Missed Opportunities

Fragments of You, Fragments of me

2012-01-23T21:03:00.000+08:00

I keep collecting pieces of you. Everywhere. (Where is just a matter of time, a matter of circumstance, a matter of remembering.) Some days finding you is a happy thing, on most days I wish I could just... wander away. Forget. Deny the collection. But I keep them under lock and key -- in an inconspicuous box beside my mug of pencils and my cups of coffee. Sometimes I lay them out piece by piece, carefully organizing them and reorganizing them until I get some semblance of wholeness. Until I've rearranged the story into one that's believable and present and good, but only always fleetingly so.

Two months ago I was reading Didion's A Year of Magical Thinking. "Dinner and then gone." It was something that resonated far beyond the words (Far beyond "dinner", far beyond "gone").

Everyday is Yes and No. Everyday is pulling and pushing between remembering and forgetting, then guilt and/or pacification (not necessarily in that order).

I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what to do with every one else. But I'm trying. My best.

I can't write. Not about you. Hopefully, not yet.

Song For You

2012-01-03T22:39:00.000+08:00

So today I wrote a song for you

Cause a day can get so long
And I know its hard to make it through
When you say theres something wrong

So Im trying to put it right
Cause I want to love you with my heart
All this trying has made me tight
And I dont know even where to start

Maybe thats a start

Cause you know its a simple game
That you play filling up your head with rain
And you know you are hiding from your pain
In the way, in the way you say your name

And I see you
Hiding your face in your hands
Flying so you wont land
You think no one understands
No one understands

So you hunch your shoulders and you shake your head
And your throat is aching but you swear
No one hurts you, nothing could be sad
Anyway youre not here enough to care

And youre so tired you dont sleep at night
As your heart is trying to mend
You keep it quiet but you think you might
Disappear before the end

And its strange that you cannot find
Any strength to even try
To find a voice to speak your mind
When you do, all you wanna do is cry

Well maybe you should cry

And I see you hiding your face in your hands
Talking bout far-away lands
You think no one understands
Listen to my hands

And all of this life
Moves around you
For all that you claim
Youre standing still
You are moving too
You are moving too
You are moving too
I will move you

Things I Like (A Partial List)

2012-01-03T10:12:00.001+08:00

I like my lazy mornings. They're rare (because: a) I am always asleep in the mornings, b) I wake up too late and c) I am probably cramming something like mad) and always appreciated. Today I'm having a particularly laaazy morning, just fresh out of the festivities of days past. I'm mostly unthinking and unprepared even with having to go to school fast approaching (say, two hours from now). Maybe this nonchalance is a bad thing, but right now it feels good. I mean, I feel like I should have done schoolwork... ?

I tumbled out of bed sometime after 8 and proceeded to make a breakfast of corned beef, omelet and toasted bread. I'm not the type of person to just grab whatever. I like things complete. I got it from my mom. It can never just be longganisa and rice; it has to be longganisa and rice and tomato omelet. Or it can never just be adobo, it has to be adobo and itlog na maalat and kamatis and sibuyas.

While I wait for my corned beef to turn out crispy just the way I like most things, I grind some coffee beans and start my coffee. I like my coffee brewed, and slightly sweet, no cream. I don't like it steaming hot, but I don't like it warm either -- I like it right at the point before it cools down to warm.

I've just cleared the fog blocking my view of the days to come. I've taken out my planner/journal and I'm filling out spaces. I like planning my life, imagining it full and well-lived. It doesn't matter if it pushes through or not (which is usually the case), which I guess is sort of funny.

I like tradition, and routine, and being in my safe place because it reminds me that not all things have to change. It reminds me that I'm not leaving behind the person that I was yesterday, or the year before. That I'm still myself, even for those little moments of sameness.

----

Anyway. Happy 2012 from my family to yours!

2011-11-03T18:31:00.002+08:00

You try and forget.

It never happened. It never happened.

Skirts

2011-10-14T00:17:00.000+08:00

For the first time since high school ended, I wore a skirt to school. It was the kind of thing that I make a big deal out of because, well, I'm not exactly the skirt-sort-of-girl. And what I was thinking was that as soon as I got home, I'll share this with mom. I stopped. I realized I could never. The realization was so sudden, because how could I have forgotten? So I felt a little bit silly and a lot stupid because I was crying in a jeepney on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Lights Will Guide You Home

2011-10-13T00:04:00.003+08:00

Wednesday started as how normal Wednesdays do -- with the sun rising in the east and me sleeping soundly in bed and not being able to witness it.

It was such a coincidence -- a blessing in disguise -- that I decided to be lazy that day. The night before, my head was throbbing and my nose was running, and I know it really isn't much of an excuse to be absent. But I was. I'll always remember the day fondly -- with my mom mostly lounging in bed, and me doing plates. It was nice and easy going, just as how I like things to be.

But night time came, and so did everything else. One moment we were about to have dinner, and the next we were rushing towards the hospital. My mom couldn't breathe. The darkness was suffocating, and for a moment it was a good thing, not being able to think through the panic. At one point along the boulevard, we were stuck in traffic and there was nothing we could do. A second of realization washed over me. Was my mom still breathing? Did she still have a pulse? A part of me didn't want to know because really, it was silly to think about my mom not breathing. So I checked her pulse, and checked her breath but I couldn't know. I could not know.

We arrived. My Dad was shouting. "Humihinga pa ba?" I held her face (her beautiful, beautiful face). It felt wrong. Flaky. Almost cold. Distant. Forever and, finally, the medics took over. I knew.

I remember writing something that goes "Everything is a cycle in its own time." The night was young at 8:00 PM or was it 9? They got a heartbeat. (Her heart stopped?!) I went in. Filled in paperwork. Her name is all I remember writing.

I saw her, but couldn't really. Not really. Her eyes were gone. Open, but gone. My dad said something something something brain dead. And I thought, no. NO. Brain dead is lonely movies and books that make you cry, and not your own mother who's supposed to be well and happy, and having dinner with her family at 7 in the evening. No. I kept telling myself, No... no.

I lost myself between that time and the time that was to come. I lost myself in talking to my mom's mom and her sister and her brother. Explaining through static and tears and breaths, everything that happened and everything that did not. I lost myself in a 7-11 -- coffee and tissue because the night is long and the years to come... longer. I lost myself while getting a room because I was thinking, why not? Why won't I get a room? We were going to stay, and did it matter if it was for months or years? I lost myself in errands of buying this and that -- buying food for my dad who wasn't able to eat dinner; buying Chowking for my lola who couldn't go hungry because of diabetes. And I lost myself when while buying Chowking, I had to run back to the hospital knowing nothing.

Doctors, doctors, doctors. Everywhere, surrounding my mom. And when I was about to go in, the curtain was pulled to my face like they do in the movies. And I did not understand. Did not want to understand. I looked around waiting for someone to say something, and no one did but my tito's arms that just grabbed me and then I knew. Everything and nothing, at the same time. We watched and waited as the doctors pumped her and for the first time in years, my dad hugged me. And we held onto each other as we watched her fade away...

I love you, Ma.

1:50 AM
6 October 2011

Time Travel

2011-09-12T20:16:00.000+08:00

Get Me Through the Day

2011-09-12T01:45:00.000+08:00

I haven't been music-hunting like I used to, but here are my Semester Albums (meaning, what gets me through long commutes home and monotonous drafting hours).

Tourist History (2010) - Two Door Cinema Club

Two Door Cinema Club is just an instant pick-me-up! Their music just makes me want to run around in circles and do cartwheels. They also make me draft faster.

Bring Me Your Love (2008) - City and Colour

City and Colour is actually just one man. And he's pretty clever, really, because his name is Dallas Green. See what he did there! (Take a moment to reflect, I won't judge you if you don't get it...) To be honest though, it took a while before his music settled with me. The trigger was when I saw him on an episode of One Tree Hill and I don't know, it made me realize how romantic and honest his music is.

Hands All Over (2010) - Maroon 5

Or anything Maroon 5, actually. I've been a fan since high school! Seeing them live just made me fall even more in love with ~~Adam Levine~~ them.

Bon Iver (2011) - Bon Iver

I regret putting this on whenever I do because I usually do so while working on my plates. What their music makes you want to do is, to curl up with a warm cup of tea on the sofa while watching the rain fall and pondering about your life choices. And then you fall asleep after about 5 minutes of that.

xx (2009) - The xx

Just, beautiful.

What I Do

2011-09-05T04:57:00.001+08:00

Right now, I'm mostly feeling soupy and kind-of-tired-but-not-really ( I guess it's more the type that comes with the depth of night than actual exhaustion). I have my third 4-day weekend, but it doesn't really feel like it. Every week is just plate after plate, and it's kind of different from our Architecture classes. Back then, we used to have modules that we work on for weeks, now we just have a plate every single meeting almost.

And, well, I'm just such a procrastinator. Aside from my chronic need to put things off, I also have quite the short attention span. As with all things, I get bored easily. I really wish it wasn't so. Take for example, right now. Instead of continuing on with my plate, I am blogging. Good job self.

Sometimes I actually really enjoy drafting. But most of the time, I just get so impatient with myself. I think that's one of my bigger flaws -- my impatience.

We're supposed to pick out furniture for a certain country-inspired bedroom. Mine's China. I think one of the reasons I get bored so easily is because we haven't actually done any real designing. Mostly what we do is style rooms and study history. But I guess we have to start somewhere.

I'm timing my Pancit Canton and soft-boiled egg, if you're wondering.

And here it is. To my dismay, it didn't come with its usual pack of soy sauce! But whatever, I am famished. Also: I really, really, really suck at peeling eggs.

Yes, that's right blog. No negativity from me today.

Passive Aggressive is Not the Way to Go

2011-08-22T23:25:00.001+08:00

My mom has a way with twisting stories around. It's possible that she only perceives what she wants to perceive; or, she perceives just fine but just wants to project things differently to other people. The degree to which she twists the story is most often directly proportional to how much she doesn't like it. During one of those family dinners where parents talk about each other's kids, my mom has this default story she shares about my course and how I wanted to shift out again (not the case). She'll then jokingly say that I'll probably study for about 10 years. And she said something about how I said my brain hurts because I never use it anymore. But I never said anything like that. I only mentioned my head hurting -- you know, the occasional headache that all people get.

If she wants me out of my course, she should just tell me directly. Every time she mentions something about how she thinks I'm wasting my life and all, well. Well, I just want to give it all up. Be a drop out or something, be the real disappointment that I can be. I'm just doing this because of her. I mean, I really don't want to be some hotshot whatever in some hotshot career. I just want to live my life as a citizen of the world (whatever that means, I can't explain right now). I don't care if I never reach a presidential chair for whatever corporation. Really. But she's always seen me as something like that, so ok. I'm trying to be that.

Maybe I'm over-reacting is all. I don't know. I can be a bit melodramatic sometimes.

I probably shouldn't be blogging about my mom so openly, but I'm not the confrontational type either.

On Hopefully Never Giving Up

2011-08-14T01:02:00.001+08:00

Maybe it's subtle, and really, non-commanding. But I feel it like the way I feel the heat of the sun. Like the way my heart dropped when my ice cream fell to the ground. Like everything I ever did meant nothing (someone just tell me if it is). I'd like to fight, to stay in the battle.

But I need you backing me up. (And maybe I've never had the guts to say this out loud, and maybe I never will)

2011-06-29T00:22:00.001+08:00

It's dark outside. The cold white of the overhead lamp falls harshly over sheets of rejected paper -- badly drawn chairs and hastily written complaints. It keeps reminding me of all the things I have yet to finish, but it has yet to bother me (a bad habit, I guess). I'm enjoying this emotional equilibrium, where everything feels safest. I'm sometimes ousted out of my reverie when I hear the occasional roar of a jeepney slicing through the vacant avenue just outside. It reminds me of half the world pretending to be asleep. I myself am struggling to stay awake. For no important reason, really, but to satisfy my need to live on the edge (of sanity, perhaps). Since I've given up on academics-related stuff, I'm now just trying to make the words spill out of me like it used to, but it's kind of becoming futile. A lot has changed, I guess. But I'm still trying to find that trigger. Most times, writing comes with sadness, but I am at such a standstill in my life. Emotions don't come and go like they used to. I'm trying to think back to where it all started, and I remember it all started here. With blogging. About mundane things. Like how my day went, in detail (but not as bad as I woke up and brushed my teeth at 7 am). So maybe I'll try just that and eventually get better again.

I hope.

Unabated Truth

2011-06-09T10:02:00.001+08:00

The inevitable time of enrollment had finally come and after months and months (okay, just two) of basically being a pig, I was careened off to my university with the expectation of walking for miles and miles (it did not disappoint). It's hard not to let my mind drift away with all the walking I was doing. And it usually drifted to one thing -- the fact that this could have been my last year in college (as I'm writing this my heart is tearing apart). The truth is that I try my best not to think about it because as soon as I do, this huge wave of disappointment in the form of nausea usually takes over. It starts at the pit of my stomach and flips me right over. Usually my day goes sour from that, because then I'd start thinking about everyone else and their take on my situation. I'd think that my heart couldn't break any more, but it will always surprise me on how it always does so.

I usually berate myself after that because, really, what can I do? I was foolish and misguided and I should just forgive myself for it. But I just can't bring myself to. I can't stop dwelling. It's like dwelling and brooding is all I know. Shifting was supposed to be this big relief, but who was I kidding? I just saw it as an escape. And to be real honest, it was not an escape from Math. Math was the excuse. It was just so easy with people assuming. Math gave off that general feel of not wanting to be studied, so I just let them think that because explaining is such a tiresome thing to do. Quite frankly, I don't even understand it myself.

I'm trying to imagine myself in the future and I can't see myself. Not at as an Interior Designer. Not as anything. Sometimes, I look around and see just how inspired everyone is in my course and I'm thinking to myself, what am I doing here. What the fuck am I doing here? Of course I can't just shift out again, because then where would I go? And three years wasted is quite enough. So I'd just swallow whatever this is I'm feeling and design rooms like I'm supposed to hoping I'd be great at it someday. Hoping I'd love it the way every one else does.

Assuming I'm going to live to become 80, you can assume this is my quarter-life crisis thing. Or something.

(Anyway, I just had to write this down. I guess admitting this to myself is Step One to whatever goal I have in mind.)

2011-05-19T04:03:00.002+08:00

What was I thinking shifting out of math?

Running

2011-04-30T22:45:00.001+08:00

I find that the easiest way to deal with things is by running away without looking back. But I find that it's also the saddest, most secluding approach because then you'd be stuck from the outside looking in. And you're gonna find that everything is ok in the "inside" while out there, well. Out there I am rotting away and keeping myself shut. Shut. Shut out. Shut upped? Maybe this is not the way to deal with things. I mean, it's probably not. I started the summer with high hopes of just "living in the moment" and "enjoying life for what it is." And now I'm just "contented" (using that word loosely) with where I am.

I don't know.

Change

2011-04-17T12:10:00.002+08:00

Tradition. Waking up at 7. Walking across the street. Old house. Old people. Old family. Breakfast. Jollibee. Hot chocolate. Tsokolate. Rosary. Palm Sunday.

Also, probably the only Holy Week tradition we're gonna keep this year.

Maybe

2011-04-15T02:48:00.004+08:00

Maybe isolation will be the perfect muse.

A List

2011-02-28T23:09:00.000+08:00

I don't really mean to be unaccommodating, but one of the greatest lessons I ever got from (after) high school, is that I shouldn't be too much of a Yes Person.
The thought of giving up comes so easily, but the thought of not caring at all still irks me. Wouldn't it be nice to not care. To maybe have a switch for emotions and all.
I have a tendency to force situations upon myself. (i.e. not taking Math majors so I would have no choice but to shift, pushing whatever notion I had of staying, away; Ruining quarter-assed plates so I couldn't make do (but I end up only doing half-assed ones))
Suddenly, I have this bad case of eating anything and everything in my path. I, of course, blame this on stress.
I am uninspired. I start a post and I never finish. This lame bullet post is reference for when I am inspired.
Some people cannot take the hint. I don't even know anymore.
Cutting as stress reliever. Pants, hair, classes. Whatever.
Save me, I'm close to extinction.

2011-02-27T21:01:00.000+08:00

“I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true, and I couldn’t hide the truth much longer. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of the race.”
— The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Friction

2011-02-15T21:25:00.000+08:00

I kept playing with my own hands - turning them this way and that, intently examining my nails and how they're all unequally painted, opening it, closing it. It's been habit. I look around. My workspace is a mess of stuff. Mostly art materials, unread books, wires. The desk with 3 works in progress - one in watercolor, one in ink, one in markers. Nothing quite done. Nothing quite undone. The wind is tinged with a hum, my iTunes on shuffle as usual. The songs almost too soft too be heard, still my heart is heavy with songs of lives that aren't mine. It's probably pretty much coincidence how all the songs are lined up, given that it's Valentine's and all. First it was Alone Again by Illinois, then it was Someday You Will Be Loved by Death Cab. Then there was Your Heart Is An Empty Room ("Out there on the streets are so many possibilities to not be alone"). Like the Universe was maybe telling me something. But frankly, I'm not asking for anything. Really. (Or I'm just not listening.)

This night has been dedicated to the past. I have this ugly tendency of envying my own past. Like, I was (probably) some greater, stronger person. I'm trying to take my self apart, so I could be that again. Unlearning so I could learn again. I can't help but wait for that moment even though I know it's just some silly delusion. I am where I am and there's no turning back. Maybe it's wrong of me to wait it out; to let my feelings change with time. I'm taking the backseat but I guess it's mostly because I'm not sure how I'd take the wheel. And, will I like the destination if I took the wheel? (I'm too much of a coward, apparently.)

I don't even know where I am anymore. I try and tell myself that there's no use for doubts, that it's too late. That I have to live with whatever is. I guess it was just the friction of being something, and not wanting to anymore. (But at the same ironic time, trying to be exactly that again.)

It's all so confusing.

Of Fading Out

2011-01-01T05:07:00.001+08:00

(Nothing quite creatively written. Read at your own risk.)

I've mulled it over for quite a few times and I haven't come to the decision of whether to classify 2010 as a good or a bad year. What I credit it for though, is that it's the year that I started piecing myself back together. It has been crazy.

I remember the first few months and coasting by school. My grades were shit but it was definitely less shitty than the past year and a half. Somehow I was able to lift my spirits up because at that time I really felt like giving everything up.

April rolled in and blew a shitstorm. After this embarrassing crying stint I did in front of some relatives while they were talking about this horrendous lump on my mother's thigh like I was not even there, I finally spilled whatever I knew of it (I had been keeping it a secret for months then). Somehow they were able to convince my mom to have a check up. Good thing too because we were just in time. Even now I find it hard to type out, like how every other wizard would say He Who Must Not Be Named. There was a time in the household when we resorted to calling it the Big C. But now I just remember Hermione and her matter-of-fact tone of voice yapping about how the fear of the name only increases the fear of thing itself. And I don't want to be afraid anymore. Cancer. Stage one, and I really don't know which classification because she doesn't want to talk about it.

I realize now how much of a good thing it was to not take summer classes because I was needed in the hospital and at home 24/7. It was a whirlwind of infinite things to do! Taking care of siblings, sleeping in the hospital, taking care of mom, appeasing everyone else, doing errands, accounting for mom's work, buying food and then flying to the other end of the city to take care of my shifting applications! And then there's three months of radiation after. No chemo, thank God.

June was scary as hell. It meant a new home college and a new course and shifting from the right side of my brain to the left. Or the other way around. It was intimidating and heartbreaking at first, but I realized how much I love being creative. This is what I was born to do.

August was another week in the hospital. It was a funny routine of school - hospital - and making do with whatever was in the hospital to do plates.

And then everything after became blank and dry and I felt myself pushing up those walls again. There was this moment of isolation which I wouldn't classify as silly because it is the only way I know to live.

First semester over, and I had the best grades yet.

Second semester meant trying to fit in. I still blend in too much (to the point of invisibility), but I'm working on it. I'm working on it. It's sort of hard (and futile?) trying to change who you are.

My year just faded out after that.

(I guess it's a bad year?)

Always

2010-12-27T00:58:00.001+08:00

I'd like for Christmas to stay the same, always. There's something about tradition that just warms the heart like a cup of hot chocolate on a relatively cooler night. I'd like for it to always start out with me always antsy and excited over absolutely nothing and everything. It should always start out with me suddenly downloading anything and everything Christmas-related, like an album or a movie. And then on the days leading to the 24th, all I'd be doing would be watching and listening and planning and wishing. I couldn't (or wouldn't) be bothered by schoolwork, no matter how high the pile is.

We're always late for mass on the 24th, always arriving the Banson Family reunion late (either traffic, or getting lost, just something). My siblings and I would awkwardly choose a table because no matter how many reunions we have, we never really get to know anyone. We'd also leave early because Noche Buena is always in our Great Grandfather's house. He's gone now, so I guess it's more our Great Grandma's house. Not all things stay the same. We'd always have the family pictures first before we all ravage the dining table. Hams, eggs, queso de bola. Some variable food choice (This year it was t-bone steak). And then, hot tsokolate. The sort that's made from tablea (the best kind for Christmas). After we'd run to the living room where we distribute gifts and hoot for every person that receives one. Nobody hooted this year. Sometimes we leave before 12, if we do we get all giddy in the car and shout our greetings then.
We'd get home and we'd have our gifts delivered by Santa. This year, because my kid sister included me in her letter, Santa gave me a toy harmonica. I guess I'd been nice.

The 25th always started out early and bright. This year it rained. We'd have lunch next door, our grandma's house from the father's side. Family pictures, and then an onslaught of gifts and red envelopes. I really like receiving red envelopes. We'd go home and rest for a while, although no one really gets any rest from being too full (from the food) and too excited (from the gifts).

Then we'd go all the way to Quezon City, battling whatever holiday rush there is. Food, pictures, gifts. And me staying over. This year I didn't stay over. I really didn't feel like getting drunk or tipsy for whatever lame reason. So this year I went home and played Monopoly with my younger siblings and lost.

#there is no point to this post ok

This and That

2010-12-09T01:17:00.001+08:00

At night, I like holding a warm (not steaming) mug of tea while I sit Indian-style on my computer chair. I like it when the music is low and gentle (almost like a lullaby), and everyone's asleep. The night belongs to me. I'm making a list (an actual list, mental notes are useless). It's a random rundown of things I'd like to get for Christmas and things I need to buy for my plates. It's sort of all jumbled up and, really, there's no use classifying them.

(a preview)

a flashlight (plate),
cheap glasses (One each for "Pencils", "Pens", "Colored Pencils" and "Etc.") (Christmas),
black cartolina (plate),
a mug cover (Christmas),
that nice stool from Dimensione (Christmas and plate)
a camera (Life)

I'm also filling out my December calendar with deadlines and dates. Christmas is near, but Christmas break seems so unachievable. There is this little Christmas tree that I put up on my desk every year. I love the season, really (more the anticipation than the actual thing usually). My mind, contrary to all the lists I've been making (organization?), is fuzzy with thoughts of this and that. At one point I'm thinking about how socially awkward I am (Then I replay humiliating scenes with this exemplified). At another, I'm thinking I need money. Sometimes I also think of parallel realities. Like me having (ideally) my own unit (like a condo or an apartment) and living the hell out of it. And then I'm thinking about my blog and how desolate it has come to be (There are words, always, but never the time). I'm also thinking about all that I am not and how miserable that makes me. You can never shake off the words said to you in anger. And then it just all goes downhill from there and I don't know where to pick myself up.

But sometimes though, and I haven't quite figured out if it's a good or a bad thing, it's just blank. No thoughts. Silence. But not peace, not exactly.

Almost, But Not Quite

2010-10-07T22:41:00.000+08:00

Because I still have so much to do, but I don't want to do them yet.

For my own reference:

Read

Find LoTR books: Two Towers and Return of the King
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
Paint It Black by Janet Fitch (Last two chapters!)
Then buy more books

Practice drawing and painting and coloring
Go on a Manila trip with friends!
Get my camera fixed and/or buy/save for a new one
Write (because I'm really, really out of practice)
Pay last sem's tuition (LOL)
Sleep sleep sleep sleep

That is all.

Removed

2010-09-27T23:41:00.002+08:00

I was thinking, it's nice like this. My desk is littered with colored pens and pencils, paint and brushes, paper (tons of it). My hands are smeared with colors. My parents are both exasperated by how I never tend to clean up after my mess, but that's their problem. I like this mess.

I am unusually busy. Like how I really wasn't for the past semesters of my college life and this somehow feels like I have direction. Like I'm headed somewhere definite, and not just a general direction (of death at the endpoint). I've only done 10 out of 48 drawings, 2 out of 4 paintings, 2 out of 8 pages for blueprinting. I haven't done the floor plan for my 6 m. x 2.5 m. room. I have not started with my reaction paper for some play. There's this documentary still in the works, and a 6 page paper I have to revise (and maybe change all the same). And all I have is a week. There is just so much to do but the nice thing is, I've never thought of giving up. Yes, there's the occasional complaint but complaining is how I cope. This is nice and I wish I'd found it sooner.
And, it's nice not having to think all the time. Maybe it makes me an empty person. Me, with small talk. Me, with my sketches and paintings. Me, with my movies and books and lovely fictional characters. Me, with my music. This is all I am at the moment. Maybe it's bad that I'm closing off (removing myself) and not reaching out, but at this rate who cares? Seriously. Who cares?

Coins

2010-09-20T21:06:00.001+08:00

We were sitting on the porch, almost sprawled underneath the stars. Or so we'd like to believe (Belief is such a fleeting thing). The night was only lit by a portion of the moon. Clouds blanketed the sky, and not one star was to be seen that night. My arms were stretched out behind me, both my hands supporting my weight. Beside me Kyla was puffing from her cig erratically, trying to make smoke rings. I couldn't tell her to stop, it's useless. I didn't mind it anyway.

"Who is it?" I ask her, breaking the silence of the night.

She takes out the cig from her mouth and puffs out smoke directly on my face. "I dunno. Whatya talkin' about?" She liked to talk in this ratty matter, liked to feel like she ruled the world. If you were someone else, you'd think that she didn't care about a lot of things. And she really didn't. But she cared about this.

"You know exactly." I looked at her, sideways. She was staring straight on, still occasionally taking a long drag from her cig then gently dangling it on her fingers. Her eyes were hard, fighting emotion. She blinked a few times before she turned to me.

"Cath," she never really calls me that. She knows not to call me that. But every time she does, I knew she was in her own deep thinking trail. She wanted to hide in the guise of being impersonal, like giving off an unbiased comment. I hated it — the name. "You're living in someone else's dream."

I was, but everyone knew that already. Tonight isn't about me. "Don't go changing the topic and quoting Death Cab. And I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ya know. Exactly." I knew.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess. I know." I sigh, and we share a secret smile. A smile, that wasn't really a smile but just an optimistic gesture acknowledging something else. "But, it doesn't really help to be sad all the time."

"Mhmm. But it's nice to be sad sometimes," she let go of her ratty talking, she threw the remaining stub of her cig. The embers were slowly fading into the grass, falling piece by piece into the dirt. It was just us now and the cold, gentle night before us. "Ya know?"

"I guess." And I knew what she meant exactly. Sadness fuels a lot of things, and sometimes it was better than indifference. Sometimes it was just addicting. "So, who is it? This person that's got you so riled up and sad for no apparent reason?" I was probing her now because she had to tell. She never told anyone anything, not unless you forced it out of her.

"Remember that one time," she started. She stood up and went down the steps, standing a few feet in front of me. She took a deep breath and spun around a couple of times. "That time when we were so young and carefree, and all that mattered were the bugs that strayed out of our empty coke bottle?"

It was a vague time, but I nodded in agreement. "That was a nice time."

"It just feels like everything is so complicated now. Remember that guy, when we were neighbors and he lived in the house in front of ours? You were so mad at him for always telling on you." She was smiling now, recalling all those fond childhood memories. "He liked you, he really did!"

"Shut up Kyla! That was years ago." And we laugh, and laugh at some inside joke neither of us told but both of us felt. Our laughter continued on to the night, recalling the time when she lived in the house next to mine, recalling all those times we got into so much trouble. It didn't end all too good — we tried to poison each other. ("Hi, I made pastillas for you!" When, really, it was just powder and sugar and water.) She moved away. Now we were separated by cities.

"So who is it?" The laughter had died down into little gasps and sighs. We were both sitting on the grass now, facing each other.

"Nobody." Kyla looks up to the sky, probably saying a little prayer. She believed in the Universe. "I'm just tired is all. And like what I said, sad is nice."

"Yeah. Sad is nice. Sometimes. You're sad all the fucking time." I look at her with concern then look up to the sky. She really wasn't articulate with her feelings, but this was different. Please, please let everything be okay. I was pulling at the leaves around me, partly out of frustration and partly out of habit. "I'm here for you."

"I just don't get a lot of things, and I really can't explain it. I start out liking a lot of things, like the color blue for example, then not liking it at all in the end. And I don't know. How did I even come to like blue in the first place? It's so mediocre. Blue is everyone's favorite color. My attention span is too short, I guess."

I just listen because that's all she needed: to let it all out.

"And I hate it because, there's nothing in this world that would adjust for my attention span. Maybe, yes, maybe we do have instant noodles and all, but that's a different thing altogether. I hate it because I can't like anything as much anymore. I can't like what I'm doing like how others are. Like how others have being a doctor or an engineer, or playing the piano and violin. What is passion even? I don't know. I can't see... I can't see myself anywhere." She sighs and moves to reach for another cig from her pack. "I'm rambling and it's your fault!"

"So who is it?" I giver her a cheeky smile.

"Myself."

Keeping The Sighs To A Minimum

2010-09-19T00:20:00.001+08:00

From where I'm standing, everything is hazy. I squint my eyes to see clearer, but the sight is splendid as it is. It is a magnificent blur of colors, mostly dark but with scattered punctures of brightness. Everywhere are light streaks, yellow and red for the cars that pass by and don't give a shit, white for the occasional building. Everywhere is the orange glow of street lamps on a lonely night. It is late and I'm not yet home and I am alone, walking. A usual scene. I'm walking on the university's roads; sometimes straying left, sometimes staying right. I like having the freedom of the road; sidewalks are much too limiting. My hands, which I hold up to my face,are littered with colors and dirt. Lines of reds and greens, pools of browns and blacks stain them -- a nice souvenir from a five-hour drawing stint. I smile and I'm thinking, I like what I'm doing. But always, I remember everybody else. I sigh.

It was a nice night and the jeepneys are never full. I ride the first one to arrive, and I am on my way. The driver spews out profanity, and I don't really know what's going on. My headphones are on. I am on an express train going downer south. Going right, and left. Forward. Backward. I am on an express train and it's going everywhere, traversing Metro Manila and traversing my thoughts. I think nothing of all the smart-casual clad women not of my age with sad eyes and tired auras. And then, I am on the bus. I never sleep on them nowadays, you'll never what you'll wake up to. A different city, a thief, or a dirty man. I am steering away from Ayala. I think nothing of anything. I sigh.

Despite the haze, I can still feel that wind of familiarity pass on my cheeks. It's a re-acquaintance with a year I've so readily forgotten. Here it is again, another round. I'm thinking: "Fuck this. It's always like this." I always fall back to some memory and I relive it. I don't know what for, really. For posterity? Or sadism. Perhaps, I never really want to forget anything. Or perhaps, I'm always too much stuck on what has been and what will never be. I don't go as passionately for what I want, but what I am now should be sufficient. But, I don't know, I guess it is okay to an extent. I am okay to an extent (everyone is). We are all on the same street. I sigh.

Happening

2010-09-12T21:57:00.000+08:00

I would never
Want it blatant
Not like
Headlights on
A dark cold night
Not like
The bright lights
And the shrill
Shriek
Of a fire alarm
I would like it
Subtle
Almost uncaring
But not quite
Easy and quiet
Like the wind
And the rain
That's always
Just
There
And always
Just
Happening

I Am Cars And This Is My Heart

2010-09-01T00:25:00.002+08:00

The gentle hum of the car engine was a lullaby. Everything burned of red; brake lights on fire. Misplaced honks of angry drivers were futile. But I was in my own little bubble. My sight was hazy and I couldn't make out the last few words of the song on the radio. A long car ride is like incarcerating yourself with your brain -- a rigorous interview session.

All I am waiting for is the whisper that would set me up through a looking glass. I am finding out how lost I am, and I don't think I've admitted it as much before. I refuse to look for myself mainly because I am afraid of what I'm going to find (out). I am stubborn, maybe. But I'm definitely most afraid. My mind is telling me things and I feel like everything is possible. Everything is possible. It's one of those moments when I don't appreciate the infiniteness of things. The notion of limitless possibilities does not comfort me. I can't rely on destiny and coincidences all the time but I feel like I've become dependent. Wouldn't I want my life to turn back to the time before everything turned to stone?

The car suddenly moves and I am careened out of my thoughts, into reality. But I plunge right into somewhere in between. All I could see was the collision of sea and sky dotted by birds and boats and the occasional trash. What I'm thinking is that although I know it stretches for miles and miles, it looks pretty finite to me. Everything meets at the horizon. It feels just like an optical illusion -- a joke. But what I want is to see everything for what they truly are. I hate that right now I'm dependent on greys and incoherence. I want to see.

But my eyes are tired, and the heart can only look so far..

4:21 AM

2010-08-29T04:21:00.000+08:00

There's always a song for an occasion. Right now, it's not so much of an occasion but it feels just like Your Heart Is An Empty Room (by Death Cab for Cutie). I admit to being quite obsessed with the song to the point of overplaying - but only because a certain line rings true:

Out there on the street are so many possibilities to not be alone.

In Cars-land, it's the annual Remove Yourself From the World month and I am almost strictly complying. I hate how I get like this because I know I'm the only one on the losing end. I also hate the way I know why I'm doing this. The reasons are mostly selfish. Sort of ironic, really. And I'm trying real hard to be "out there" you know? But it's so hard because I overthink and sensationalize everything to the point of probably creating detached realities. Isolated projections of realities is more appropriate I suppose. Maybe it's the curse of having a constant story-like narration in my mind. Everything turns out to be wild stories. Where should stories end? I'm thinking at some point, they should.

Mediocre Posts

2010-07-29T00:07:00.000+08:00

I haven't been myself. I don't really know when "not being myself" started. But I remember this moment, a week ago when I was not able to submit three papers! This is appalling, and maybe it will make me sound like a nerd, because I have never missed a deadline or a requirement. Never. And now, I was not able to submit three! This is all my fault, of course and I take all blame. But I also blame my forgetfulness and escapist self (which is, in essence, still blaming myself). I have rearranged the days and weeks in my head and now that the gears have realigned, I realize how much of a fool I have been! Indeed, too much of a fool. I am thinking of pleading to the prof, something which I have never done before. And through e-mail, too! We do not meet this week (I thought it was supposed to be last week that we do not meet).

Things happen, and I write mediocre posts about them because I am procrastinating from another 6-page paper.

Subconscious Words (Not) To Live By

2010-07-28T11:02:00.004+08:00

A couple of hours before my first esquisse¹, and I am still home. This month has been dragging on endlessly and gruesomely, almost. It's the first sem syndrome where everything almost feels futile. I have this nagging line at the back of my head. It goes something like: Everything matters, but nothing really counts. It's weird that it just really contradicts itself. But I don't know. I feel like it makes perfect sense somehow. It probably means something like, everything you do should be done, but in the end it doesn't really amount much to anything. It's really odd. It was probably my subconscious making that up, trying to reason out all my non-inspiration and antisocial tendencies. I can't be sure. Maybe I picked it up in a book. Or. Maybe it was inception². Huh.

¹esquisse /es-kis/ is what we call our "drawing exams" in our Archi subjects
²yes, the movie concept!

2010-07-26T01:09:00.001+08:00

The thing is, I told myself I'm not going to post until I find something absolutely happy to talk about.

And then I realized I don't really know how to write happy. I should learn.

2010-07-20T02:32:00.000+08:00

Everything has fallen apart and nothing will ever be the same. Nothing is mine anymore. Not the breaths, or the sighs. Not the music I'm listening to or the words I'm writing. Nothing. I'm signing off like I usually do. It feels routine and it feels like home.

I hate that it feels like home.

Hello/Goodbyes and Refrigerator Doors

2010-07-05T18:01:00.016+08:00

I've been holding the refrigerator door open for the past couple of minutes just staring inside, not really searching for anything in particular. I was trying to lull myself into some sort of numbness in the momentary (and sudden) cold of the refrigerator air and warmth of the orange glow emanating from inside. There were jars of half-eaten Spanish sardines, almost-empty milk cartons, loaves of bread barely touched, eggs sitting nicely on egg trays, the essential frozen leftover pizza, a couple of expired films. And a number of things I wouldn't dare mention (well, because I couldn't even identify them).

"Why do you do that?" The voice startles me, but only because we had been silent for the past hour. I snap out of my trance. I don't know what exactly she was referring to. Me holding open the refrigerator door, or me throwing everyone else's lives away (and my own)?

Either way, I answered: "I don't know." And I didn't. I got the bread and checked for molds. Clear. Two slices went into the oven toaster, set for 3 minutes. I drank straight out of the milk carton, emptied it, and put it back in the ref.

"Well, stop it." She was on the sofa, twirling a loose strand of hair around her fingers. I loved the way she did that. Her legs were propped up on the coffee table. I didn't really mind, but it was automatic the way I said things.

"Put your feet down." I knew she wouldn't.

"No."

"Okay."

She sighed. "At least talk to me properly, Sam." I sighed. I stopped and turned to look at her. Her eyes were questioning, even maybe concerned, and a little annoyed. I didn't know what to say. Well, I knew. It's just that I didn't really want to talk. I didn't want to talk to her. I mean, I did. But not now. "I don't know what's going on in that head of yours anymore. I don't know you anymore. Not as much. Not as much as I should."

"I know, I know." I let out an unsteady breath. She didn't get this side of me. I don't either. "I just.."

"You just?" She was impatient. She had been patient for the past, non-talking hour. But now she was just impatient.

"I just need to get away." At least I think that's what I need. "I just feel sick and fed-up of waking up and sleeping without accomplishing anything or being anyone for anyone. I just feel sick of people - of people in general. Every time someone talks, I just imagine how fucking obnoxious they are! I mean, they probably aren't. But my mind blows things out of proportion and I don't know. I.. I... Shit, Jean. I don't know." My hands are on my head and I'm pulling at my hair strands. "I don't know." I repeat.

I fall down on the sofa beside her. Silence. I sneak in a couple of careful glances towards her. She was just staring straight ahead; I couldn't read her. She brings out a cigarette and lights it. She takes a long drag before she looks at me.

"You're running away from people." She finally says. She states. She knows I know that. She moves her hands towards the ash tray and kills the cigarette (puffed once!). I look at her funny. "I stopped smoking. But, you -- you're too much to handle."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say to that. I probably should have been offended.

She starts again. "You're running away from people, Sammie. But what you need are people! We're here for you. Fred's here for you. Hannah's here for you." I'm here for you, was her silent message.

"I know, Jean. Of course I know that."

"Really? You know?" She was becoming agitated. She gets the cigarette back from the ashtray and attempts to straighten it with shaking fingers. She gives up and gets a new one from the pack. "It sure doesn't seem like it! We call and we invite you out, but you never reply. You never call back. Not even a text. An offline message? A fucking e-mail!"

"I just.."

She stood up, and put her hands up in exasperation. "You need to get away! I know! God!" She was pacing. "Did you ever think of how selfish you're being? We need you, you know. We miss you. Fred misses you. Hannah misses you!" I miss you. She didn't say it, but I heard it. She was never too great at expressing her feelings. She went by with unsaid words, and she depended on us to get it. She falls back down on the sofa and looks at me with such intensity. "Come back to us, please." Come back to me.

I was getting frustrated because I wanted, really, to go back to them. But I couldn't. There's some part of me that's just unready, and I couldn't face the consequences of that. "I can't."

I stood up and got my car keys. I needed to get away.

"You're leaving?" I know she didn't mean it as a question. "Fine," she says. "This is the last time I'm going after you, you hear? Fuck you, Sam."

"I'll come back." I meant to the apartment. I meant, to them. I meant, to her.

At Peace

2010-06-30T21:07:00.007+08:00

I know I always write about the most negative of things. I am, of course, never at the brink of "about to kill myself." Maybe metaphorically, but I guess I'll never be brave/cowardly enough to do it. I can still appreciate the nice things in life. Like right now, I feel complete. And the world is just fantastic. I'm in the room and it's cool, with the A/C on. It's dark, but not so much. The room is just nicely lit by my laptop's glare. Music is softly playing, and not in the background (it's more foreground than background, really). I finished my homework before 8 (I usually start at 8.) I am wearing my favorite house clothes (a Pokemon shirt and some pair of shorts). Everything is just nice. Moments like these come by so rarely (and go so quickly). I mean, when I am at peace with myself and the world.

I suddenly feel like searching for something uniquely mine. Something that is bigger than me (aside, of course, from my faith), perhaps. You know, like how them soccer players have soccer and how Van Gogh had painting and how you have air and I... I want to find that for me. Everyone has that (but not necessarily now). I realized my life is just not about the career I choose. I've been stressing so much about how misplaced I was. I don't want my life to be ever defined by career. I want it to be defined by people and places, experiences and moments, food and exhaustion (sometimes), books and movies. Those things.

Orgless

2010-06-28T22:59:00.005+08:00

I'm already a little over two years in college, but I'm still orgless. There'd be different cases when I'd consider not joining one. Like, say, if I wasn't delayed for at least two years. I mean, I have a nice set of friends now and I would have been able to survive a year more without an org. But being two years delayed (or more, because I am deluding myself), is a different case altogether. Next year, most of my friends would have graduated. I wouldn't want to be alone. I realize, no matter how stoic I say I am, I'll always be a social animal. Maybe not as social as your next door neighbor, but social nonetheless.

Also, I was actually planning on writing something longer. The recollection that I used to have a blog filled with entries from my yesteryears just depressed me. All those memories are gone. :( My brain short circuits all the time and I have this funny tendency to forget important things but remember the most trivial of images. I rely on written memories.

---

And, uhm, yay!

"I wanted so badly
to lie down next to her on the couch,
to wrap my arms around her and sleep.
Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex.
Just sleep together,
in the most innocent sense of the phrase.
But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend
and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and
I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating.
So I walked back to my room
and collapsed on the bottom bunk,
thinking that if people were rain,
I was drizzle and she was a hurricane."
- Looking for Alaska by John Green

What am I doing?

2010-06-28T01:22:00.007+08:00

I am always just immersing myself in books and movies and music (and the internet), and when I talk to people I don't really speak. I'm always just half there, or half here. And lately I can't be there for others, like how I'm supposed to. I don't know anymore.

I guess people are just programmed differently. I mean, with the way we deal with feelings and emotions and those sorts of intangible stuff. (How can some people be so perky? How can I not be?) I'm not really good with those - with expressing and dealing and accepting. I'm constantly in denial of reality, I think. But lately, everything's just getting to me. I always feel so weak, and not in the way that I lack food or sleep. It's in the way that I always feel like giving up or giving out. Or in this way that sudden extreme hurt would just flood through me like a sudden wave and it would just as quickly leave me in an after quake of not knowing where I am. I just feel like curling up in bed drowning in the dark, not sleeping. I just feel like maybe crying and being alone. I don't know what's wrong with me, or what specifically I've been sad about for the past couple of weeks. I don't even know when this started, or how exactly it came to be. But gawd, I haven't really told anyone. One thing about me is that, I can't be sad in front of anyone. I think my default setting would be extremely bubbly or indifferent -- never sad or angry. But right now, I just really feel shitty.

I'm not saying I'm hiding in this mask of a happy girl, and I'm asking for pity now. No. It's not that. I just wanted to write this all out because this is the only way I could think of letting it out.

Yeah.

Guitars and Southern Accents

2010-06-26T21:33:00.003+08:00

I remember staying up all night and seeing the sun stream through the windows. It was a good, cool night some time last year. I was wide awake and I could not stop laughing. I guess it was a good thing everyone in the house was busy with something else. They would have thought I'd gone mad. (Maybe I had.)

I was chatting and talking to a stranger halfway across the world, but it was awesome. He had a charming Southern accent and he was a musician. I talked, he played the guitar. We didn’t have faces. Just voices and hours and hours of conversation about music and America and the Philippines. He introduced me to Pink Floyd, I introduced him to Explosions in the Sky.

I remember he laughed at the way I said “fuck,” and I laughed at the way he said "situation." He said it like see-chee-wayshon. I don't know how I said "fuck" or how it sounded to him. He said it sounded innocent. I remember the sound of fingers hitting keys and I reveled at the fact that those sounds were made miles away. And yet they sounded close, and nice and comfortable. I talked at times, but I was mostly shy. I've always had issues with the telephone. But it was okay. Everything was okay.

I remember he taught me this little jingle/chant that had me say "fuck" all the time. It went something like this:

fuck fuck fuck mother mother fuck mother mother fuck fuck mother fuck mother fuck noise noise noise

1 2 1 2 3 4 4

noise noise noise smoing weed smokin weed

doin coke drinkin beers

drinkin beers beers beers

rolling phats smokin blunts

who smokes blunts

we smokes blunts

rollin blunts and smokin um

my junggle love

owee owee owee

It was fun and extremely funny. He would make me sing it and repeat because I couldn't get it right the first few times. But I eventually did and we sang it a couple more times. It was exciting. And I wish I still knew how it went. It would have been fun to sing it drunk or high or something.

I never talked to him again after that one night.

I wish I had known someone like him in real life.

2010-06-26T16:59:00.002+08:00

I feel like everything's being stripped away from me. I could fight, but I wouldn't want to. I should not want to! I don't want to be selfish and uncaring because, really, if I fight I become exactly that. And maybe it's all sort of irrational too. I am thinking I am being too paranoid and distrusting. I know I am. I cannot help it though.

I keep my circles away from each other; I don't want points of intersection. I want to keep it that way.

Again

2010-06-19T14:50:00.003+08:00

It feels like being a freshman all over again, only I have an upper-hand when it comes to the campus I guess. I'm trying to be okay with the feeling of starting all over again. I'm easing into it. I am standing-by my decision to shift. I love how everything I do now is hard but doesn't feel like a chore. Not like how it was with Math.

Also: I have a little Freshie Minion!

Deletion and Exception

2010-06-19T13:51:00.004+08:00

The windows are all fogged up. It reminds me of Titanic. It maybe reminds me of you -- of us. But I remember: I can't remember you. I am deleting you like I am deleting everyone else. But I can't; not like everyone else. It's frustrating and saddening and maybe even funny, all at the same time. And I don't know. I want to laugh and cry and even shout profanities (which I never do). But I won't. I won't.

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed. I'm in the apartment. Boxes are piled on one side and the room is barren. I'm lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It's just empty. My life, it's empty. The rain falls hard outside, and the room smells like old paper. Why is it that everything points to you?

I am trying to delete you.

It was fun, and we were fun. But you don't see me. Not like you should. You're trying to change me. You're trying to change me to fit you. And I hate that. I hate that I did because I wanted to fit. But I've had too much of this changing. I've lost myself in the process. We didn't get lost in each other, like how it's supposed to be. They say they don't know where one ends and one starts, but with us it's just me. I don't know who I am anymore. Where do I start? Where do I end? Who is 'me', and who is 'you'? I really don't know anymore.

I am trying to delete you.

Let me.

---

Can't stress this enough: FICTION. UNFINISHED.

Space and Books and Boring Blatant Titles

2010-06-05T17:09:00.003+08:00

I am living on 40 Gig. This is immoral.

Meanwhile, I was finally able to buy new books! (At the end of summer, fuck.)

In the pile:

Vince's Life: The Wedding by Vince O. Teves - The last of the trilogy. Also: read!
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte - I've been looking for this ever since Definitely, Maybe
King Dork by Frank Portman - High hopes for this book, seeing as it's inspired by Catcher in the Rye (definitely a favorite!).
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
Nop's Trials by Donald McCaig - I bought this for Php10.00 in some Book Sale in Bataan. I said: why not?
Beet by Roger Rosenblatt - Read. It was nice and witty, but not exactly filling.

I am sort of regretting going book-hunting at the end of summer.

Random Moments of Completeness

2010-06-03T23:18:00.005+08:00

"Yes, I am sure!"

I was all smiles in front of my department adviser when she kept on giving me disbelieving glances for leaving my course. She kept on spewing out questions: "Are you sure dear?", "Your Physics grades are okay!" And all I could do was to answer her affirmatively (how else, really?), trying to somehow convince myself more than I was reassuring her. I give her a big smile, hoping it looked passionate enough so she could shut up before I up and ran towards the Math building. Truth be told, I am still not sure. Maybe I will never be so sure - God knows all the things I just want to do! That's the thing with me: I want to do everything. Good thing she caught on, because we proceeded to discuss what would be of my remaining college years.

---

There I was on newly cemented sidewalk, uncharacteristically out of my desk chair (albeit obligatory), just walking. My thumbs were characteristically shoved into my pockets. I was in the verge of whistling some made up, happy tune. Maybe I had prior purpose (hunting for subjects), but now I was just walking. Maybe walking away, or walking to - I'm not quite sure yet. I was walking without particular mirth or exhaustion. I was just walking by buildings and people and cars, dreams and ambitions and failures, the past and the future and right now. A banana cue vendor passed by, and suddenly it smelled of delightful and familiar caramelized brown sugar. It lasts a second, or maybe two. It went back to smelling like freshly cut grass on the first day of school, and later on of smoke and hot cement, and even later on of Mc Donald's distinct fast food smell. I sigh a happy sigh. It was a nice content feeling. In that moment, I realized, I was in equilibrium. Everything was just pristine. (I maybe wanted to break out into a song and do air flips.)

Equilibrium, I also realized, is never permanent. In fact, most of the time they are just instances. Or maybe even half of such instances (so fleeting, they are!); sometimes maybe days, or some unconstrained time period (some odd-something years, if you're lucky enough). But the point is that they do happen: Random Moments of Completeness. It's nice, and it's what keeps us moving.

And it is what's keeping me from completely falling out of myself.

My tenses are off; proofread me, willya please.

Free Falling

2010-05-30T01:51:00.007+08:00

So this was it.

After traversing most of UP Diliman, I finally was able to acquire the nine signatures that I needed. None of these nine signatures were within a 10 meter radius of each other! I walked slowly into the almost-deserted Math building to get the last. I haven't been there for the whole of last sem when it was supposed to be my building. I am a Math major after all. And my god, I didn't know it would affect me at all. It reeked of memories - the UPCAT, first day, first failure and... just a lot of firsts. A few students were in dark corners reviewing for Math removals. Oh, how that felt!

Going in, what I wanted to feel was freedom; but instead I got this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach and I almost did not want to go. I was probably just being melodramatic. But for good reason. I marched towards the Admin Office to ask for the director of our institution. When I got there, it was a display of lights gradually turning off and people leaving. It was 12 noon. Lunch break. I went back down.

I sighed, probably more of relief than exasperation. I was thankful for the lull. This was it, I thought to myself. No turning back. In usual Cars-fashion, my mind was suddenly clouded with doubts. I was having second thoughts -- although truth be told, nothing was absolute. I've always doubted. Getting that last signature was pretty symbolic, I figured. It meant leaving a lifestyle I've known for the past, I don't know, 11 years of my life? At least. It meant leaving behind the quiz bees, the Science Investigatory Projects, the Congresses, my two years of Mathematics. It meant leaving behind who I was in high school. And that scares the shit out of me. It really does. You know how you should not let yourself be defined by school? Well, I guess I have been. I was. It's inevitable, I guess. Some part of me belonged to formulas, and limits, terminal velocity, moments of inertia -- probably most of the geeky terms you'd rather stay away from. I guess some part of me will always be defined by that. Shifting out of Math and into Interior Design, it's like forgetting everything I've ever been taught. There's also that underlying thought that I can shift to Applied Physics instead. It would be so easy, and I'm thinking it may even be the easy way out.

1 PM sharp, I head towards the Admin office again. This time everything is bright, cold white. I tap on the glass window to call the attention of the man behind it. I show him the form, my Permit to Transfer. He gets it and I am shown the way towards the deputy director (the director wasn't there, apparently). I smile secretly once I see this 'deputy director' - the same person I've always been looking around for when I was a little freshman Math Major. Everything really is a cycle in its own time. I get her signature.

I have decided. I'm free falling into a completely different thing, into creativity and art and design. I'm taking a leap of faith here, and I really hope this is the best thing. Really.

My new building!

On Participating and The Vastness of Minds

2010-05-24T17:09:00.008+08:00

I have this long list of book titles I'd someday want to own. It's gone now, the list. I do remember The Perks Of Being A Wallflower being somewhere at the top of it. I've made it quite a habit to visit the local bookstores to check for books in the list, but they'd usually be out of stock. It was probably by sheer fate that the book decided to become available during my 19th birthday. Exactly during my 19th birthday!

I won't spoil anything (okay, maybe some.. but not so much I swear!) for you, because I would want for you to read it yourself. I really would. It is a tad bit expensive buying it from Fully Booked and all, but it's just lovely. It's a magnificent book, and I saw myself in Charlie (the lead). I'm sure you're going to really like it too.

One thing I will tell you all about though is the concept of "participation". Charlie used to dwell on that a lot -- whether or not he was "participating" in life. Naturally, it got me thinking as well. And I realized I was not. I have not been participating. That's not a good thing.

I've spent most of my days in isolation -- save for, of course, the family I have to live in the house with. I realized that when I go out with friends and all, I'm not really out. I am just usually in a little corner, observing everyone. Maybe, sometimes I paint little stories about each person and I get so wrapped up in those. Maybe, sometimes I take all their pictures and post them all in Facebook and tag everyone but myself. It's like I'm not even there. I'm a narrator. Or worse, a mere observer.

I've also spent most of the summer asleep in the morning because there is some sort of a party going on in my brain at night when everyone's gone to bed. And it's not even the over-thinking, staying up all night sort. No, that would have been much easier. I am just simply... awake. My eyes are open, or closed (it doesn't really matter), and my mind goes on being just blank and awake, vast and just continuing on and on. Most of the time it's hard. The hollowness of time eats me up, even more so than a usually congested highway of thoughts would. It is, maybe, the resonance of emptiness that chills me to the bones. It fucking scares me, when I think about it. Have I detached myself too much from everything else? Maybe. I guess. Probably.

Maybe I just need someone or something to keep reminding me to participate. And I realized that it doesn't even have to be a great, significant romance (as most books would put it). It could be just about anyone willing enough. And that I'd just have to be as willing as well.

And that it could just be me.

Escape Key

2010-05-17T01:35:00.005+08:00

Everything feels so different now. Everything just feels so different. And I just feel like watching One Tree Hill all day. I don't even love the new season. But it feels like home. Everyday is a busy day, and I'm never bored. And god, that's the weirdest thing. It's summer, and I should have nothing to do. But I am always doing something, being somewhere, having to go somewhere. It probably seems quite incredulous almost rejecting my non-boredom. But the busyness just punctuates the lulls. And I don't know anymore. I'm losing myself. I am a shell.

Non-thoughts and Non-sleep

2010-05-05T01:47:00.003+08:00

I was concentrating on droning out the hum of the A/C. I thought it was a nice way to lull myself to sleep. It usually worked better than counting sheep, but this time it was futile. My head was too busy with non-thoughts. I picked up my white watch somewhere in the reckless pile of trash and ballpens and books that's beside my mattress. I watched with dread as I saw the long hand approach 12. I watched with even more dread as I finally saw the hour hand move directly over 2. I crossed the 2 AM mark and I was wondering if I will cross the 6 AM mark as per usual. Hopefully not. Sleep is such an elusive thing.

Mostly, I wouldn't be worried about my non-sleep. In fact, I almost welcome it. It's nice being awake early in the morning with no one to bother you. This time is different. I have an interview to get to, and it's a critical point. Hopefully, I ace it and my troubles will be no more. I pray. Oh God, I pray.

Engulfed

2010-05-03T03:43:00.005+08:00

She was leaning on the kitchen counter, gently rapping her fingers on the marble surface. The gradual sounds were muted, but heard nonetheless. She sighed and glanced towards the right where the stove was. She swiftly calculated the readiness of the food. Deciding that it wasn't quite done yet, she returned her gaze casually towards the window in front of her.

"It won't work." She repeated this in her mind, it won't work. It was nighttime and the kitchen window brought in a nice, summer breeze. She loved cooking in the dark. Quite risky, she knew. But there was just something about cooking in the dark that comforted her, or agitated her. Whatever feeling that was, she reveled in it. The only source of light, the stove's fire, dwindled a little. In fact, everything dwindled a little for that fraction of a second. Almost unnoticeable, but she noticed it nonetheless. Her heart leaped, but immediately returned to its steady pace.

The thing about the dark is that, it is consuming. Sight is impaired (not necessarily blinded)

and everything else heightens. Tangible things suddenly seemed such a nuisance. She concluded: abstraction was a nice escape. She was engulfed. The rhythmic sizzle of oil and the heavenly smell of bacon calmed her a little. It didn't actually distract her from her thoughts though. They were all there, hiding in some blackened corner waiting to pounce at some possible moment. Maybe even all unknowingly pouncing already. Everything was so exciting.

She laughed, her gentle laugh - the sort of laugh you laugh for yourself once you've realized how silly everything is. How silly you are being. How reckless of her, she thought, for putting herself in such a vulnerable situation. How tragic. How foolish. And maybe to some extent: how pathetic. But she welcomed the frenzy of feelings that usually came. She thought: If not, how dull everything would be. How dull.

Maybe it was sad, the things she had to do to get to feel something. At some point, it probably seemed artificial -- phony. Phony feelings. But it couldn't be helped, she thought. She needed this. If not, how dull everything would be. She was afraid of dullness. Mostly, she hated feeling indifferent.

Suddenly, she was pulled out of her thoughts. An irritating buzz was approaching; it was invisible. Blindly, she swatted at something. Feeling something wet on her palm, she smiled contentedly at herself. Fucking mosquitoes. Suddenly remembering her bacon, she grabbed a bowl -- she always eats in a bowl -- put in the bacon and got some rice. She switched on the light, and everything was white. Forgetting her thoughts, she sat on the dining table and continued on with dinner.

Everything was forgotten.

Bipolar

2010-05-01T18:42:00.012+08:00

Sophomore year was a shift so swift I didn't even realize it. It's the middle of summer, and I guess this is just my delayed reaction to the year that was. But I guess it deserves to be remembered.

The first semester was a culmination of all things depressing. It was, I guess, the saddest I've ever been. I must have written the most (dramatic) then. And taken the most people-less photos. I indulged mostly in myself, my thoughts and my silliness. I retracted from most of the world and maybe I learned a few things, maybe even the hard way.

I spent most of my daily three hour breaks alone in malls or in the Math Building.

The highlight of it must have been my field trip in Zambales. I made a couple of friends and enjoyed the beach.

Countless times, I remember wanting to give up. But never quite having the guts to. Despite everything I've been through, I still love UP. I love UP.

My depression carried over to the second semester, but I had a mission. I wanted to prove myself wrong. I made a new friend in a former classmate. This is Marian. We have an album full of vain shots.

I promised myself that I'd get my act together. I wanted to start by avoiding a three hour break, but alas that wasn't so. I decided to suck it up and find people to hang out with. And so I find myself going to the CASAA everyday where my high school friends and their college barkada are. It was nice.

A random picture of myself looking wack. But I will include it because this is during sophomore year.

December came and a couple of my high school friends came in to visit. That's Jaque, Axis and Drea.

We watched the Lantern Parade.

Drea is a high school friend and a fellow Isko. She's taking up MBB and she rocks. Which presidentiable does she remind you of? I bet you could never guess.

We made CASAA our official unofficial tambayan. We're always packed into a couple of tables somewhere in the middle.

I'll always remember the roadtrips. One time we reached Sta. Lucia and I didn't know where the hell we were. But I managed to get home. And also: impromptu Left 4 Dead 2 sessions in 129.

One Feb Fair day, my high school Thomasian friends dropped by and we had a blast.

Oh sophomore year, you were so bipolar.

The Night Shift

2010-04-12T15:00:00.006+08:00

So there I was on a chair, blank as usual. `Stoic` is how my mother would usually describe me, but I'd like to think that just to an extent. The aircon hummed and whirred, but it never seemed to get any colder. The room was a nice green, not quite reminiscent of indifferent, beeping machines. The only illumination was from the overhead lamp and it bathed the room in stone cold white.

"Goodmorning sir, ma'am"

A school of nurses enter with their white uniforms and fixed up hair. "We're from the night shift and we're just doing our rounds." A nurse comes round to my side and checks the pile of tubes connected to my mom. She goes the long way round and checks the oxygen. "Thank you ma'am. Oh, and we'd like to remind you: no food and drinks from 12 midnight." A smile, and you really can't measure how fake (because sometimes they just are genuine), then they leave one by one.

My dad was lying on the long john on the far right of the room. I could hear him restlessly twist and turn in his non-sleep. I, on the other hand, was on that hospital chair almost relaxed and calm. I psyched myself up the other day, I remember. I told myself in a trance-like manner: push everything to the back of your mind and carry the fuck on. It was a motto to live by and it was getting me by just fine.

"Yes ma'am?" A nurse suddenly steps into the room. Now this nurse, I'm particularly fond of. I think he's genuine and that makes all the difference. "Oh sorry." My mom's reply. It turns out, she accidentally pressed on the intercom."Joke lang po yun," and I sheepishly laugh at our mishap. The nurse, whom we shall name Bob, came back in.

Bob said: `We'd just like to remind you that this is a non-smoking room. All the oxygen pipes are connected so one puff can kill the whole hospital. Thank you po ma`am` He smiles his genuine, concerned smile and leaves the room. My mom and I look at each other and snicker. We both think: Mama*!

Until maybe certain profound points at night, I'm well and fine. When everyone's asleep and my thoughts follow the rhythm of everyone else's breathing, there's nothing much else to accompany me but my thoughts. At those points, I feel like drowning or just ceaselessly falling into some empty pit never quite knowing when everything would stop. Sometimes you can't help but feel this way. It's like some sort of default setting.

My mom suddenly stirs in her sleep. "Give the night crew a box of donuts." So I comply. I get the dozen donuts on top of the fridge, squeeze in a few more donuts (you know how night shifts can be). As I approach the nurse's station, I spot Bob and give the donuts to him. This Bob is a morning shift nurse though, so he said something like `I'll just give it to them.` I was about to turn around when he said: `Do you guys have like a factory of donuts?` I replied an honest `No, just a franchise.` He says: `Paggawa kaya ako ng Krispy Kreme dito` in that joking manner.

Laughing, I get back to the room and settle back into my chair. Still, I can hear my dad's deep snores and my mom's rhythmic breathing. I am alone. At some point though, I take note that I'm on the night shift too. So I give myself a donut and continue on with the night.

*Mama: my grandma; mom's mom

2010-03-01T10:36:00.006+08:00

You can't really help but to fall in and out of stuff. Out of feelings. Into thoughts. Out of love. Into life. It's a (vicious) cycle sometimes slowing down or speeding up; but, never quite stopping. My natural self-defense mechanism involves escaping, denial and delusion. It has worked, and I welcome how deadpan I can be. Just sometimes, everything catches up. And every fear, or feeling or reason I've ever run away from taps me at the back and punches me in the face. Or in the gut. It is never a pleasant sensation. Ironically, this pushes me further into escaping when all I want is to live life.

Where Were We?

2010-02-22T21:53:00.005+08:00

Transatlanticism

Death Cab For Cutie

We don't have cold, long nights anymore. All they are, are empty and red. Hot and transient. The days have gone by so quickly, I don't remember where I am. We're trapped -- no, I'm trapped in this silly, fantastic dream of (pseudo) never-ending I-forgive-you's. And where were you in the haze of all these lights? Where were we?

I walk down the street. And I stare almost absentmindedly at the cars as they pass by so frantically. I realize that it doesn't really matter all that much. Not really. But it's nice to think about, every once in a while. Heartbreaking, yes. But I realize that it's these emotions that fuel me in the end. Hands in my pockets and I'm counting all the street lights I pass by.

---

I do not know how to write anymooooore. To be continued some other time. Bllerhgpoad.

Over-thinking this, most probably

2010-02-11T00:41:00.005+08:00

I've sort of figured out why I suddenly post less frequently. I guess having the lack of inspiration is a sad excuse, because I really have so much to write about. What I've realized is that writing forces me to think about every single detail of every single thought. And I know I do so, quite meticulously even. When writing, all my thoughts are put under the microscope. I can pinpoint each and every feeling, I over-analyze the situation, I psychoanalyze myself. And then everything, without me even knowing, becomes just a tad bit more complicated than how I'd perceive them initially.

I guess now that I've been feeling less depressed, I'm savoring it. A defense mechanism, most probably. What I've decided to do (and probably subconsciously so at first), is to not think anything out of anything. Really. I have restricted my mind - barricaded even - from wandering on to the land of over thinking. This land, I've learned is a very very dangerous place. It opens up all possible roads of conclusion. And more often than not, the end of these roads aren't quite as pretty as how you'd like them to be. It was working quite well, this mental barricade. But I guess it acted more like a dam than an actual stronghold of thoughts. A few notable ones have escaped. And most are already taking over me. This is my weakness, I guess. Just one of many.

“Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don’t know, but it’s so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.”

- Jonathan Safran Foer

12:09 AM

2010-01-25T23:42:00.003+08:00

I've been in bed since 8:00. Strangely enough, my mind is nowhere near busy. All it is is a blank canvas, as improbable as that sounds. But it is. I'm not thinking of any particular place, person or situation. It's a puzzle. I haven't had a good night's sleep for months.

Oh Hai 2010

2010-01-20T20:36:00.004+08:00

Well hello, 2010.

I have carefully avoided writing about the start of a new year in fear of expecting too much (or too little). I have dismissed every occurring thought of a proper resolution. But now, 18 days from the start of the year, is the perfectly calculated moment of which I can finally relay any such notions/expectations/goals/aspirations for the year Twenty-Ten. Why so? Because I have witnessed an almost constant upward trend in my feeling-time graph.

Lately though, I have been also experiencing frequent passing relapses to 2009. Which is not a good thing. It seems best, while the feelings are still at a high, to list down certain uplifting goals now.

Hello, social life. Number one for obvious reasons and from certain lessons learned in 2009. I admit to my apparent stupidity. Although being alone can be quite nice, being lonely... not so much. Apart from the four-letter similarity, the two are definitely not the same in sense. Definitely not. Twenty-oh-nine was a weird emotional rollercoaster I never want to get on again. And I'm doing whatever it takes to get as far away from it as possible. Alienation can be quite addictive. Sort of.
Hello, acads. Number two only because it follows number one. Meaning number one is a prerequisite (or corequisite, actually) for number two. I've never quite focused on the academic side of life (now, in college). I guess it's time. Or not. Fuck, I just need to shift.

That is all. Yes. Two goals for 2010 so far. Yay me.

Bulletproof

2010-01-01T03:34:00.004+08:00

And the clock struck 12. It felt like everything was new again.

Just before New Year, gradual sounds of distant fireworks filled the sky. The air was notably dimmer than usual. The streets smelled like an outdoor bar. While the hands of the clock grew closer to 12, the world (or the Philippines, at least) also grew noisier. Firecrackers were like heartbeats. Everything was in a state of constant movement; my mind was getting more and more excited. I don't know what exactly I was anticipating. The concept of a new year seemed so abstract. Like how men distorts life by limiting it with time. New year seemed unreal. Why was I so dependent on the turn of a year? Why not now? But here was my heart, and it was beating like crazy, not minding whatever philosophy about distorted time my mind was trying to think of.

My 2009 wasn't anything spectacular. All it will probably be in my memory, is the year I turned 18. Yes, I did meet quite a lot of new people. Yes, I broke up some friendships. Yes, a lot did happen. But everything just felt too meaningless, I guess. I dragged everything on until the end of the year. I just wanted to get it all over with. I've been calling what I've been doing, 'coasting.' That's why I've been anticipating 2010 this much. I feel like this is honestly going to be a good year. I know better than to rely on destiny, or luck, or the alignment of the planets -- I'm going to work for things this time.

This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof.* Happy New Year, everyone!

* Bulletproof - LaRoux

The Accident

2009-12-22T20:33:00.007+08:00

I was just lying there, spread eagle, in the middle of it all. The air smelled slightly like freshly cut grass and fishballs. I felt free and unrestricted. I was thinking. About a lot of things. Almost without thinking, I crossed my arms to the back of my head. I gazed up at the lazy sky dotted with popcorn clouds. It's definitely a nice day, I thought.

On any other normal day, I'd have my iPod Mini blaring out tunes. Sort of like the background music to my life, if it were a movie. If my iPod weren't already dead, I'd have it on my 'Mellow Yellow' playlist. Everything seemed the be yellow like how old movies are, I thought. Everything seemed so slow, and classy -- and ultimately, nostalgic. The campus was relatively silent. While everyone else had classes, I had a three hour break to battle. I was on the first hour.

The silence of not having anything in particular to listen to was becoming overwhelming. What I realized was sometimes it's pretty dangerous to be alone with nothing but your thoughts. Oh, the things you get to think of! It was basically limitless. What exactly was I thinking of? Well, I don't really know. You know how things come and go in a moment? Well, that's how it was. It was a blur of thoughts that came and went like cars on a freeway. I thought: there's bound to be an accident somewhere, sometime. I was at 180 kph, and ahead of me was a vast expanse of road. I thought: oh no, how do I ever stop? I couldn't. I couldn't stop. The thing is, one can never really stop their thoughts. What I realized is that, one can just really ever stall them.

And in that particular moment, nothing was the same. All those thoughts I've stalled in the past came at me. Cars on a freeway. A thousand fucking cars on a freeway. I said, there's bound to be an accident somewhere, sometime. And here it was. And in that particular moment, nothing was ever the same. I stopped escaping from my thoughts. I accepted them. One by one. And nothing was the same.

Feeding the Depression

2009-12-21T01:02:00.007+08:00

It's all about the warm nights and the saddest skies. Maybe it's the supposed coolness of December that has pushed me far back into my thoughts. But who am I kidding, blaming the weather? The thing about not being busy is that you get to think of absolutely everything.

I'm imagining the bittersweet smell of coffee slightly tinging the room with a nostalgic, homey feel. There's just something oddly comforting about coffee at night. Sort of like how some other people like beer and good company. Coffee stains and an imaginary empty cup later, my mind is still swirling with thoughts. Horrid, unpleasant thoughts. Nothing so absolutely gruesome. Nothing like that. But just as off-putting. I keep on scolding myself for thinking these thoughts. I know how the world is wonderful and shit, but I don't know. I'm still as uptight as ever. I'm a fucking Grinch who doesn't know how to enjoy anymore. Christmas is four days away, and it's never really been anything spectacular for the past years. It's just a sugarcoated holiday meant to give me some sort of false hope. I look forward to it, like a child does. But come the day itself, everything goes awry. It's always the same -- for birthdays, for New Year's. Holidays tend to be pretty depressing. They really do. It's sort of like finding out that your favorite foreign band is coming here to play, then finding out on the day itself that they can't come. Or you don't have enough money. Or worse: that they actually suck. And it's usually the case.

And yes, I'm feeding my depression with sad music and holiday food.

Dumb and Uninspired Part II

2009-12-07T03:32:00.003+08:00

I'm dumb, and uninspired. I'm lazy. I'm everything I hate to be. I'm blaming hormones. I'm thinking it's that time of the month. But it's not. The problem with me is, I know all my problems. I know their cause, how they came to be but I never really do anything about it. I can be quite The Escapist when it comes to certain things. I can be the awkward untouchy-feely person. But when it comes down to it, I am never oblivious. Never. I guess the problem is: my complacency. Or is this just called being a "normal teenager"? It's a Sunday night (a Monday early morning, rather) feeling that I cannot shake off. It's that feeling where you look at your To-Do list (Well, in my case) and realized you've done absolutely nothing school-related the whole weekend. It's the regret. The procrastinator's sickness. The would-be crammer's creed. Whatever you might refer to it.

I'm dumb. Uninspired. Lazy. Excuse me while I crawl into my hole.

Names

2009-11-24T21:25:00.005+08:00

How do you actually begin a post on your nth blog and your nth year of blogging? The thing is, I don't exactly want to introduce myself name and all. For now, I'd like to disregard it. My name, that is. I'm thinking of a clever alibi (a placeholder for my name), but nothing comes to mind for now. I was thinking of calling myself 'V.' Only because I thought that 'V for Vendetta' was such a legendary movie. But I don't know. I don't feel like a 'V'. Or maybe I do, but I don't want to seem so unoriginal. I was also considering 'General.' Not as in a soldier, but just as something in... 'General.' I hope you get me, because I don't. For now, how you'd refer to me is unimportant. Putting a name on something can ruin everything.