"Associative Looseness"

I am depressed. It takes a lot for me to smile today. This depression has been looming over me for the past years but I chose to ignore it. And I am still ignoring it. Except that I felt it’s sting creep within me and I felt an anguish distinguishable of a worthless cockroach.

What purpose does the cockroach have for existing anyways?

Various thoughts occupied my mind while driving today. I drove like an old lady, thinking – what if i crash the car, I know my parents would kill me – but will they still kill me if I’m already dead? I have to make sure I’ll die if I do that. I’m ready actually. The reasons that I told myself over and over again as the reason for my existence – is still there – but: I don’t feel I matter anymore. The reasons will still be there even if I’m gone.

My body is weary and I look at people and I feel disgusted. I want to resign in my solitude and dance to the music of abandonment. I feel like I have so much love to give and the people I want to give it to doesn’t want it – though they claim to love me more than I love myself. That’s why they are determined to make life decisions for me. They are overtaking my life and I see no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow…heck, I don’t see a rainbow anymore after the rain. I see hues of black and heavy clouds crown my skies. Vast green moss crowds my blue ocean. And hungry cows devour the freshness of my meadows.

I refuse to falter, but I am.

Maybe it’s better up there, where the sun rises endlessly and I can touch the stars and dance with bodyless children with wings on their neck.

Assuming I would end up there. If not I’d be eating barbecue for the rest of eternity. Maybe I could just stay in that space in between – the limbo. Nicole Kidman pronounces it in a very distinct british accent that makes it very exciting and sophisticated and presumably a nice place – maybe I’ll just go there… but maybe I am already there…

If I still exist… after the moon overshines the sun. Then maybe i’m still alive.

But then I am going to drive again. Hopefully I won’t be lucky next time.

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.