I was looking through my outlook (the jc@evilwearspink.com email) and found this. Haha. Care of Undria. ^_^

From here:
http://starblinx.deviantart.com/art/5-Frames-of-Summer-131036032

I’m getting a bad headache. Because I’m effing hungry. Not anyone’s fault. Just hungry.

(I got a dream about you–we’re stuck in a whiplash that I couldn’t control. I seem happy but I wasn’t. You seem happy but I’m not so sure. Undefinable, not easy to procure. I was falling under my own definitions of pressure.

And I wait, and I count the days which pass by; unfortunately can’t count the days before my stinging eye. Only one of them is crying, the other’s simply not listening. I think, i think, its name is called hoping.)







Yeah. Rhyming is fun.

It feels so wrong having to blog while in Magnet, but wifi is wifi still. Smokes and beer aside, it feels so…weird. Being here. The current band’s vocalist looks like she just took any random shirt to go to a neighbor’s house and somehow ended up here; and this was affirmed when, it turned out that most of the crowd are college kids. She shouts, “Sino mga taga CSB dito? We’re all from CSB except for — (didn’t catch the name) who’s from Arneo.” Collegiala slang, hello.

This isn’t the first time I got a whip of the usual age-ing, or what you get when someone kinda rubs in your face their age. But considering I’m in a regular white shirt, black skinnies and boot-type rubbers, I look so awkwardly juvenile. I’m 18, too, kids. I just look like that manager from this company on the weekdays, but she’s really my older, jaded sister.

I’m supposed to meet a total stranger tonight whom we originally cancelled on when someone (chickened) bailed out on the idea of a blind date. I think she feels I’ve been doing this for a long time, hence the confidence, but I didn’t tell her that I didn’t really mind because relatively, the date’s not for me. I’ll just inject the ice breaker and let them work their magic. I haven’t tried being a matchmaker (nor pimp, for that matter) before, or at least not seriously, and I am worried of my own inability to charm most strangers (exception of some random interestingly weird/ecclectic people, of course), buy I felt confident to pull it off. But alas, cancellations happen.

The girl I’m supposed to set up might feel that this is regular for me, specially when I told her that most of my crowd are college/early yuppies. So matanda na ako, ganun, she kids. Naw, it’s just that I kinda don’t dress like my age sometimes, or at least I pass off as highschool.

And that sentence right there should make me feel better tonight, but oddly, it does not.

I have a neighbor whom I went to primary school with. She’s a couple of years younger, and it feels awkward seeing her look and dress older than me now. I feel her mother looks at me sometimes and wonder what ever happened to my rearing. Maybe my dad thinks of that, too.

I know. I’m still young. And I suppose, one of these days I’ll stop dressing like a teen who left her skateboard in her locker. But I wonder sometimes, whether that would impact my maturity as well, and that’s what really matters, doesn’t it?

(now the question now goes, when will I fully mature?)

Tonight, I’ll pose as a college kid for now and emanate the same enthusiasm for life. I dress like this and I still feel jaded. So sometimes, I’m worried when I finally dress my age. Would I be much more jaded, less passionate than I should be? Dresses don’t dictate, but it helps you with mind setting.

When that happens, please, be nice and don’t call me lola.

Dear you,

You’re getting colder this month. I understand, it’s the season where you melt your frost and it’s inevitable that you’d lose your warmth. Today, I had to fight a shiver when your breath met my bare skin which trailed after your kiss. It’s the start of the year and everyone’s back to their indifferent lives, including you. I should have realized that, but you know I’d always have an allowance towards you. You are my first love after all.

Today, when time permitted it, I took a small break from work and went off to this place where I could see you from afar without you noticing. You were busy, as usual, but I couldn’t help but smile a little while seeing you at work. You have come a long way, lover. You were still as progressive as I first met you. You’re still very stubborn, intolerant even to some points. You’re still ruthless, but can be rather gentle at times. Maybe that’s the reason a lot of people are attracted to you—me included. I can’t help it. You’re dangerous but you never fail to charm me with your comforting soft radiance and spaces.

I miss you. I horribly miss you. One of these days I’ll let you take my breath away again. We’ll have a rendezvous and make love under the stars and let you empower me once more. I miss having you to my self. Sometimes I feel so selfish when I share you with others and they fall in love with you; seeing you in a different light they’ve never seen you in before. I almost want to scream, I am the original mistress! But I know you can’t ever be tethered; you really belong to everyone, and I am simply lucky to be a part of you; and you, most of me.

I love you, city. Come away with me this weekend.

Love,
Jayce

Here’s something they never teach you at primary school.

Someone will always be not over someone. Deal with it. If you get lucky, and if you’re good enough, you’ll be the one to change her mind. If you’re not, you’ll be the subject of a little bit of a playground tiff where in you kiss, you get a little dramatic, you imagine there might be fucking something more, but you find yourself sitting across the truth one day and you know—YOU KNOW—that THIS IS NOT THE TRUTH YOU’RE AFTER. Sure, pull off all the stunts you want. You’ll have a lot of them in your lifetime. You will have a lot of those freaking movie scenes replayed over and over and over again with you as either the protagonist or the antagonist. But you know what, two things:

1) Even if you SHOULD have kissed her and asked her to change her mind, if you never did—even if you went halfway but didn’t make it and you got into all sorts of weird stupid trouble anyway—IT WILL NOT MATTER IF YOU DIDN’T MAKE IT TO MAKE HER FEEL IT. Your stories about how you tried won’t matter—because you know what, you can pine about things all you want, but if you never got the message across, you will never get to say, hey, I have temporarily foregone my pride no matter how low or foolish I was just to let her know how much she matters to me, how much I would want to forgo all the games people play to make people run after them, but you never did it, you never told them how much you want to try, and how—god forbid—desperate, of you to make them want to take a chance on you, you will never EVER be able to say, I did it, oh fuck, I did it, despite all the irrationalities a human being can surmise.

2) And you know what, even so, even if you say fuck it, even if you have been asking the whole universe to make her yours, it matters WHETHER OR NOT YOU CHANGE HER MIND TO MAKE YOU HERS. And sometimes, it can be done if you’d be outrageous enough to do it.

Oh, yes, even if you know you’re just one huge stupid fuck for even bothering to hope, imagine and wish. Because in the end, someone will always tell you you’re foolish, and someone will always say you’re such a huge fuck for imagining there would be more, but in the end, it’s you, yes, it boils down to you and how fucking embarrassing you wanna get, and how long you can play that song which will prompt you to do stupid things, and over all, you wonder, is it really worth it—for you, for her, and for all that you’ve done in between. Now, you ask, is it really worth being so irrational over something transient in the first place?

My answer? Depending on how crazy you want your life to be. In the end, it’s your life. It’s your story. And it’s how bereft of side stories you wanna get. Because you know what? In the end, passion drives you. Your hunger drives you. And yes, even if it’s just one small kiss that you’re left hanging on to, at least you’re hanging on to something. This small thing will be pivotal no matter how many what-ifs you have—it’s about what you did to make it possibly happen. We’re all made of moments. And THERE WILL ALWAYS BE POSSIBILITIES.

So take that, you. This is my answer to all those moments we let slip by, and we hung around drinking our nights away pining over the incredulities of life. Move, damn it, move!

(lalalala, I’ll be going back to my wasteland of ideas)





————





Someone told me something very revealing last night. I keep thinking I’m the one who’s a prey to people who make you hope, not knowing that on an analysis of things, I actually made some people hope for me as well. In short, paasa daw ako. And enumerated a list of people. Pota.

So, last night, I side-stepped on a possible crash site of issues. I went home early to save them from myself. In an instant, I became the protagonist who’s shielded everyone from the antagonist, who also happened to be me. Talk about dual personalities.

I should feel proud that I spared a life I could potentially mess up. But the romantic in me could not help but wonder.

One of the early memories of Nikolai that he couldn’t ever forget was back when he was about 6 years old. Then the youngest of all the brothers, he could say that he wasn’t exactly the favourite, but let’s say he normally got his way when pursued. It was in that reason that, in the middle of the year when his brothers are on spring break vacation, he took a leave from his school and stayed at home, feigning a reason of business matters–at least that was what his father came up with when the principal got a little cross, and was dubious about the two week pull out, but at 6, Nikolai knew his powers over his father, and most of them lay on incessant whining.

In those days, his brothers were all out of the house, and his mother was supposed to be on a trip, leaving the baby sitting to his father. He only heard that his mother was going to fix a few finances in Italy, and that his father stayed; it wasn’t something he ever bothered with in the first place. He simply was cooped up in his room, all his TV shows lined up; sometimes waiting for a call from one of his brothers telling him about their trips somewhere in the north.

In one of those nights, however, he found himself waking up a little hungry. He remembered passing up on dinner to get a couple more hours of sleep, to which his father didn’t mind. Let them grow taller, he always says. Gingerly, he crept downstairs and made his way into the dark, when he realized that there was a bit of light on, coming from the television in the downstairs family room. Curious as usual, he kept silent, thinking it might be his father watching one of his usual videos downstairs about naked women that he didn’t fully comprehend but left his father alone with, only to find an actual action happening on the sofa. It was only him and his father at home then, and young Nikolai would not understand privacy till the age of nine when his own mother found him masturbating in his room thankfully covered in sheets, but he was aware that he had to be quiet, and so he was till he got a full view of what he was about to see.

On the sofa was a masked woman, on all fours. His father was fully naked, and right there, Nikolai knew that they were having sex—something he learned from his brothers. But this woman who was covered by the semi darkness seemed unfamiliar, and kept moaning at every instance that his father thrust himself unto her. Almost mesmerized at this event, young Nikolai sat silently at the lowest part of the stairs, mute and watching the fascinating occurrence unfolding. He forgot that he was hungry, and knew instantly that this is something much more interesting than food. After all, the sight of his father pushing his penis on an unknown woman on their sofa was something that definitely topped his hunger.

But what bothered Nikolai, or at least a few years after when he looked back on it, was the fact that he knew his father was being unfaithful, screwing another woman on the very couch his parents have picked together—but he found it rather natural. Like an instinctive notion that was human nature. And as he watched them sweating and moaning, all he could really look at was this tattoo on the woman’s right hip, and other than that, everything seemed like a blur.

A few minutes passed and he finally got bored, and so he stood up and went back to his bedroom as quietly as he went down, and pulled the comforter to wrap him in full and went to sleep.

The day after that proved to be much more interesting for young Nikolai. He found that his mother was home; coming in that morning before he woke up, he surmised. He shared breakfast with her, and his father sat beside him reading the morning news like nothing happened the night before. It also struck him that he could look at his mother straight to her eyes and feel nothing, not even guilt for keeping a secret that he should have blurted out on the breakfast table. He felt that, at age six, it was a manly thing to do; if his father seemed okay by it, maybe he should be, too. He sweetly smiled at his mum like a little six year old boy should, and the event passed on like nothing has ever happened. Not even the fact that his mother came in close to when his father was fooling around—it did not help little Nikolai from feeling any guilt nor grudges at all.

All these changed, however, when after a few years, he received a phone call from one of his mother’s friends and gave him the guilt that he should have been carrying. After answering the phone, he went upstairs to call on his mother, to find her nearly naked after coming from the showers. Instantly his mother tried covering herself with a towel and told his son that he would be coming downstairs in a minute, and to tell the caller to wait on the line for a few more moments. He obliged, but not before he caught a glance at his mother’s hips—and there, he found, a tattoo that wasn’t there before. Immediately all that night’s recollections came flooding, and he felt himself redden, like being told of a secret that he wasn’t supposed to know. He ran all the way to his room leaving the caller hanging, and the whole time, he stared at the ceiling. Come dinner, he never came downstairs to eat.

He didn’t know exactly what to make of that sight. He understood, of course, that the woman his father was having sex with was his own mother. But it wasn’t this that troubled him—it was, the fact, that all these years he found it natural for his father to fool around, and when that thought was invalidated by the tattoo on his mother’s hips, he found himself not comprehending how his father could have feelings and lust over the same woman he has been with for more than 30 years and still have that same feeling renewed till they grew old. Nikolai never encountered any other instances of his father having any affairs, no; it somehow disappointed him. Years later his mother would tell him about the tattoo which she got after coming from Italy, and he would remember feigning surprise and interest, but he knew much more history than they really let on, and more guilt than he would ever let them know.