Sinking

Today I sink delirious into this feeling of falling into, I don’t know. It’s 5:39PM and I’m just waiting for the chance to log out. I opened my mom’s Facebook account, something she doesn’t really open or pretty much can’t given the situation, and I just got S-A-D.

I guess it’s different to look at images in your head, in comparison. The blow is more static, electric down to your spine, when you look at the REAL difference, the real loss.

One night my mother didn’t let me sleep, unintentionally I suppose. It all started with me asking how she is because I want to know, and because I felt like she needed the chance to say her peace. How do I know? Because sometimes she would grab every opportune moment to say something: to complain, to compare.

It ended up with her saying a lot, some of which left me shuddered behind my wall. It ended up with me falling asleep to the sound of her voice, her voice telling stories that define my nightmares or what I mean by hate and ill-wishes. It ended up to me waking up to her hugging me, in tears, as I look away or pretend not to wake up because who in their right mind would like to see their mothers break down to pieces? I guess none. It ended up with a cycle that was tireless, pretty much my day-to-day, only in rewind. She felt like a fading picture and I didn’t want to look.

So in these satire moments when I dare, I crumble and sink endlessly.

Mornings at the Garden Loft of 5

I have to admit, every day when I get to our office, I try to find a place in my mind where I can be quiet and write (to you).

But when I see the things I have to do, or have not done from yesterday, I sink into my goody good shoes and decide to scratch off the things that must be done over the things I want to do. That is every day. I'm not complaining,  because I like my job. It doesn't feel purposeful, and the creativity it requires is thin. It's fun to work where I work, people are cool, relaxed, on the go, and young (not literally, entirely). But I don't forget that I'd like to

Talk to you
Have daing salad with you
Marathon with you (not exercise)
Hug cats with you
Pass notes
With you

When I'm in my commute, quiet mostly, I wonder if I still have a page in your book. I miss how you write my initials like a tattoo, only better, because it isn't painful, just ticklish.

Yeah, the first time I saw my name on your page I imagined how it must be kakakiliti, then kilig.

Lamming 3

I can tell if something's feral if I give in to telling my best friend. Because she's a woman who can't be bothered, unless you are me. (feelings)

But I don't want to abuse the free pass, because I am me.

Anyway. Let's seal a memory.

-----

The first time I ever broke
a rule, with memory
was when I was 6--I
climbed a pole
slid, flashed, laughed
did it over again.

So I raise a glass
for you, people of endless spinning
hearing none but a cheer
do at least once!
Do all over again
if it was fun.

It is fun if it churned your insides
to a sparkle seen in mirrored eyes

Fun if it tasted like tomorrow
and tastes the same ‘til now
spicy at the tip of your tongue,
like a name
or a song
of a dream only you would know how to spell

My first time to be scolded
for having aimless fun
childhood giggles championing
foolishness
was when I planted my feet, on ground
unknowing of who waits
hopeful for a face
breaking sobs, in between
tiny hands and little feet
dirty soiled silly dreams
turning to a 90, stretching out
hands gracefully gripping air,
realizing for sure
that none.

SONG: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBVX5qOtvA8

Drifting off

If you’ve ever found yourself fixated on a season that you feel a blur in you when that particular season shifts, then you and I must be sharing a gene or so. I feel queasy over losing summer without accomplishing something big or grand or legen, wait for it, dary.

My journal has been empty for weeks now and although I am open to the idea of overlooking the big and small, I am still badgering myself over my dullness. I’ve been making new friends in the office, though I must admit, office friendships are what I would suspect to be unsound and temporary, based on the little and the lot that I’ve experienced and heard from people’s stories.

Yesterday, I was drifting off while this new colleague told me of her love life, of this guy who once broke her heart but is now bothering her over a made out session they recently had, and about her hot friend’s perfect life but melodramatic way of living. It’s a lot to take, so I drift off as I try to listen. I’ve been smoking a lot lately. I’m not happy about that.

While drifting off aka pretending I was listening, I managed to note down three mildly peculiar things about myself and what I was feeling in the moment. I feel fortunate to remember those three things until this morning. I know this blog post is a heavy load of me-me-me things, but then again this is my page so if I would like to start each of my sentences with an I, I shall.

 1. I think my friend V thinks I’m a good listener. She’s a very talkative girl, and I think any secret I tell her will not be a secret at all. She’s a free-flow of information, like the internet, and I think she thinks I’m a good listener. I wonder if she can notice me checking out random cute clothes in the background. Boy, our building’s smoking lounge is lovely; despite the dilapidated chairs.

 2. I have been recently arrested in my own head for quite a while. At first, I thought it was just a random swing of craziness but it happened again this morning. It happened the other night, yesterday and this morning, as I was trying to get over one difficult level of Candy Crush in my commute. It scares me, when my head spins heavy like that. I don’t even know how to describe the feeling. All I know is it makes me breathe heavier and my heart beats faster when I get arrested in my head. It’s like I hear voices and all the thoughts crash into one mash of scrambled noise. It isn’t peaceful. This morning, I felt like crying. I don’t understand why it happens or what triggers it. I just know, every time it does happen, I want to hurt myself.

 3. I like taking selfies while waking outdoors. Literally, while walking down clear sidewalks. I don’t even feel ashamed nor fear what the passing cars would think of me. I never really liked cars anyway. Wouldn’t care less about what the people in those cars would think. I don’t like people.

So to officially bid my beloved season goodbye, I have been carrying an umbrella in my bag every day. It made me miss my college umbrella—a hot pink one. I wish I don’t lose my green umbrella now. I hate it when I lose my umbrella. It’s very hard to find a good umbrella nowadays.

What have you lost lately?

What am I to you?

Today’s the day I’m going back to you.

I find myself feeling busier than fuck. Interesting how hugely little turns in events can affect a life. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not doing enough. At times, I feel like I’m doing too much. Which is the greater evil? It depends on my mood swing—as everything else pretty much does.

It always starts with a girl. I will go on and on and on again, it will always be because of a girl. I live in no man’s island, and sorry to the cock blockers out there, no amount of girth can make me bother. Or wait, I’d probably puke a little. Then again, puke is vagina. Fuck, everything is vagina!

My coin purse is a vagina.

When I fold my arm, there’s a vagina.

Chicken ala king, ala vagina.

I want to go to Vigan, or vagina.

So today’s the day I tell you a secret—as if everything I put on this anonymous blog isn’t secret enough. Or pretty much, how anonymous is this anyway? The answer is anonymous until someone finds out.

It’s 6:01PM and I don’t have business to do overtime work so I’ll be fucking up anytime now. I still have an eye infection to treat, oh yeah, today’s the first day I came to work without my blonde hair. No one noticed the change, as much as I thought they would, because I am wearing my super cool fuchsia Ray-bans the whole day, yes even as I type right now, because my left eye is swollen. Mind you, our office is very lenient when it comes to outfits—thank god—I feel like dieting til I lose half of what makes me me because I want to wear naked clothes because it’s so cold in our office. It’s so cold. It’s so vagina!

So the secret is, I don’t like hanging questions. If you’ve ever met a person who talks a lot, and asks a lot, and bothers to ask even the dumbest questions about the most atrocious details of social conduct, expect that that person is either of these two things: 1) not going to let a question rest without an answer, or is 2) me!

Few days ago, I went Amsterdam on E. Told her I missed her. Meant it.

Few days ago, I learned to sing a song for E, because I thought I wanted to ask. Didn’t need to, but felt the worse evil, the want, so I asked. She answered, pretty much. Ain’t it pretty. Vaginal answers!
What the fuck is this thing saying? What the fuck does this thing want? What the FACT, she’s delicious.

I like delicious. I like delicious feelings and moments of retro succulence that I can only go hyper with my feral fertile mind. And I guess, just in case she won’t rest until I answer. She’s vagina. Clearly, how wrong is it to see people as an orifice! But then again, were you even listening? What is a vagina to me?

YUM!

Tumbler

Back in college, I broke up with someone because she demeaned Starbucks. Well, not directly, but rather, Starbucks' price marks. She hated the fact that I go to Starbucks at least twice a day (it was planner season); thus suffer the bad effects of too much caffeine like a palpitating heart, difficulty in sleeping (to no sleep at all), and frequent heart burns.

All those reasons fuelled just how much she hated the part where a visit at Starbucks is P200, at minimum. In hindsight, I didn’t realize that she was coming from that place where she was a college student but working as the breadwinner of her family. I was too fucked over the idea that she (jokingly?) required sex at least three times a day—which I said I couldn’t.

So I broke up with her because, judge me all you want, but to me it was and still is as sound as the break of dawn… I said, Starbucks meant more to me. I said something to the flavour of, I’ve been with Starbucks for years and it has comforted me through countless number of bad days—though at an expense—but still, there for me; while she, was a newcomer. That considering, Starbucks is a more valued friendship-relationship that if I were going to choose, since she was completely making me quit the coffee habit, if I were going to choose, I’d choose Starbucks because it is a more loyal friend. (Later on, the girl did end up ‘cheating’ with someone else, thus the soundness of me choosing Starbucks over her, brava.)

I don’t remember how she took it, badly I would assume. I don’t even know who else knew about it, it was, I’d love to think, a private breakup; but if people knew about it, I know judgments were passed. Despite so, I still think choosing Starbucks was the good choice (if it isn’t the right one), because years over and Starbucks is still there—a home for P200 at minimum.

Today, I am mad over my head because the beautiful tea tumbler that I bought for myself as a birthday gift to me (yes, I gift myself with mundane things), was lost last night. That tumbler was the most beautiful thing because it had star-like cut holes as an orifice and it was a clear glass with multitudes of greens as leaves for design. It was perfect because during my last birthday, I took steps to be Wiccan and more in-touch with my earthy zone. That was my tea tumbler, because I drink from tea leaves (sans tea bags) and the star-cut lid was the perfect filter. It was perfect because I bought that to console myself of the bomb that exploded from the core of our house. It was just a tumbler for the outside world, but motherfuck, it was my sanity set to plastic jug. (I found a photo online)

And it got lost. It got lost last night. Judge me all you want, but sometimes we rest ourselves to the most mundane objects (because people can’t be trusted really), so objects develop souls, and these souls attach themselves too tightly on our hands that when we lose grip, the hands just feel so weightless. I feel hollowed.

Dancing

I write these words to you,

 

river of foaming dreams.

 

Your mouth is a poison of bitter taste,

 

your blood the chilling song I hear.

 

In this room of jazz

 

crippled vintage trees,

 

I am a patient rock

 

dancing on your skin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Magnetic Fields - Dancing in Your Eyes