"Associative Looseness"

The things I had hoped for, wished for and prayed for.
Came to me in a dream, only in my dreams did I feel it’s’ presence.
The satisfaction one would get when finding a lost coin,
Or perhaps when finding the right direction,
When stuck in a forked road towards oblivion.

I wake up and my tears have dried already.
It seems I spent the better half of my night dreaming,
And the other half weeping.
For what I have that never had.
For what I lost but never really owned.

And it’s elusive…everything is just elusive…
Failure is not an option, a choice, or a preference by chance.
It happens… and it happens a lot… to me.

Love, success, acceptance and happiness,
By-products of an imagination available to those who dare,
To invest, to sow, to take a risk on people and life;
And still be brave enough to pick the leftovers of the night;
Once more taking the path down the lanes of misery.

But it’s elusive… everything is just elusive.
Failures take its toll and passivity wins its place;
In the front line of reality losers do lose
And victors trample the rubble that is your spirit.

June 12, 2008 11:30PM

Singing show tunes and alongside Jason Mraz without really knowing what was the lyrics and just going along with the melody and anything that rhymes gives me a natural high. Takes me away from what’s bothering me, which at this point, I don’t really know. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am again, taking my favorite steroid vitamins and earlier tonight had devised my own version of a long island iced-tea. I am a bit high, literally, drunk high if that’s what you call it.
I can’t believe I am actually writing right now. Mind you my spelling and grammar still kicks in. still can’t see any red lines or green ones at that.
I have thought about killing myself again today. Don’t take me wrong! I am not suicidal. I never was… and hope never will be. It’s just that, these kinds of thoughts amuses me and gives me a temporary escape route. Giggling at how I am going to do it without pain of course! Who would want to die in pain? Not me.
So, I figured sleeping pills… or maybe steroid overdose? Or perhaps drown myself in 20 capsules of Demerol or Valium or Stillnox; wherein I need to get a prescription to be able to purchase that stuff.
As you can see, I live alone so the success rate of my plan would be 100 percent. Since no one would check up on me in the morning or if I went out of my room or not…or if I even wake up. My body would only be discovered after a week or so, already stiff and in the process of decomposition.
Not a nice sight.
It would be the easiest way out. It would be the end of everything. It would grant me freedom, freedom from everything.
I feel that I have already captured the essence of what the world has to offer and comfortably accepted my fate that I will never get to experience those things I see on the television or go to places and hop on a train and go from one country to another.
Again, don’t take me wrong. I have a wonderful family and a wonderful lover. I am blessed enormously with them, that I feel I don’t deserve them. Maybe it has something to do with my being ***. I feel that no matter what I do, they will never accept me. And no matter what I do I will never be able to accept myself if the people around me are not happy with me.
i am giving up… on me.
I have thought of going away, to a place where nobody would know me. A place where I can work menial jobs and earn my keep and not be totally dependent on my family, or to someone… my meager earnings from writing can not sufficiently cover my stay in the city. And what am I doing in the city? NOTHING.
No job. No penny. And with a disfigured face.
But the thing is, where am I to go? Where am I going to stay? How can I leave when I don’t even have enough to cover for whatever?
One thing left to do… total isolation and seclusion. I have thought of going home to the province. Perhaps if I try to kill myself there someone would find me soon enough. But if you want to kill yourself, you don’t want to be found when you’re not yet dead. Right?
I sit here writing while listening to some songs. I feel contented. I don’t need anyone. I don’t need anything. I am happy with my misery. My masked depression, where more often than not, I cry at no reason at all.

I have love.

But I am choosing to leave it behind for a peaceful non-existence in this world. Selfish… yes, but I guess it’s about time.

My eyes are hot right now and suddenly my nostrils seemed filled-up. As I write these things, perhaps this feeling of hopelessness and loneliness would go away. As it always does. I pray to have the strength to take on another fruitless day. Another senseless existence; another day waiting… just waiting…

I am 26 years old and I have nothing to prove to myself. Sure, I came from a prestigious university, got an 84 percent in the national examinations and graduated first honors in grade school… so what? It does not mean anything now. All of that were just fruitless and senseless accomplishments that would not in any way help me in my endeavors in the real world.

When: February 16, 2008
Where: Dive and Trek Resort, Anilao, Batangas
Event: GMIC Reunited

It was roughly 10 years ago when the four of us had our picture taken together. That was before our highschool graduation. It was just nostalgic. Having this part of my life back again.



G--Gea
M --Maye
I -- Imee
C -- Chanteuse

Long live our barkada!!! :)

Writing Crisis

It’s been three weeks since my last writing project. A project that usually only takes 3 nights to complete, took me a heavy two weeks to finish. Those two weeks did not necessarily mean that I have been working the whole time. I spent the good half of my working time (that is 1 am to 6am) staring at my laptop and playing beautiful eyes with the fluorescent light.

I didn’t know what was going on with me. I have the energy to write but it seems that inspiration has deserted me. My fingers missed the feeling of stroking the keyboard but as soon as it touches the surface of the laptop, I freeze. Literally, and figuratively-I freeze. As I was suspended in a catatonic position my mind also went blank.

That was the first time I was at a loss for words. My mind was speechless and I am not able to write anything intelligible – not even a simple blog entry. Nada. Zilch. Nunca.

The surprising thing was, I was not scared. I was actually relaxed, even as the days turn into hours before my deadline. Perhaps my mind was wandering somewhere else that I had to go find it and force it to work, just this last time… and I did. Five hours before my deadline I spent an agonizing night finishing up a 25-page thesis proposal. Not my best, I know… but better than nothing, right?

AND…for the first time in a long time. This appears to be my first entry this year, after three months. I am writing again. I am back in the creative realm. Not just in the academic-commercial side of writing. Maybe that’s what's missing in my life. The creative flow - It had abandoned me long ago when I decided I am going to make money from my writings; which I did. So, it left me hung and dry. Until I summed up my courage to rouse it back in.

There was once a young girl who wanted to become a doctor. Because she thought that it would make her parents proud of her, and that she could earn lots and lots of money, by being a doctor. The prestige that comes with the white uniform, and the respect that they get from all the townspeople -- she thought she could have it too, once she becomes one.
Then she grew up, added four or five years to her age. Got a little understanding of the world; how it works and what’s really important -- at that time. So she wanted to become a lawyer. How their signatures can cost a whooping five thousand pesos, and how they can get people off from things that they did, or were accused of doing. They save lives, families, and they are very wise.

Then she had some experience with public talking and competition in grade school. She was awed by the information thrown at her, and her teachers expectations that she wanted to become a journalist. Full of ideas, general information and…

She grew up, then she wanted to become an actress, a supermodel, a PMA Officer, then she met someone then she wanted to become a doctor again, then a journalist again, then she got a course in the Arts. Which made her heart very happy because that’s what she really wanted to do, but since it’s not a land of gold, she forego that dream and thought that she could take up law. But then was not given a chance or she didn’t really try her hardest. Then she needed money, her family said--- go take up nursing and we’ll support you. Go abroad and support us afterwards. Give it all back. Everything that we spent on you, every cent.

The thing is, this girl’s lost. She doesn’t know what she wants and she’s lost herself in the process of finding out. How could she not know what she wants when the people around her knows what she wants better than her?

And she’s crying… hopelessness emitted from the stale odor of this old apartment she’s been imprisoned in for how many months now. She wanted to go out but something of divine intervention is preventing her to do so. She’s already lost but the worst thing is she’s lost with a plague stuck on her face.

I have come across the same terrains again. Familiar dirt road and recognizable lamp posts; all reminiscent of the things that happen over and over and over again.

Yet I still tread it every time. Unfaltering. Unwavering.

I clutch my heart at my sleeve; afraid it might eventually fall off. I scurry at the slightest bit of apprehension. I look around for some additional information that might help my journey less miserable. Shorter and fruitful even, a fool’s hope. At times I soar like an eagle, optimistic the whole way through. Unstoppable, aggressive, risky to the point of stupidity.

I held my breath and pretended to die. I lifted up my hands and imagined I could fly. I immortalize my pain through my writings; the never-ending memento mori I am preparing. Perhaps, like some best-regarded poets and writers, whose works were only recognized after their deaths; mine wouldn’t be any difference. More so, maybe my seemingly insignificant existence could be used as an excuse for something bigger than life. Then I… matter, eventually.

I cry at the top of my lungs. I tried to pull my eyes from its socket but could not. So, I sat there whimpering like a beaten, wet dog. Triumphant in my agony. Then the sun came and shined upon me again.

But then, tell me… how come I’m passing the same terrains, again?

The uphill and downhill slopes; the dust welcoming me at every turn; the smoke coming from the chimney of my broken self; how long will the wings on my feet last? How much more can the rope attaching my veins to reality endure?

And if I come to cross the same terrains again, I pray to God, help me.

I saw a man flying in EDSA today. I thought there was a parade of some sort or the taxi cab hit a garbage bin; for a lot of chicharon flew off into the air-- then a man in a somersault somehow joined the charade. Then I blinked.

Moment seemed to freeze as we pass by slowly to take a look at the unconscious vendor on the middle of the road. Cars honking and everybody seems to be in a slow motion. Thick, dark red blood oozes out from his nose and was shining against the light of the sun. He was still. Unmoving. And so are we.

I felt guilty. I am a Nurse. What would you do in a situation like that? I was on my way to the hospital for a job interview with my friend, who was driving, and who owns the car. A 2-door car, which makes it difficult for us to stop and take the man in and rush him to the hospital. First, in a vehicular accident you should not move the victim for the risk of doing more damage in the spinal cord or anywhere, wait for the proper authorities to move him. Second, we are both women and for God's sake we can not fit him in the backseat lest we removed ourselves from the car first! And also, we can not carry him.

So we sped away, hoping to see MMDA in the road to report the accident (where were they when you needed them the most?). We passed by the yellow taxi who hit the vendor being flagged down by a black Ford. Then a passenger, a woman, came out. What a nerve! She doesn't even have the decency to stop the driver and tell him to take the victim to the hospital. She just went along for the ride. Good thing somebody flagged them or the driver would have gone away with reckless driving resulting to homicide?

This is the second time actually that I saw a man fly. It gives you the creeps and the image, amidst the noise of EDSA seemed to take a recording of it's own. It's like a THUG! Screeechhhh!!! Except that the screeching sound was not from the Taxi that hit him. It was from the passersby who had it in them to stop and be awed by the raw action laid in front of them.

However, you can not really blame the taxi driver for the vendor was not within his legal rights to be in the middle of EDSA. It's a no-passing zone. As the famous pink billboard says “Bawal Tumawid, Nakamamatay!” But as a human being, it is the responsibility of the driver to be concern and bring the victim to the hospital. Hoping it's not too late. I hope that vendor would be okay. Risking your life for how many cents in every cigarette bought; for how many peso in every chicharon bought, or mineral water, or just about anything.

It was just shocking I guess. I'm hoping i won't see one anymore again.

I am asking this question because it seems that everywhere I look, this makes a mark that somehow leaves me haunting for answers. Everyday I see things wherein I say to myself, is being in love enough?

There are a lot of things associated with being in love. Being “in love” actually is not what you should call it when you find another person amazingly interesting, lovable, and deliriously attractive. “In love” is a state, and like most “states”, it is something temporary, a fleeting moment, a certain status, something that won’t really last.

So, for the sake of argument and some things I read from The Road Less Traveled,:

The section mainly attacks a number of misconceptions about love: that romantic love exists (he considers it a very destructive myth), that it is about dependency, that true love is "falling in love", that love is cathexis, that love is a feeling. Instead love is about the extending of one's ego boundaries to include another, and about the spiritual nurturing of another, in short, love is effort.

I have been presented with some situations, about a friend having another lover apart from one she already has for nine (9) years. She’s having an affair and she claims that she loves both persons and if the original partner finds out about her affair, she’s going to deny it, and if worse comes to worst, she would not choose either of them. Now, I’ve been asking her if she loves the one she’s been with for 9 years, and without batting an eyelash she says Yes! Now, next question would be, then why are you having an affair with another person? Then here comes the most complicated part of the conversation. Mostly because I don’t approve of her reasons, and partly because I am biased as to listening her explanations why. Then I sort of realized, maybe she doesn’t love the nine years anymore. She’s just staying for the sake of the years spent together, which was rather absurd. So I asked her, “Why don’t you leave that person and stay with the new one? Since that new person obviously makes you happy.” She said no, she could never do that to the nine years, she can never find someone incomparable with the nine-year-person. Wtf? But, hey, that’s her life. My business? No.

Then here comes a TV show about a married couple with a declining sex life. The girl initiates the talk of open marriage and the guy agrees with the premise that it turned both of them on and he just wants to get laid. But in a turn of events, the wife really went out of her way and slept with another guy, believing that they have this “open marriage” thing worked out. However, the husband didn’t take it too seriously and was still waiting for the time when he and the wife could get it on in the sack. Finding out sooner rather than later, that the wife was already sleeping with another guy. So the husband went out his way and slept with another girl.

Sad thing. When this kind of things happen to good couples. Having another person on the side at the same time claiming being in love with the current beau is really absurd. As I mentioned, they were only maybe in a temporary state when they said that they were “in love”. And does this love enough to withhold your desires for other people? It should be. As M. Scott Peck says, love is sustained by not mutual dependence; it actually causes strain on the relationship being too dependent. Therefore true love is achieved by being independent of each other. Meaning, that when you go away and do some stuff on your own, you want to go home and share your experience with your partner; and the partner would do the same without the both of you feeling guilty of left out from each other’s lives. Communication is the key. Plus a truckload of honesty.

Maybe what these people feel when they engage in an affair, they lose the excitement, and they lose the lust they have for the person they’ve been with for a thousand years. Yes, it does happen. You could actually get tired from loving; curse it at times; but you would never stop loving the person if you really started to really, really love that person from the very beginning, inside and out.

There’s this line that the husband from the TV Show said before finding out about his wife’s affair. He said, “I love her, I love the way she smells, I love the way she is with the kids, I love her cooking. I just love her.”

That melted my heart.

Now, did I mention that the nine-year-person found out about my friend’s extra-curricular activities? I actually pity the nine-year-person. To give your love, and your life into nurturing a relationship you hope would last forever; and then reality would hit you right in the face that the person you’re offering the world to doesn’t actually feel the same for you, anymore at least.

I wouldn’t want that to happen to me. If I was with a person and that person doesn’t feel the same way I do?

Now, here’s the cliché. I actually don’t know what to do.

I have been taking steroids for my condition, and this has been my more or less 4th week (not consecutively) taking steroids. I took methylprednisolone 16mg twice a day for two weeks and taper it down to 4 mgs twice a day for a week. Then now I am taking prednisone 20 mgs twice a day for a week.

I dread the effects steroids have on me.

First and foremost, the excess flab that adds to my already inflated tummy and my big face. Yeah, yeah it reduces the inflammation of my lymph but then it also attracts water therefore causing me to bloat. But that’s human nature, right? To get fat?

Then here comes the acne. I experienced severe acne attacks on my back going up to my nape; thank God it doesn’t go to my face. And here are some more possible side effects that may happen to me:
· High blood pressure and heart disease
· Liver damage and cancers
· Stroke and blood clots
· Urinary and bowel problems, such as diarrhea
· Headaches, aching joints, and muscle cramps
· Nausea and vomiting
· Sleep problems
· Increased risk of ligament and tendon injuries
· Severe acne, especially on face and back – already have this L
· Baldness

Also, there has been studies showing behavioral side effects such as severe mood swings:

According to Dr. Wadler, anabolic steroids can cause severe mood swings. "People's psychological states can run the gamut." says Wadler. "They can go from bouts of depression or extreme irritability to feelings of invincibility and outright aggression, commonly called "'roid rage. This is a dangerous state beyond mere assertiveness."

Anyways, people around me are sort of not aware of this roller coaster I’m going through. I’m just hoping I don’t manifest as much as it says I would given the long-term use. This condition recurrent; so maybe someday, you’ll see me writing about the same stuff again, complaining of other symptoms. I’m crossing my fingers that nothing fatal befalls me.

When you are faced with a reality and confusion of your doing, it gets so hard to stand up and admit that it's all your fault.. and you're willing to take the consequences for it.

It takes a lot of courage to be able to finally say, “It's okay, I'll be fine. Everything that we have will remain a memory, a good memory that will haunt me in my waking hours.” But it takes a lot more courage to gather your things and walk away... just walk away.

Nothing can ever prepare you for the hurt and the incoming misery that you would only feel once it's over. You promised yourself you wouldn't cry; you promised to yourself you wouldn't beg nor ask for one more chance. I applaud you for doing so, for sticking with what you said you would do --

But I applaud you more for staying; against all odds; you stayed. I applaud you for not giving up, for having a bit of courage to stay – just for a little while. For a little while.

And yet, you managed you fix what was broken; you managed to hang on and kept your grip onto it. For what you have together is a treasure; a priceless non-entity that exists only in both of your hearts; and that no matter where you go or what you do; you have made a mark and carved your own niches in each other; that there will only be emptiness when one is absent; there will only be longing when one is away.

That kind of attachment, that kind of bond, that kind of connection – is what you call TRUE LOVE.

So much for the anticipation. My script had three versions already and it wasn’t even proofread yet. Anyways, it’s the end of the week. Much has happened that I can’t even recall.

The other day I saw Sarah Jessica Parker  (or was it Piper Perabo? Beats me.) in person. I’m actually taller than her. And she doesn’t  look at all that enchanting. Like the way she sprints around in that show “Sex and the Kitty” hehehe

Kidding.

Very interesting horoscope today. It says that i’m lucky that I have friends coz I’m fortunate enough to have the kind of bunch that would stick by you, uplift you, and help you in times of trouble and need. So, I must repay them in anyway I can, let them feel I appreciate them, extend to them my warmest hello, and the all time favorite “kamusta na?” So I did. in friendster. I sent everybody a message. And the kind of life that I’m living and the possibility of living it for ever, my friends would be my only refuge.

When I was younger, I never had a “best” friend. I don’t remember having a friend, actually. Friend for me that time was – constant companion; I go to their house, s/he comes to mine; we share snacks at school; we gang-up against the bad girls and boys at school; I see s/he during the summer, and most importantly – a playmate.

I never had a playmate. Except for one stupid boy every summer.

So, I would play by myself. Climb all the trees at the backyard pretending I’m a monkey. Then jump down with a towel as cape pretending I’m superman. Lucky me, never had any injuries of any sort. But my legs got the beating. Remember that joke, “mayaman ako, kasi marami akong piso”. Well I was like that before. My scars literally looked like 1peso coins. Even had multiple scars, one on top of the other on my knees. I would also pretend I’m robinson crusoe, stranded in an island, so I would just write…write and write; and when I would get tired of writing “letters” to my family, I would exercise my combat skills—by hitting the banana trees all around me. Then I would pretend I’m Jackie Chan, or Cynthia Luster J and go on kicking, boxing, and hit the banana tree with a kitchen knife.

On a hot lazy afternoon, I wouldn’t be seen napping. I’m out on the street, biking, by myself, under the hot sun.

I never had a doll (but my mom claims I did, but where?) so I would steal my brother’s toyrs; cowboy guns with pellets and horsey-horsey… I would sometimes pretend I’m a priest and give communion to imaginary people. I would pretend I’m indiana jones playing hide and seek with the dogs and climbing the bamboo roof to get little birds and play with them… or sometimes just feed them to the cats.

There was this one time I pretended I’m a store owner and tried to sell orange juice in front  of our house. Nobody came to buy. Nobody walked by our house kasi. Unless you purposely come to see my parents.

Anyways, I’m thankful now that I have friends, real unimaginary friends, I won’t have to go on pretending and playing by myself – but it was also fun.

Everything is fun when you’re a kid. Wish I still am…

------
aymi

I got caught the other night. Swerving in EDSA Ortigas. I paid 200 pesos. To whom? The corrupt MMDA. Asshole. Initially, he wanted 500. Bangag ba siya? I bargained in the middle of EDSA, until he gave in to 200. Grabe. It was my first time to be hustled like that. The last time was when I was with Marge, Toni and Michel. Beating the red light. I admit I’m really stupid. But they’re banking on my stupidity. Anyways, they’re not going to get rich by a mere 200 pesos. They will just feed it to their children who will grow up to be just like them (God forbids!)

I pray for their already tortured souls in hell! (as if?)

There’s this cheap perfume store in Robinson’s Galeria, JMJ. They sell you original perfumes maybe 500 less than the original price in Rustan’s. Which is a very nice buy, right? You will also get discounts if you pay in cash. Then they have this TESTER bottles (not for sale actually) which they sell in a much lesser price (tester kasi). But it’s a tester bottle so the packaging isnt like the orginal, and on the bottle, there is non-removal sticker that says “not for sale” harr! Harr!harr!

But if it smells the same? And it’s original? Good buy na rin, right?

For two nights I have been taking care of my niece because my brother and his wife went to Boracay for a vacation. Nice, the first time; exciting and scary; then it became tiresome; she would wake up every two hours while I'm still in the process of pre-REM. I need to tap her legs and hum a soft lullabye to lull her back to sleep. Then the witching hour  2-4 am. She would wake up, and fall asleep again. But she's still sleepy, so she would fuss, and I don’t know how to get her to sleep again. Eventually my mom heard her cries and came up to her, or my, rescue. After that, it's my mom's problem na. But she's so cute. And she would smile in her sleep. And she would giggle and laugh without any apparent reason - she's only 2 months old.

Add my stress regarding the screenplay. I worked myself out trying to come up with an interesting synopsis. Which I hope I did. And contacting people just to force them to read my script and comment because there might be a possibility of you know…

Anyways, now I am starting to revise my script over and over again. Before it's only 10 pages; it became 30 pages; now I'm running on 50. It's supposed to be a SHORT FILM! Waaaahhhh!!! Now, I think I am making a feature film screenplay. The mystery gone; the argument of art film gone; the play of words and colors and cinematic shots gone; my goal ala-wong -kar wai cinematography, still achievable… ah, basta.

I'm exhausted. Pagod na ko. But I'm liking it.

I feel so alive.

----
When life hands you lemons, go buy Tequila! Inuman na! Adja! Adja!

I finished writing my original screenplay this week. It's somewhere here in my blog and I'll give whoever finds a tap on the shoulder :)

So here goes. The story was about two lovers on the process of breaking up. Will they separate or will they stay together?

I asked my friends to read it. I asked for their technical and creative opinion. But only 1 out of the 6 friends I asked replied with a positive comment. Now that got me thinking, AM I BAD WRITER? And then one friend said that I am just proud of my stories that’s why I asked (forced) them to read it – of course I am. But then again, AM I GOOD WRITER?

I ponder with this thought lots of time in the past. I was afraid to let others read what I’ve written because I don’t know if they would like it or not. I had a very low self-esteem. I know I excel in some areas; I even wanted to become a journalist before. I know I can come up with any technical write-up about anything - but when it comes to the arts, creative writing especially – something would hit my ruckus existence even with just a hint of criticism.

It was only during college at UP that I got the courage to share my story. It was actually received well, very well that my class went on to perform my play onstage, with tickets! I was really proud of myself, got a good review from my professor, kudos from my classmates, and encouragement from friends. Life was starting for me.

But still, I was hesitant to share more of stories. I guess it comes with your being young and fragile, I don’t know how to survive in the outside world. I was told people outside the university were cruel and they would step down on you any chance they get. I was scared. Terrified. So I hid my poems, I placed passwords for my stories in the computer…then at times I forget to get back to it…eventually I stopped.


Other things occupied my mind. But every now and then inspiration strikes me and I would doodle some lines on my notebook, my book, tissue paper or any availble writing material I get my hands on. It didn’t matter to me before that I displaced those sheets of papers, that I lost my notebook or my book. Posterity and collection meaned nothing to me – nobody would want to read it anyways.

As years go by I evolved into a more mature woman. With enough self-esteem to get me by – I was able to understand the meaning of every deepest statements; I shrugged off my shoulders with a boulder of criticisms; I learned how to save lives…

Then I remembered my stories and poems. Hidden. Lost. Insignificant.

I decided to save my dying creativity. At least for my own sake. I continued writing Part Two’s of my stories; I compiled my saved poems on my PC; and I started writing new stories, new poems, new insights, haikus, comics, etc…and things just like this article. This gave me a new outlook in life. I didn’t care anymore what other people would say about my work, I cared for the improvement of my written art. And their opinions and comments helps me mold my works into something better.

I guess you could say I grew a thicker skin. What matters to me now is that I can touch lives with my stories; I can open their eyes into the most insignificant of situations and convey the feelings of loneliness; that leap of faith; that victorious dance.

As I was browsing through Rainier Marie Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, I got this incredulous idea that I don’t need other people to review my work. That I should write for myself not for other people – TRUE. I actually sent a text message to my (forced) friends that I no longer require their opinion and that I can take away their privilege (see This Is My Galaxy), etc…

Then I came to realize- yes, I write for myself; I write so that I can escape, build a whole new world apart from this hellhole; to immortalize my thoughts, to express my feelings, to waste time – but then, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone take that journey with you? To have someone to talk to while trying to escape from the ridiculousness of reality? And to have someone read your feelings and then smile?

In short, I’m reaching out to YOU, the reader.

Reading is essential for your well-being. Do it everyday. Exercise your brain.

View this article on Youngblood.


TO everyone who might be affected or in serious allergy of this topic, I request that you turn your newspapers to the hypocrite and pathetic section. Thank you.

I am a bisexual. No, not the one who wears baggy pants and big polo shirts just to look like a boy. I am myself and I dress the way I want to, that is, as a lady. A feminine, supple, beautiful woman. I do not have anything against those "kababaro" who prefers to wear boyish clothes just to let people know that they are lesbians, or to get people to notice them. I laud their audacity to out themselves in public, or going out of the closet, as it's popularly called.

I am in the closet. Not because I am scared or hiding, but I prefer to keep my private life private. I don't want my life to be the topic of other people's gossip. I have my reasons and I will not subject myself to the judgment and ridicule of those people whose minds are so narrow even a surgical needle cannot fit.

If they don't understand me, why do I care? At least I won't have to go live every day of my life thinking that they know something about me and I would owe it to them so much that they're keeping it to themselves and that I would act as if I were guilty.

No.

I am in love with a woman. Is that such a bad thing? It just happened that she is a she and not a he, not in conformity with a tradition that we don't even know who set up. Who said don't fall in love with a woman if you're a woman. Is that in the Bible? Don't I have the right to choose the person I want to spend the rest of my life with? Even though she's also a woman like me?

I had men before. Three actually. One of whom lasted for two years. I loved him
dearly and I know he loves me too. But somehow our relationship lacked something. There's no fire and passion, and no deep understanding. I cannot look straight into his eyes and see his soul, but instead I see numbers -- calculus, debit, credit, tax laws. I've never been good at relating to numbers.

My woman, she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She indulges herself in art, classical music, and poetry. We both share a passion for everything. We can tell each other things that a man and woman could never share. We have an intimacy that keeps our flames burning even if we're not seeing each other that much, because of some
circumstances.

I went through a lot of things for her; I boldly admitted to my family that I love her. I do not mean disrespect but how on earth did it happen that they didn't understand me? They are supposed to be the ones who understood me better. Who accept me for who I am, and also accept the one I am happy with.

What I have with this woman is different from all my previous relationships. I know it in my heart that I could spend the rest of my life loving this woman. And I am willing to work for that, fight for it.

The important thing is I am in love, and it's not a matter of he or she, but of who and why.

I rode the habal-habal today. It was quite refreshing and scary and dyahi at the same time.

So, many eyebrows are raised. What is a habal-habal?

The only way for me to get to work at times is if I drive or if I wait in line for the FX going to Ayala. Then when I get to the Shell Station, if i'm not late I would be lucky to catch the company shuttle and and if I am (which is most of the time) late, I would wait in line again for the bus. The bus is very madalang so the pila would reach to maybe 100 meters and usually tayuan. Around the area, there would be men in motorcycles who charges 20P for the hatid ride to your building. They are called habal habal.

Anyways, it was scary and kadiri too because I had to wear a helmet (it's the law) yuck! yuck!I dont know how many people had worn it and if those people had dandruffs or any infestation living on their heads. Yuck! yuck!

However, I felt free riding a motorcycle in the city for the first time, along the roads of Forbes going to global city. I was half-smiling the whole time. Half proud of myself for being not so maarte and holding on to madman's motorcycle.

It was nice. At least I got to do it before I leave. :)