that didn’t want to give in to the force of a nutcracker. For a second I thought he was going to cry.

“Or blog…everyday. Write your thoughts. If you’re going to die in a year, I would love that. I want to get inside your head, I’m tired of reading signs, I want to hear your voice even when you’re gone, I want each and every remaining memory to last. But you wouldn’t have to do that because you’ll stay right here.” His last words were stressed with finality.

I think he was about to say something else but then he got cut off by my alarming phone. “Break time’s over, back to work,” I announced and we went separate ways.

It was a gloomy afternoon in June 2011. And you know what? We fit just right in.

With all the conviction my sickly self can muster, I want to stress that despite all the bad things happening in my life right now, I do not want to leave yet; I’ve given it a thought one time but let’s reserve that story for another time. I want to live because the truth here is, after 24 years of living, I still haven’t lived yet. At least, not the way I would have had I not build so much walls and limitations for myself. But every day, every single time I get rushed to the hospital, every moment I feel weak, I am reminded of the sad fact that yes, we will all grow old and wrinkly. Our lives are terminal. I have this idea that when our time in this world comes to end, we will lay on our deathbeds and get flashbacks of how we lived our lives. And that scares me because really, there’s not so much to go back to. Not so much to remember. Not so much to put me into peaceful rest. My memory has abandoned me at a young age. It must have been those atrocious amounts of anesthesia swimming in my system, or the fact that the memories are not strong enough to make a mark.

This blog will probably just be another waste of bandwidth. Another hope waiting to be extinguished by stress, forgetfulness, neglect.  Another unsuccessful attempt at leaving my footprints out there for a lost soul to find. Another proof that I am the god of unfinished business.

But see, forgive me if I believe this could also be that one thing I am able to pursue, that one thing that could make me remember and give me something to look back and forward to.  A voice in my head wonders what would happen if I give this space a piece of me every so often, will I be taught discipline? Will I be taught courage to graciously and truthfully spill myself out here? Will be taught humility to share and admit my shallowness and flaws?

I really can’t tell but there this small bit of hope here. I would like to hold on to that hope for all the it’s worth.

Maybe this time, we’ll make it work, self.

Endless Roots

I have to tell you the truth; my roots are everywhere.

They turn into grasses, bushes, or grow into beautiful flowers

But never trees

Strong, rooted, fruit-bearing trees that are meant to stand the test of times.

They never do

But maybe this one will

So I am trying.


Because they say a bold attempt is half success

And they say so many contradicting things

And true enough, they are fools at times

But I know, we know, it’s always worth the try–

Losing and finding pieces ourselves

In writing

In planting seeds

In rooting ourselves to solid ground

In letting roots grow

In growing.

So here I am again,



Finding a healthy soil to grow these roots in.