I stood by the bridge, overlooking España Boulevard and UST. I thumbed through the spaces that surround me, overtaken by the swooping sensation that I was so close to the world, yet so distant and so disconnected from it all. Lights blinked from every corner of the place like kaleidoscope colors splashing life to the dead canvas of my troubled mind.
Certain places in the city never catch my attention and make an impact—like the crowded stretch of a boulevard or the blinking signal of traffic lights. I consider them ordinary, the way most people do, and recognize them as merely a part of the overall rhythm of the life force that drives and moves the city.
One . . . two. . . three
The jeepney swerved to the left and to the right before it made a full stop at a gasoline station where its tank was filled with fuel: hot, brazen, and gold. I imagined the smooth texture of the combustible fluid sliding effortlessly down my throat, setting my body in flames. I remembered the film I saw once about a Buddhist monk who burned himself to death in 1963: how fire licked his skin, his robe, his being, and how he felt nothing. I wanted so badly to assume that he died feeling nothing.
It feels so peculiar typing the word April on this page.
It was only yesterday when my eyes glittered at the sight of fireworks on New Year’s Eve; only yesterday when we welcomed the zodiac year with towering wishes for good health and good fortune; only yesterday when I blew my candles away and embraced a brand new age of existence. Continue reading “April in a Nutshell”
All of us look back to a certain time in our lives, seeking for the same turbulence of the New Year celebration and trying to relive the excitement we once had as a child, but finding instead that all of our attempts only lead us to a place where it is silent and calm.
Welcome to the world of adulthood.
One thing I know for certain is that the holidays in the blogging world is never complete without blogmas, a special blogging tradition featuring Christmas-themed blog posts which usually run from the first of December up to Christmas Day. Continue reading “All I Want for Christmas”
Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
My head was up in the clouds today: soaring like a lonely flying creature in the gloom of this inclement weather, allowing itself to be blown away by the gust of these stormy skies.
My only source of stillness was the thought of coming back to the university, to that one place in the world I can always come back to and call home. Continue reading “Homecoming”
Weekends are for crashing into bed and tucking yourself beneath blankets; your favorite teenage playlist banging rock music in every corner of the room as if it is some kind of a personal familiar comfort, melting the world of its temporary intimacy and sense.
Weekends are for reminiscing and travelling back in time. Your unmade bed is a space machine and your imagination are wings transporting you to a decade of wander and wild spirited youth. Continue reading “In Remembrance of Youth”
I know myself too well and I know for certain that when someone asks me to go out of town, I would be quick to run for the nearest exit before I could even say no. Continue reading “Under Northern Skies”
There should be a word for the gap in our souls, for this hollow space in our chest where our hearts used to be.
I reach out for myself, dragging my hand all the way down my trembling lips, my bruised neck, my aching collarbones, and notice the cracks stretching infinitely into that lonely cave they call heartbreak. I let my hand wander further and find my skin a vast ocean of memories. My eyes water, my tears forming pool and tracing an island of scars.
I thought I would never to be able to bring myself to write another entry here.
But here I am once again: scribbling a letter after another until I finally make up a word, a sentence, a paragraph that’s lucid enough to express my apparent ambiguity and my obscure speculations about the world, about everything I know (or thought I knew).
The end of February always brings a certain kind of sadness to me: sharp, weighty and wordless like a falling dagger to the chest, hammering through the flesh and beating my heart to death. Out of all the months in the year, February is the most difficult to say goodbye to, because the farewell only acknowledges the arrival of a new month, my birth month, and that for me is more than terrifying.
It would be an understatement to say that 2016 was a bad year. I fumble around and probe into the sentiments of other people to find the same grave opinion they have towards this monstrous moment in time.
I went to the cemetery today: a one-ride trip to the northern part of the city that is well-known for roasted pork and burial grounds and crematoriums. I have been to this area only once in my life, about two years ago, when we had to take Lola to her final resting place. Even then, I couldn’t understand the idea of burial rites as the final passage of a person’s life. And when they said in unison, “Lola is finally going to rest,” I thought mournfully to myself, “Finally?”