I felt something creep up my cheeks while I was reading her long sms. It is a fuck-full of emotions slinking up, leaving red traces on every vein. It caught up with my eyes. It started to sting.

Yeah, I’m irrational. Yeah, I’m going through a huge lot of fucking hormonal imbalance. And yeah, I know it’s just one of those days. But that’s kind of the point—it’s one of those days when you’re just so fucking annoyed with the whole goddamn planet that you’re not supposed to give a fuck on but strangely you do, and it’s catching up on you and the only good thing to make it all equal is for you to be able to say at the end of the day, “I’m glad you’re here.” And all the other perks in between. And they just go kafuckingboom.

Balanse. Balanse. Balanse.

(I’m going crazy)

Balanse.

Balanse.

Fuck.

I gagarapon ko lang: iritable, mainit ang ulo, mamaya tatawa, mamaya maiinis. Mamaya biglang makukulob, sasabog. Mamaya ngingiti, mamaya sisimangot. Mamaya mangaaway. Kahit wala sa mood para dun.

Ilang taon na nga ba ako? Ilang taon ko na bang napagdaanan ito? Hindi na dapat, e. Nakakahiyang mas positibo ka pa kumpara sa akin. Na mas magaling ka pang mag explain at umintindi kesa sa akin. Pero kasi, ang gulo ng utak ko ngayon, at ayokong tumakbo sa iba para may comfort. Nasa iyo yun dapat, e. Kailangan ko na yatang magsimula ulit makipagkilala sa control. Na pag nalulungkot o naiirita, o nababadtrip, kailangan kong umuwi. At matutong maghintay sa pagdating mo. Sa panahong may oras ka na. Hindi yung biglang maghahanap sa speed dial. Dahil minsan, busy rin ako, at di ko rin minsan mapunan ang pangangailangan mo. Nagkataon lang na ngayon, ang init ng ulo ko.

Nasabihan ako dati nun. Nalulungkot rin naman siya. Pero hindi siya kung kanikanino tumatakbo. Nagpumilit siyang maghintay sa pagdating ko. Ngayon, sa bagong pahina ng panibagong mundo, natututunan kong sapilitan ang mga ayaw kong makita at maintindihan noon.

Ang hirap pala. Ang hirap pala mag bote ng irasyonal na emosyon.

(Eto ba yung iniiwasan natin noon? Pero hindi pangangailangan dulot ng responsibilidad, e. Pangangailangan eto na makapiling ka.)

(Mali. Parang pareho nga pala yun, no?)

Hinga.

Sabog.

Hello. How are you?

I was going through a couple of downloads on Wicky the other day when I discovered that, despite the numerous songs that I have, I don’t have that one song for her. It’s not that it’s needed, and it’s a godfucking cheesy concept, but you know those snap moments when there’s just something so downright awesome, there’s an automatic soundtrack tuner in your head and it jumps to the most appropriate song for that time? Okay, I know not everyone’s equipped with an auto jukebox thingamajig on their heads, but sometimes it does on mine.

The thing is, there WAS this song which popped up. And you know how sometimes they just come to you right when there’s a moment of conflicting emotions specially when someone looks at you with all this adoration which you would like to think is all yours for the moment, and an unseen knot is building up on your stomach and it makes your heart plunge like a freefall on a freaking 50-level high building jump. The same look, coupled with a smile which haunted me for about 3 months wishing it were for me, and the same look which I keep going back to on moments of random hopelessness. It was a perfect song—it’s non-committal, it’s very endearing, it’s adoring, and it may be one-sided, but it encompassed everything I wanted to say at that time.

The problem is, I’ve used it before. On someone. And there’s also another favorite song, which at one point I have also shared as a favorite with someone.

Early this year, I remember sitting on the carpeted elevated area of someone’s space, whining (come to think of it, I have done a lot of that over the past months to that person). Something I found on Google got me upset. I felt like a has-been: once, people have written about me being the love of their lives. People have looked at me with such endearing looks as well. Now they’re looking at someone else that way, as much as I have looked at people with such admiration as well. I have written about people. I have written about new love. About possibilities. About maybes. About fairytales. About forevers. About Us.

It sounds…like someone deliberately bumping on a vintage record player. Long, winding, bump, scratch, repeat step one. A few more runs and it renders you jaded. Eto na naman tayo.

Sabi nung may ari nung space, I over think.
Sabi nung cause, maybe it’s the person. (ironic)
Sabi ko, fuck me and my brains fueled with emotions spiked with rhum, caffeine, and something illegal.

I hooked up my iPhone to Wicky ze laptop. ITunes opened. I stared at it long and hard.

And started placing in random songs that reminded me of her. From Migraine by Moonstar88, to Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered by Frank Sinatra, to Everything by Lifehouse, to All I Want is You by U2, to Taking Chances from the Glee Soundtrack. Even songs which may not mean anything but has a little bit of the message I wanted to say: So Little Time by Arkana, There Goes the Fear by Doves, Slide by Goo Goo Dolls, Fix You by Coldplay. Revivals. Old ones. Classics. Or songs which just make you belt out randomly while on the elevator: “I am trying to say / what I want to say / without having to say / I love you.”

I just placed all of them in. Pieces of her. And it’s a fucking crazy playlist with one artist crooning on the first 3 minutes and another artist screaming on the next three. It makes you calm and crazy and excited and pained and loved in one run. There are favorites, and there’s always one above the rest, and some of them I have liked with other people before, and some of them have been soundtracks of different events, but placing them all in that playlist seemed apt. Placing them all together made it seem like it’s a different experience. Playing them right there didn’t bring me to the time I first heard it, but it brought me to a different association—to her.

And I realized, it does make things unique right there, doesn’t it? Because even if it’s the same song, playing it in the morning isn’t the same experience when playing it at night, and when it played while it was hot, and while it was raining, or while there was a typhoon. It’s the same song. But experienced differently. It’s a different emotion, it’s a different intensity.

It’s a different us.

I think, it’s going to take me some time to come to terms with the idea of for now–after all, how you make it last is a different story. But how you make things unique, how you make things intense while there, how you make it perfect for now, maybe that’s what matters.

Even just for each other.

-From “I want you to be unique.” I promised to revamp the blog with a shareable content.

I had to go home early Monday morning despite an impending sickness. See, I had to pick up something important at home, but it turned out, we weren’t able to find it anyway, just a different copy. But while we were going through some of the documents, I went through my usual routine of looking at cabinets (to see if I have any clothes I can use, which always turn out to be none), and book shelves (to see if there are any books I would want to read back in Makati, which would usually end up with me thinking I don’t have a bag with me anyway, so wth). I found an old photo album which contained some interesting things (hahahahahaha—blackmail, here I come, you college schoolmate fools!), a plastic file case which contained printed school graduation photos of my brothers and I plus old college pictures (Paul—buhay pa yung pic na may dedication mo! Hahahahaha), and a really old watch which I used to adore so much except my dad didn’t want me to wear it because then he felt I was too reckless and would make it seem like wearing it is eye-catching to any potential stick-up men (that was then, now it just looks ancient). I seem to have a sentimental thing with watches, I’m not sure why.

While looking through drawers, I found a makeshift mother’s day card which was pretty much just white printer paper folded into two, with hearts drawn using squiggly lines and placed some stickers. I held it up gingerly and almost commented with disgust, “what is zis?”

My mum paused from shoving old documents inside an attaché case. “Oh. That’s from Chloe.” (for the un-oriented, Chloe happens to be my niece)

“I know. What is this.”

“It’s a card.”

“I know. I mean, what is this?” I flip through it with slight distaste. There’s a note written by my mum on the upper left part of the card—Mother’s day 2010, made by Chloe at age 5. “What the hell, mum. I used to create much more creative cards when I was five.”

My mum shrugs like hearing invectives from me about my niece is a common thing. You have to understand that no matter how much I love the little tyke, she’d still always be the new “baby”.

“And what, they’re paying 20k for her tuition? Maybe they should have placed her in Day Care. *I* turned out alright. And what, she may have an accent, but my English was way better when I was five.” I pause after realizing the slew of negatives I just threw out. I turn a different direction after ingesting this. “She does have a rather huge shoe to fill, doesn’t she?”

She doesn’t necessarily agree, but she points out something else. “Well, that’s why I like reading through your old works. I still have them over there in the drawer. You were rather adept with the language.”

We give up on the search and we troop towards the dining table. I eat on some fruits (what’s the English of Macopa?), and she tells me about how the kid kept wanting to spend time with her always, and I remember how I used to want that for the summer but for some reason, I never really got around to spending much time with my grandparents. She tells me she could call me up if Chloe were there, and I tell her that I have a landline number in Makati which she could call. I flick her phone open and key in the numbers when I noticed that my name was just two names apart from…well, the ex.

“Hey. You still have her number.” I tell her. She shrugs. “Does she still text?”

“She used to. But not so much anymore.”

“Well, last I heard she’s in Singapore.” I close the phone and toss it over to her. “Not that I know so much. I mean, we don’t talk. We’re…kind of not in a very good arrangement, if you know what I mean.”

She takes it in comfortably. “Well, now that you mentioned her, maybe you can change the greeting picture now?”

“What greeting picture?”

“On my phone. Every time I turn it on, it shows the picture of you two.”



It takes me about 5 minutes to process this.

“Huh?” I grab her phone—MY old phone which I gave her—and navigate towards the Settings. And there, confirmed one of my most embarrassing moments—the greeting was set to show a picture, which as my mum has pointed out, was “our picture.” Together. I think I paled right there.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?!”

She shrugs nonchalantly. I hate her arrogance. “I keep forgetting. I just remembered now because I want you to change it into a picture of Jesus and Mary. I don’t have a picture, though. Maybe you can take a picture of that and use it?” She points to a pen holder which has small pics of the two said patrons.

I just laugh at how embarrassing this really is, but at the same time, so amusingly comfortable. I only told my mum about her maybe 6 months ago? And my phone has been with her for about two years now. Imagine my mother shutting up to that and waiting for me to confirm things. *shakes head*

I still kind of think that telling my mother about me and my preferences was the worst idea I ever came up with. That was selfish. While mothers protect daughters from the world, daughters should simply protect back by ensuring that their mothers are in this sophisticated dreamed up idea that their daughters are okay, haven’t gone astray, and still the best there is. Shattering their illusions that we are in fact, deviant, is just plain cruel. But I was going through a tough time then, and I wanted her to understand. I wanted to connect. And in times like these, we just laugh at it like I simply made the biggest mistake ever and learned anyway. I think she has been taking her cue from me most of the time—like she displays affection for those I adore, and she shows annoyance for those I am angry with without me having to tell her. It’s a bond that she can’t escape, and neither can I, really.

I remember what she said when I opened it up—I won’t ever hate you for being my daughter. I would only be saddened if I would find out you’re not going after what you really want and what’s making you happy. And truthfully, thinking about it, apart from a few usual religious quotes, she never DID point out directly that what I did was wrong. She’s leaving it to subdued translations, but she was taking my cue on things like before.

I leave home and head back to Makati with a new interesting tale. Later in the afternoon, I receive an sms from her:

“From d time u left I started reading ur letters 2 ur Papa(it brought back memories – made me laugh a lot and cried) and was amazed that at age 8 u were already writing good English Sana u really get time 2 write because I know ur happy doing that. Do u still write? Masyado kasi kayong malihim. Buti nalang di ko pinatapon kay Papa mo yung mga letters mo at least meron akong binabalik-balikan. So proud of u baby!”

The last word does it in. Selfish or not, embarrassing or not, I’m still my mother’s baby. And they always do know what’s best for their babies, don’t they? Even if they end up knowing more than what you let on.

Sometimes it annoys me that no matter how many pictures of you I try to take, they just can’t come close to the whole of how you are and what I see in you.

(I still love taking pictures of you whenever you’re not looking, though)

I absolutely adore the little things you do that imply our togetherness.

(hello…violet?)