Minsan
sa isang gabi na pinuno
ng mga damdaming
napilitang di umamin,
hinagkan ko
ang mga lumalandas na mga luha
mula sa iyong mga mata;
pigil hiningang
pilit unawain ka
 
sa bawat hikbi
namumutawi ang pagsintang
iniiyak maiparating.
Ngunit sa pagkalat ng alat
sa mga labi
ay kasama ang pait
ng katagang inihip sa hangin;
 
inasam na ikaw
(ikaw nga kaya?)
ang hinahanap
(ikaw nga kaya?)
para sa mga huling hininga

sa bawat paghabol
ng tingin
ay nawala ka na lamang ng
tuluyan.
(ikaw pa rin nga kaya?)

Hindi na ikaw
(hindi na)
ang kabuuan,
(hindi na)
hindi na ikaw
(hindi na)
ang katapusan.
(isang masakit na alaala lamang ang iniwan)

(putanginamo)

Sometimes when you look at a smooth glass real hard, and you squint to get a better vision, you see some specks of broken glass underneath it. It’s like a menagerie of shattered feelings inside completely stable facade.

Well. One shouldn’t really expect.

So why do I? Something must be flawed. I asked that question so many times even after the dot was placed before my lips. Nothing more to go after the hush, but the stubborn cries are escaping the pouts.

Well. Someone once said that emotions are recyclable. Now that’s another reason to feel jaded. You experience, you hate, you love, and in the end, you lose yourself in the illusion that life is yet another noontime show with everyone laughing at you while you’re in the middle of that crowd, squirming. You feel that embarrassment of being there, you feel that hatred to yourself for being there, and mostly you ask just why the fuck you’re there and you have to go through all the pain of having to experience that embarrassment. And everytime, you feel that extreme pain in your head whenever you’re in that pit of endless repetition. Yes, it’s emotions recycled, indeed. The human emotions is way too vast a blur to wallow one’s self into, yet it’s something everybody just tries to conceal behind the pristine, powdered face.

So that can be very scary if instability would always be an issue. Everyone is just on a big floor of thin ice.  But, according to most people, it is the instability that makes everyone unique, that makes everyone endearing.

Well. Welcome to the Grandest Show on Earth, where everyone is playing to be the toughest person to stay on thin ice. It’s just a fight between whose mask stays on perfectly longer than it should.

I am running out of excuses.Once, I told myself I would want to be with a person who would satiate my inner cravings for mental deliberations, and if not, at least someone from the poetic side. Someone who would readily sweep me with words, someone whose mind readily colors out other dimensions even while we’re at an unadorned space. Like a cradle of vast imagination that I would love to wallow in. we would try to understand the world through our unusual views, we would color pastels black and darken the lines that normally etched the thin ice surrounding other curves. We would readily blur the lines of morality and emotions, and we would ride into wherever our minds take us.

I have been going through my list of links since this midnight. I don’t have much to do when we’re not required to listen from where I’m sitting, so there HAS to be a preoccupation. I’m still wondering whether I should be doing bits of the other parts of the website so at least I can just upload as soon as I get home. But I didn’t feel like writing so much.

Come to think of it, all the days after I last had an urge to go around alone, I refused to write my thoughts. I go about them topic after topic, but they just refuse to cooperate when I face the keyboard. Upon going through a lot of blogs, be it that the writers were people I know or plain strangers, I realized that I missed a lot of things, but mostly, I missed being with myself. See, they were hectic but did not have any problems connecting to the inner self. They were harrassed but could still voice their opinions. They had to live, but they could still write their own musings. They matter, and they knew it. Their musings matter, and the world had to know it.

The whole idea of having either a blog–or maybe a website for some lucky ones–in the cyberspace, is the convenience of bringing a piece of you everywhere there’s a computer; at the same time, sharing a piece of you to everybody anywere there’s a computer. Tina conducted a survey then of the reason for onlline journals. Is it the pride of displaying work? Is it creating a fan-base to glorify yourself everytime you get a thousand or so hits? Is it the pacification of selfish reasons and egotism? Maybe so, depending on the average hits per day you have. But mostly? It’s an establishment of self in the cyberspace using your craft to create a shrine for your thoughts, using either talents in pictures or compilation of words as medium. Be it you get famous or you’re hiding that blog somewhere else, you’re writing. And thoughts come from the best part of everything: yourself.

So you must have been to you, before you market yourself. You connect and think at 120 words per minute, trying to assess a simple question which crossed your mind while riding the MRT. You can’t hold the thought, you write about it. You remember this elated feeling after you kissed your crush. You write about it. You intertwine the best words with your best logic and come up with a so so write up, but you don’t care. You express your thoughts. You express you.

So it can be an outright disappointment for me if I look at my recent posts and wonder why they have become indistinguishable from a twelve-year-olds cry across the internet. I talk about the most useless information I can come up with; I talk with a detached view about opportunities; I make the world seem a little less exciting than it used to be. I don’t talk anymore about long walks. Nor haggling in Quiapo and emerging victorious even after realizing you could have gotten it for far much less somewhere else had you walked around. I don’t have stories about how I felt the pain while walking in a district housing eyes who are bereft of trust on them. I don’t have anything about tasteless food but sold by sunshiney tinderas. I don’t have long hours spent in a coffee shop just drinking coffee and reading a book recommended by a good friend.

I miss all these. I haven’t been to them. I haven’t experienced them. Which is probably why I don’t have much to write. Maybe because I can only write about impersonal things. Maybe because I haven’t been to myself for such a long time.

And that can just be the saddest mystery no one would ever be able to solve.

And;
when the season
frosted
that final tear,

the little one knew
of the possibility;
the return
of the cold breath’s
kisses
on his swollen cheeks

But alas!
Winter never
had the
same snowflakes.

—————–

Sigh. You know you’re getting older when suddenly you find a year of your life crammed inside an old shoebox.

There goes a piece of my life.