in the last ten days...

Was away from home for about ten days to attend the 11th National Debate Championships at Lyceum of the Philippines in Intramuros. That's ten days without physical contact from anyone from Iligan -- except of course from the people I was with who were also from Iligan (this whole thing does not make sense, I know... but let me attempt to inject a little relevance into it as what most mystery storylines do: one seemingly minor thing in the beginning becomes a wave of importance when the story ends and you as the intent viewer ask yourself "how could I have possibly let that part slip through me?!" ...that was my reaction after I watched Derailed and The Sixth Sense. Still can't get over the whole twist. You, O'Henry! You started this).

Manila was fun. Traveling is always fun for me especially when you're with the right people (that excludes you, Kuya Ardy... I hate you right now... *incomprehensible cursing*). "Fun is what you bring with you"... Good thing it didn't take much room in my luggage or else I would've paid an additional 400php for the excess weight.

[insert far-out paragraph with allusions here]

I hate it when people commit suicide. And I'm very firm on this one. I hate it even more if they have to lie about it to me. You do not want to mock death like that. Death is very real and there's so little that we know about it. If you want attention, there's this really major thing in the 21st century which we call "the Internet". There's Facebook. There's Plurk. There's Blogger.com. Or you could just as easily flash people in the middle of the road if you want. Heck, you can even scream out loud that you desperately need attention from people; that you want them to feel something intense for you even if that means them pitying you. That is so highschool. Grow up (I shouldn't really be saying these things since I don't think I've done my share of growing up but I'd like to think that I'm getting there... "Never underestimate the power of denial"). Wear your big girl shoes and try not to trip. If you do, find a new pair that's easy to walk on with. You can try flipflops. They're comfy (why does it feel like I'm straying away from my original point?). Anyway, there's also, I dunno, ME. I can be a really good listener if needed be. Why did you have to toss me over to your web of lies with the other people you've ruthlessly manipulated like that when you know very well how I ended up when I spun me some of those. It wasn't pleasant. You know that. You knew (with reference to my previous posts: "not gonna end good" and "hope springs eternal"). And yet here you are. People are starting to give up on you. Do you really want that for yourself? You're obsessed about making a series of cathartic scenes in your life. Well guess what? You're not in a movie. And if you were in one, no one would care to watch it because we're all busy making our own movies (I have George Clooney as my lead so you can't have him). You're not some fictional character from a critically-praised literary work. There's no sad song written after you or your "sad" life. Wake up before there's no one here left to appreciate you.

[end of unrelated paragraph]

More Allusions

The trip on our way to Manila was already fun (what with the whole "You go grill!" joke and all) even when I received a bothering text message (yes, thus the previous paragraph). I already said this: I don't stay unhappy for long. That's the reason why after the 32 breaking teams were announced that night at Club Lax and we found out that our team (me and Regine the drunkard) was ranked 33rd, I didn't get affected much. I seem to be allergic to sadness. Sadness seems to like me too much that it has an initiative to keep itself away from me. Sure it visits me every now and then (usually when I drink beer; "to sadness, my drinking buddy!") but it knows it's not welcome to stay. And like a well-mannered visitor, it leaves when it feels it has stayed long enough.

My Nimble, Clumsy Self

My clumsy self was in my luggage as well. It managed to sneak itself in. And it finally made its presence felt when while inside the taxi,I lost the watch my dad gave me. I took it off to apply lotion and for some reason forgot to put it back on. Now I don't know where it is. I do know one thing: when my parents find out, it'll be farewell to what's left of their trust. Goodbye! Nice knowing you for about 20 years or so!

Kuya Ardy, Kuya Ardy...*shakes head in disappointment*

We didn't take the flight home together. We were set on different schedules. Sir Darwin went home first (he's going to have an R&R at Camiguin). Ma'am Piyet was next. Then Miss Mara and Regine (they were both going to Cebu). Then Gab (how brave of him to ride the plane by himself). And finally, me and Kuya Ardy. He insisted we take the same flight skeds because he said we were gonna have more fun in Manila (he ended up having more of the planned fun -- had sex with some masseuse in some sex district with his aircraft mechanic friend). We agreed to meet up at the airport at 2 AM since our flight was scheduled two hours after that.

I was at MOA and met up with a friend from Plurk. I spent the remaining hours at the mall drooling over the many things I couldn't afford to buy. And I also bought a new Milan Kundera book to add to my collection: "Laughable Loves" (this came in handy when I was waiting for my continuously delayed flight home at the airport).

At around 11 PM, I miscalled and texted Kuya Ardy telling him that I'm already on my way to the airport and that I'll be waiting for him there till 2 AM. To my surprise, what welcomed me there at the gate was the list of CANCELLED flights. Que horror! Cancelled due to "unfavorable weather conditions" brought about by typhoon Santi. And right there, in that very moment, a strong concern for the environment came over me. We shouldn't have destroyed the world like this! We should've listened to William Wordsworth! We should've read his Lyrical Ballads and The World is Too Much With Us! And then it died down as it got interrupted by the question, "What am I going to do?!" O_O?. Green Team left as fast as it came. As fast as judging people based on how they look.

I tried to contact Kuya Ardy but (sarcasm on it's way) my ever trusty cellphone didn't have any signal (there it is. Did you catch it? Okay too much author intrusion). And even when it was already 2 AM, still no sign of even a shadow of Kuya Ardy (did he die? No, I'm afraid he didn't). x_x

Hi, I'm Tom Hanks

And so there I was at the airport with frustrated strangers whose flights were also cancelled or delayed or put on hold. I was also surrounded by stores inside Terminal 3, stores that do not seem to want their products to be sold. They're so darn expensive! And I spent the last of my extra money on the Kundera book I was holding in my hands and it hurt that I even had to question myself for buying the book. I kept convincing myself that a product of Kundera is always worth the cash. I thought of how good "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" was and I was relieved of the regret that was swooning on top of my head.

I was a-la Tom Hanks in his movie "The Terminal" only that the airport I was in had no electricity (generators were running) and water(I can't imagine why). So it's like "The Terminal" meets "Castaway". I went over the phone booth and phoned home (ET -- my horrible fingers! T_T) to ask my mom for help and I let her contact Kuya Ardy but she said he's not picking up (that bastard). I asked her to send someone at the airport and bring Biogesic (I had a fever) and some food coz I was starving and I can't afford to spend what's left of my money.

Feelin' the Love

After news of my being stuck at the airport reached my mom, the entire Pequero clan became involved. My Tita in Cebu called me up to check on me. So did my dearest Lola (she easily worries because I'm her favorite apo... *halo on head*). My other Tita helped my mom contact some people they know in Manila (I was really too sick to think on my own and like I said, my phone had no signal). And my mom was actually, at that time, being a mom and always called and warned me about stuff that I already know I won't do because of the fact that no one in the right mind would actually do something stupid like going outside the airport and wander in the dark streets alone and allowing myself to be taken advantage of by ill-natured opportunists. But then again, I did lose my watch so I just kept on telling her, "No, ma. I won't."

I enjoyed the concern, actually. It amuses me how worried they get about me to the point that they treat me like I'm a baby at times like this. I feel the love, alright. And I am overcome by a strong need to go home and hug those people. But when something gets in the way of your goal (in this case, going home), you long for that goal all the more. When impossibility presents itself, you feel motivated and more committed to whatever it is that you want to touch and see. And so you mark an imaginary finish line that you need to cross. And your heart swells as if it has too much butterflies in it (aren't butterflies supposed to be in the stomach? you get the whole idea, right?). You have all this energy devoted to crossing that line. You feel elated. But little do we know that the act of crossing the finish line is in itself the only exciting part. What happens afterwards? It's like being on an intercontinental flight and you're staring at the vast ocean below you. The seemingly-eternal vastness of it greets you...but you know very well that sooner or later that the ocean will become the sea... And not long after that, there's land. And you realize there is no such thing as eternity in the physical world. It's like that really strong emotion that you feel on your wedding day. But what happens after that?

So when I did get home, the feeling of excitement disappeared almost immediately. As if it came to it's senses that it's not supposed to be here. It just left. I finally had physical contact with the family I left; I am now in Iligan. Everything's mundane again. And everything is about "signaling discreet and self-restrained loves" once more. We're not the truly open kind.

Look at Me, I'm Brave!

The original 4 AM flight was moved to 4PM the next day. And as it turned out, I had to ride the plane all by myself. I didn't realize Gab was a foreshadowing of what I'd end up doing. I had to brave the flight home on my own - sick and penniless. And when the plane I was in landed at CDO, my mom fetched me. I like it when my mom's being a mom. As for Kuya Ardy? God knows where he is... *tingin sa kawalan*

The Stalker is Tired

Ten days of being away means ten days of not being able to log in on the internet. The hotel we were housed in had Wi-Fi but it costs a lot of money. That means I had no time to be on stalker mode. And by the time I got home and turned on the PC, it dawned on me that I missed a lot of things that were going on in his life (Banana's life). And it's now so hard to try to keep up with it. A stalker can only do so much. So I decided to quit this habit. I must quit watching you from afar like some psycho freak who's ready to kidnap you and put you in a van and tie you up in an abandoned farmhouse far away in the mountains and molest you and threaten you to love me. No, I won't have fantasies of that sort anymore. I quit (indefinitely)...

...and now I have an INC in Philippine Literature to face before the enrollment for the 2nd sem starts!

An elegy to 20

Last October 18, I celebrated my 21st birthday (surprise surprise...I'm younger than you think I am... No, I'm nowhere near 30 despite the attempts of my salt and pepper hair to mislead you. Who knew something as innocent-looking as hair could be so deceitful?). I kept anticipating about the date hours before it and the anticipation was a lot of fun...but afterwards, it finally sank in: I'M TWENTY fucking ONE!... It's the end of an era!

...And all of a sudden I don't feel so young anymore...

Before, as an overly-sentimental person, I listed down a few things that I vowed to do before turning 21 (PM me for a copy of that list if you're that nosy...some have explicit contents...I have fantasies too, you know). But being overly-sentimental doesn't really fare well when you're also lazy. And thus the reason why I haven't achieved any of those things on my list (well there was this one item that did happen...mwahahaha!).

And I spent my day the way I know best: loading up some booze. There's actually something poetic about it (unless of course if you turn violent when you get much in your system....like my lolo in those dark days before he got hospitalized due to liver infection). It's in John Keat's Ode to a Nightingale and Omar Khayyam's The Rubaiyatt. Or I could be wrong. I'm entitled to be forgetful now that I'm old(er). And plus I don't really pay that much attention in class anymore.

I started drinking when I befriended someone named Rei Lena Yasmin/Fedayeen Yasmin Maranda. She revolutionized the whole concept of peer pressure and put it to a whole new level. Yes, Rei, you're responsible for this (she takes great pleasure in influencing other people...and I happen to be one of those unfortunate weaklings). It's a good thing I didn't give in to smoking (she used to insist that I smoke...nyahaha...sorry Rei, not gonna happen). I mean I tried to do it but I still fail to see the pleasure in it (no offense, Miss Mara and the whole Door 3 family...lol). And it's by being adept at this vice that I found out that there's one more hard question to answer in this crazy world and that is "Are you drunk?". This is really tricky. If you say yes, then people might think that you're just saying it as an excuse for you not to be accountable when you do crazy things (like french kissing a friend or better yet, sleeping with the fellow... Don't worry, I'm not naming names... Relax) as is usually the reason for most people to go drinking. If you say no, others might think you're a lying sod who's in denial. So I just try to ignore the questions sometimes and pretend I wasn't listening.

But that drinking session we had on the 17th to welcome the 18th (my day) was not all fun. I had to watch over a certain someone whom we'll call under the pseudonym Regine Mae Lapida who drowned her sanity and dignity after consuming two bottles of Tanduay (she said Red Horse makes her bloated). I, along with Scrib, had to guard her from being taken advantage of by horny party-goers whose erections you can totally see (and feel) amidst the darkness. That part was not fun. Especially if you get all those stares of loathing for being a fun-sucker (can't let Regine make a stupid move...no, not when she's drunk).

Mom made efforts into making this day special for me. She made the best-tasting spaghetti I have ever devoured. And my dad did what he does best: sending me money (*toothy grin*). Justin bought me cake and Jesus and Syrah each gave me gifts (Syrah came all the way from Dumaguete to give me a Bart Simpson stuff toy...gay, I know but it goes well with my Homer Simpson).

...and on top of that, two of my crushes greeted me on Facebook (okay so one of them is Fritz...that's a given...Fritz knows)...

To all who remembered (all made possible by Facebook and Friendster's birthday notifications) and to all who cared to spend it with me (not just because there's free alcohol), I say, "Merci boucoup!"

Note: The pandas were not harmed during the making of this blog post so you can let that Animal Rights activist in you breathe easy now.

...aaaand wrong again!

You can't not like someone forever without getting to know that person first. And now that this semester is nearly ending, I realized that everyone can be likable.

I remember what I posted a few months back (back when the first semester has just started) about hating my current classmates for not having the guts to take Creative Writing... Well, I did hate them for that but it's all in the past now.

A short recap for those who are reading this right now and are probably not that interested about my life to care enough to follow my previous posts: I was supposed to graduate last year but because I got sick and had to take only a few subjects at school, I was left behind by people I've grown very close with; sooo close that we would openly discuss sensitive topics (and no, that doesn't only apply to sex as a topic...although I have to admit that that has always been a constant target for really interesting discussions...what do you expect? We're teenagers, we're expected to act this way) even when we're not out of other people's earshot (hmm...I've been using a lot of double negatives lately). And knowing this somehow gives me pleasure; the daringness of it all, of talking about things that are taboo....makes me feel so....how do I put it?....mature and evolved. And so when the time came for these people to receive their diplomas that seem to taunt others who do not have one yet (like myself), I kept on thinking about how finishing one more year at college would suck without these lovable weirdos and that I'd be stuck with strangers who won't get my jokes and I was afraid they won't jive with my personality (I'm self-centered, just like that).

But I was wrong (...as what happens most of the time). I've come to realize that these people who now sit beside me at class, who generously whisper to me the answers to a test I haven't studied when the teacher isn't looking (or pretend not to be looking) are just as interesting as the ones I used to be with. And I say this not just because of that one benefit mentioned earlier (^_^).

They text and remind me about some requirements at school without me ever asking them to. They include me in their conversations. They're (generally) a happy bunch. I was so wrong about them. I haven't been this wrong since I thought of myself as an adopted child back in the day (yes, The Great Depression...I would daydream that I was actually the son of a very rich couple and that they'd find me and take me away from the people who pretended to be my parents who couldn't afford to buy me a Gameboy Advance... That was a really tough time for a kid). They seem to really treat me as one of their own. And for a person like me who - although likes to think of himself as a loner but really isn't - lives for human contact, that's very touching....cathartic, even.

I have this habit (call it a sickness, if you must) of comparing people who are not in my circle to those who are in mine and I always resolve myself to thinking that the ones within that round shape are better (except for a few others who I've always longed to be friends and try hard to be in touch with).

These people that I never really cared about and also hated before turned out to be people I didn't really expect to like. Of course being with them isn't really the same as being with my real batchmates, but they're special in their own way. It looks like I won't be ending this school year with much remorse after all...

..and these are the people I'm talking about:

...urgh, this post is so cheesy... Someone shoot me (please don't, I don't wanna die a painful death!)... x_x

Politically-correct.

...an excerpt from Little Red Riding Hood - A Politically Correct Fairy Tale...

...The Wolf said, "You know, my dear, it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone."

Red Riding Hood said, "I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop your own, entirely valid worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way."

Red Riding Hood walked on along the main path. But, because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma's house.

He burst into the house and ate Grandma, an entirely valid course of action for a carnivore such as himself. Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist notions of what was masculine or feminine, he put on grandma's nightclothes and crawled into bed...

(SKIP SKIP SKIP)

...Grandma, what big teeth you have!"

The Wolf said, "I am happy with and what I am," and leaped out of bed. He grabbed Red Riding Hood in his claws, intent on devouring her. Red Riding Hood screamed, not out of alarm at the Wolf's apparent tendency toward cross-dressing, but because of his willful invasion of her personal space.

Her screams were heard by a passing woodchopper-person (or log-fuel technician, as he preferred to be called). When he burst into the cottage, he saw the melee and tried to intervene. But as he raised his ax, Red Riding and the Wolf both stopped.

"And what do you think you're doing?" asked Red Riding Hood.

The woodchopper-person blinked and tried to answer, but no words came to him.

"Bursting in here like a Neanderthal, trusting your weapon to do your thinking for you!" she said. "Sexist! Speciesist! How dare you assume that womyn and wolves can't solve their own problems without a man's help!"

When she heard Red Riding Hood's speech, Grandma jumped out of the mouth, took the woodchopper-person's axe, and cut his head off. After this ordeal, Red Riding Hood, Grandma, and the Wolf felt a certain commonality of purpose. They decided to set up an alternative household based on mutual respect and cooperation, and they lived together in the woods happily ever after.

Tadaaa!~

The (Lazy) Emperor/Blogger's New Blog Post

Hanging by a thread

When you talk about college spirit, I guess I pretty much have it... But it's an offshoot of something else. The thing is, I like being around people -- lots and lots of 'em... That's particularly one of the reasons why I enjoy attending campus events. And so this would explain why I get possessed by that feeling of merriment everytime.

Happiness is contagious, arguably more contagious than any other emotion. It's easier to make people smile than to make them shed a tear (although I seem to make my mom cry just as easily). But I force the feeling sometimes. I force myself to exhibit the energy that the situation calls for. One has to be consistent with the mood of the atmosphere or else you better get your stubborn ass and ATPs out of the vicinity (go home, joy-killer!).

That's the thing about getting possessed. Your body is pushed to its limits even if it can't take it anymore. Kinda like being asked to sing "Making Love Out of Nothing at All" at a karaoke session with your friends (that's right buster, I'm not afraid to belt out a few high notes here and there). You know you can't reach the high notes but you still go for it anyway (well at least I do. I'm brave just like that *wink wink*).

Palakasan O-Nine: Seeing Pink Spiders

(apparently they think it's cooler to spell out "9")

Aside from being (slightly) low-spirited that the college I belong to is the poorest among the 7 others, and aside from being a little "under-the-weather"-ish that our team lost during the Palakasan debate grand finals, this yearly event always reminds me of how "chaki" our emblem is as compared to the others.

Note: I noticed that some of the avatars are characters from the MMORPG I used to play (Dofus).

• College of Science and Mathematics - Lynx
• College of Engineering - Dragon
• College of Business Administration and A(i dunno) - Griffin
• School of Engineering Technology - Tiger
• College of Education - Phoenix
• Integrated Developmental School - Hornet
• School of Computer Studies - Wolf
• College of Arts and Social Sciences - Arachnid

I know, I know... Why do some colleges get to have the legendary creatures, i.e. dragon, phoenix, and griffin?? And why do others get to be as fierce as the four-limbed carnivores, i.e. lynx, tiger, and wolf?? The highschool kiddies are fine being hornets. It only emphasizes how cute (and yummy) they are (not that I eat hornets for dinner but it's the phonology of it.... *hint hint*). But come on! CASS as Arachnids?? Those are really disgusting creatures (except for Spiderman coz we all know he's hot)! I do know they're deadly, though -- but so do with the others! Just one stomp by animals with legs and we're crushed! And on top of that, ir's creepy! It's nowhere near ferocious. It doesn't even look cute despite it's travel-lite size! X_X

Here. Look at this and tell me it doesn't look yucky!

See? I told you! Even this guy right here thinks it's repugnant!

X_x

not while i'm king!

Being the eldest in the family isn't exactly a walk in the park but I seem to be getting the hang of it....by not doing anything! Yes, (surprise, surprise) I'm a slacker (I know that may have come out as a shock. I'll give you time to process it. LOL). I've been one ever since puberty hit me (this is my way of passing the blame on to hormones...how am I doing so far? =p). I don't help out on the household chores, I don't do my own laundry (not even my own underwear...okay, never should have said that), I come home when it's already dark even if my class ends at 4:30 PM (I follow this norm set by people within my age bracket: never be home before sundown or else you'll be deemed uncool), I don't even look out for my siblings (I know, I'm a bad brother. Tell me something I don't already know!).

My lola and my titas keep reprimanding me about it but I perpetually reject their widsom (admit it, you're guilty of this too). There's something about being told what to do that I find so worthy of rebellion.

There. I'm irresponsible, dammit (look what you made me say to myself?!)! But even so, I still don't understand why my younger brothers and sister obey (most of) my orders. I mean, I would never obey me. They're scared of me, apparently. I am a big damn deal! Like whenever they're huddled infront of the TV watching Disney Channel or Cartoon Network, I can easily grab the remote from them and switch the channel to any station I like. And they can't do anything about it. Defenseless under my rule as the evil brother. Or when they're using the PC (coz the other one doesn't have Warcraft III in it) and then I come home from school and "usurp" their place thus cutting them off their gaming experience. They know how I get when I lose my patience. Surprisingly, I'm irritable when I'm at home (but this does not mean I am faking my goody-two-shoes appearance at school...*halo-on-head*). I have low tolerance over potentially annoying things, i.e. noisy siblings. I am powerful in this house. So powerful that I can even talk back against my mom, who would often end up in tears (this happens a lot....but now we're starting to patch things up. I don't wanna further substantiate it as it might jinx the whole process. *fingers crossed*).

Democracy doesn't apply in this house. Not while I'm king (or queen...whichever works for you). *the finger pyramid of evil contemplation*

Have I no shame??

And so I finally have the courage to post the short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class. There are only three of us who took up this subject, which is probably a good thing 'coz this provides us intimacy with our mentor, Prof. Anthony L. Tan (Palanca Awardee -- yes this is me making you jealous of how cool my teacher is..LOL).

So far I'm having a lot of fun! We just finished writing sonnets (will probably post it here as well) and next meeting, we'll be criticizing each others' works like in a writing workshop! And yes, we'll also be writing villanelles the meeting after that (urgh, I suck at writing poems). Woohoo! XD

This is the painting we were supposed to draw out an inspiration from ("Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" by Georges-Pierre Seurat):

I'm still not confident with the ending though...It still seems weird for me...But feel free to comment (and yes, the names Bernard and Doris came from that HBO Original Movie that starred Susan Sarandon and Ralph Fiennes..=p)...

Doris in the Bath Tub

The car gave out a disgruntled noise as it was steered up a slope. The man behind the wheel, slightly irritated, pushed his foot on the pedal a little mightier than he should have in the hope that the vehicle would speed away on the level-grounded terrain above. The car struggled and gave a few forced yet hopeful thrusts and then finally broke down.

“What’s the matter?”, asked Doris, the lady on the backseat. She had the irritable air of a forty-year-old woman who has been recently distressed by marital woes.

“I think the radiator finally gave in, ma’am”, came the voice of the driver, Bernard. Seeing the tempered anger on the woman’s face, he hurriedly added, “I’ll fix it right away, ma’am.” He opened the door and took something from the trunk, avoiding eye contact with the woman inside the stranded vehicle. He’s been working for her long enough to know she interprets it as a mockery when someone would look at her in the eye whenever she’s not in the mood to be civil.

With clenched teeth and fists, she sat back and silently cursed her husband – ex-husband.

“That philandering bastard!”, she thought to herself. She was angry alright. It’s an emotion she’s used to having around these days. Pure, undistilled anger providing little room in her chest for any other emotion, not even grief – she’s never even cried when she found out Tomas was fooling around with some other bimbo.

Bernard was outside, opened the hood and was greeted with smoke from the engine. He coughed and squinted his eyes to have a better view of the troubled radiator.

“Hurry up, Bernard! I plan to be in the villa before sundown!”, shouted his master from inside the car. Bernard, of course, was used to this tone. But the familiarity never eroded the respect he has over the woman who gives him pay. On brighter days, she’s usually a vibrant woman. So scrupulous, so sure of herself. That is until she found out about her husband’s affair. And so whatever balance she had in her life fell apart, waiting to be restored. “Yes ma’am”, he said from under the hood.

In the car, fanning herself, Doris thought about her marriage with, as she put it, “that cheating mound of testosterone that is Tomas”.

For almost five years of being married to the accountant, she had always thought nothing was wrong with them as what most women feel when they get into marriage. She felt she had crossed a finish line and that beyond that line is a promise of no things sordid…that is until Tomas frequently took those week-long business trips outside of town. She was submissive at first. She thought it was just a phase. “I hear some men sometimes go a little astray from their vows”, she would say. So she resolved to immerse herself in denial for, after all, she had always known Tomas to be a respectable man and a loving husband, at least that’s what he wanted her to believe so he can go on with his little love affair. How naïve she was in handling this typical chauvinistic behavior of his!

Flashbacks kept on playing in her head. She was made a fool of. How she hated herself for being so gullible. She hated herself for tolerating it. But she realized soon enough that she should hate where hate deserves. And so all the more, she hated Tomas. She despised him for falling in line with the other clichés; for being among the many men in the world who fall for the lusciousness of younger flesh, deeming them as their own fountain of youth.

“The heart wants what it wants, Doris”, she could hear him say. “Sheila makes me feel young. We’re both in love!” She remembered throwing at him all the breakable things she could get her hands on. It’s remarkable how the mind makes you remember these things that have pain plastered on them. Maybe it’s because sometimes the body is a masochist and so the mind wants you to remember the things that hurt you. But even if that were true, her soul is unyielding. Not a drop of tear did she allow to fall from her eyes.

She held her breath for a while and exhaled. She rolled down the car window, gathered all her hatred towards Tomas, and spat with all her might in pure disgust. The ground, like a sponge, absorbed the emotion it carried with it and after seeing this, she felt a little relieved.

Doris looked at the sky from the window and could see dark nimbus clouds forming overhead.

“What is taking you so long out there?!”, she called out to her driver who’s hidden under the open hood of the car.

“Nearly done, ma’am”.

“Well, hurry up!”, she sat back to her seat and looked outside. The sky seemed darker now, glaringly announcing the coming of the rain. She was about to yell at her driver again when the hood was closed down and she could see Bernard walking back to the driver seat.

“It took you long enough”, said Doris with no effort to hide her indignant and superior tone.

“Sorry ma’am”, Bernard closed the door and started the engine. His eyes could see her face at the car mirror. He could tell she was still bothered.

“Just drive”, and with that, Bernard kept his eyes on the road and the car resumed its task of climbing up the slope.

When they reached the plains above, it started to rain. Doris was somehow bemused by the sound the raindrops formed when they hit the car’s surface as they drove past them. She observed that people become inspired to be in a pensive mood when they find themselves in a moving object (be it a train, or a ship, or a plane) with the sky spitting out its own emotions in the form of tiny droplets.

“Rain is good for most people”, she thought. “A little rain never hurts anyone. With no hesitation whatsoever, without really thinking about others but itself, the sky wets everyone and everything underneath it. It rinses the dirt off the naked atmosphere and it does so without any ill will.” Unlike Tomas. He’s seen her in her nakedness and in her most vulnerable state. He held her and promised her a lot of things. But he wanted more. More than what she could offer him. And so he went seeking for whatever it is she lacked. He became too familiar of her naked self.

When she was a little girl, it gave her such joy to run around without any clothing outside the villa, allowing herself to be soaked up by the rain. How relaxing it feels when in contact with the cold water! But now that she’s grown up, the only water contact she had was her habit of staying in a bath tub accompanied by soothing scents of lavender and chamomile and the relaxing saxophone records in the background. Her own indoor simulation of the rain, where her naked body is safe.

They finally reached the villa. No one was there. Her parents left it to her when they died. Bernard got out first, opened a black umbrella and assisted Doris out of the car and into the front door of the house.

“I’ll be in my room upstairs,” said Doris to the driver. “Get my luggage and put them beside my bed.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“…And bring me some wine,” she quickly added.

The driver nodded and started hauling the luggage from the trunk.

Doris walked inside and went upstairs. She entered the room and noticed that everything seemed so dismal. It’s dark and hollow. Everything was still except for the world outside where the rainwater was gushing against the windowpane. She looked at the lifeless bed at the center of the room. Its sheets well kept. She remembered how she and Tomas made love on them on their honey moon. She had never thought about Tomas this way since she found out about his infidelity.

Something heavy began to form in her chest, blocking her airway. Rainwater still flowing on the windowpane. The mastery she had over being a stoic was now slowly escaping her; betraying her in the stillness of this room which was once a witness to so much passion. Passion on its early stage, back when they were newlyweds.

She ran into the bathroom, quickly undressing, and turned on the taps. She stepped in the tub and lay down. With her head resting on the edge, she shivered and let out a teardrop which was soon followed by many more. She cried as the cold water was filling up the tub; as if her tears would help hasten the water in reaching the brim, in covering her body. She was making her own rain. She was cleansing the dirt brought upon her separation from Tomas off from her naked body. Unstifled grief. Loneliness taking its physical form. Doris cried and cried. She needed to feel safe.

Bernard heard all this as he carefully placed his master’s baggage beside her bed, carrying a bottle of wine on the other hand, trying hard not to make a sound. It was still raining hard outside. He was about to place the bottle on the bureau when Doris called out in a cracked voice, “Bernard?”

“M-ma’am?”

Sniffing, clearing her throat, and wiping her eyes, she said, “Hand me the wine.”

Bernard carried the bottle into the bathroom where Doris was in and tried to avert his eyes from her naked body partially covered with bubbles.

Doris, with watery eyes, looked up at Bernard and saw how his graying hair and slightly wrinkled face was marked with extreme benevolence. And his firm but non-condescending posture and big palms that spell out security. She soon realized Bernard might just be the only stable male relationship she’s ever had. Always obedient, always reliable. Always silent but dependable.

She cried out to him in a placid tone, “Help me finish this, will you?”

He sat down and looked at her in the tub with equal gentleness and saw through the suspended tears in her eyes. She poured some wine for each of them and they made a toast in silence.

Just as the rain was pouring down hard outside, she was slowly pouring herself to him. Here with the man who has never failed her. Here in the bathtub where her naked body is safe.

a farewell to your arms

I've always been bad at remembering things. I can't usually put a name to a familiar face. I don't even remember significant dates such as birthdays, monthsaries, and stuff (emphasis on "monthsaries"). I even have doubts as to whether or not I've taken my one-tablet-a-day meds. x_x

Last 27, was supposed to be it. I don't know if that "thank you" message was meant to commemorate that fateful day -- our fateful day -- or not. I never made an effort to remember because I was too engrossed about other things, i.e. debate (yes, I've been a dork these past few days -- what else is new?o.o). A shame, though. I should've reciprocated the effort. The least I could do was send back a message. But I didn't. I don't remember what I was doing back then. I was probably exhausted by all the draining debate practices we've been having in preparation for our first ever participation of/to (if you haven't noticed, I suck at prepositions) the VMDC (Visayas-Mindanao Debate Championships).

On top of the fatigue, I guess I was also consumed by rage fueled by jealousy over a certain coquettish CBA bitch who likes to flirt around with that "pa-cute" attitude that irritates every fiber of my being. If she likes to play dead, might as well make it real. I've wished death to a lot of people before (including my very responsible parents -- yes, silly I was being sarcastic...but not about wishing them dead -_-) and adding her name to the pile won't hurt. There is no hell anyway. Or if there really is, then I won't be alone. At least it's warm down there. I hear Satan's hot. ^_^'

And so I think that was why I forgot about the date (like I always used to).

And because my mind was too preoccupied with "other things", the quest for blackmail was temporarily put on the backseat. And now that those "other things" are finally done (after we managed to go through the Championship Round, defeating strong teams such as those from Ateneo de Zamboanga, Ateneo de Cagayan, and Ateneo de Davao along the way -- congrats to us, MIDV!!!), I am now ready to put the plan into action...but wait, I still have thesis work to do! X_X

...i miss Gil... T_T

Awkward Jeepney Moments

#1 ...that feeling you get when you initially want to take the jeepney ride home in the hopes that while getting there you'll have yourself a chance to be in deep contemplation (because for some reason we get inspired to be pensive upon riding on a moving object) but then a person whom you know comes along, sits beside you and so you're obliged to make an effort to indulge yourself in small talks all throughout the trip...

#2 ...getting your fare paid by a person who doesn't share a closeness with you as a friend but someone who knows you (and worse, that someone is an old neighbor or your parents' workmate whom you've met in company parties and all) and having to say thank you after the rather generous deed... it's a protocol we need to follow, I know but i still feel uncomfortable with it...

#3 ...or having someone you know who is older than you sit in the same vehicle you are in and you wonder "is he/she gonna pay for my fare?"...and then you keep glancing at his/her for any hint of generosity (and for my case, another embarassing moment)...

#4 ...and lastly, thinking that that person you know has already paid your fare and you say "thank you" to him/her and he/she would have to say "i'm sorry, but i never paid for yours"...and so you pull out your coins from your pocket while the other passengers stare at you (and you know damn well that they're all laughing on the inside because that's what you would do too when a person other than you is being humiliated)...

Yes, all these four happened to me... I seriously need a car... I hope my dad gets to read this... x_x

The Wanderer

Initially, I intended this post to be about bitching over my current classmates (the cowardly chickens that they are... Can I say "cowardly" and "chicken" at the same time?) for signing the petition to change our Creative Writing subject into World Literature. They were too afraid to take the course. They chose the lesser evil instead. I'm not saying I'm good at writing but this is CREATIVE WRITING for crying out loud! And Sir Tan would be teaching us, someone who actually has the credibility to teach this to us!

Sadly, Sir Tan also doesn't want to teach the subject. He said he doesn't want to have to fail students or to have to give the class a passing grade out of sheer pity.

I don't know if I should be flattered by what he said this morning, though. It was something like this: "Creative Writing is a highly-specialized course. It's for 'crazy people'. You're not those people (insert "except for Philip here..hihi). You do not have the talent, passion, and competence for writing. Writers are born and not made. It means that you constantly feel uneasy and discontented about something. Like there's a missing part of you that can only be filled up by writing. You don't really care about writing, do you?"

Maybe he was just saying that to keep me from making a scene (I was really disappointed that time. I couldn't even look at my classmates anymore. I was disgusted. And like what usually happens to me everytime I feel an intense emotion, I was on the verge of crying). He even said we'll (him and me) do a one-on-one on the subject to make up for changing it, something that I dread a little since I feel that I'm only "good" in contrast to other people. (X_X)

This subject (along with French) is what I've been really looking forward to this semester. All the other ones are bull. Even if he insults my writing, I wouldn't care. Even if he says, "I think you need to go home and plant kamote", I would swallow it whole and would still enjoy the subject. It's CREATIVE WRITING (how many times do I have to stress this one out?!)!!!!

And so, there I was, surrounded by a bunch of chickens who know nothing else but to take the easy way out. If Fats, Kim, Rei, Ken, Joey, and Faith were here, this wouldn't be the case. I miss being with these people. People who actually have true appreciation for literature and the arts.

Okay, judging by those previous paragraphs, this post did turn out to bitch about them. But since we've finally put that matter to rest, let us go on with other more "gravity-adding" matters... Like being the loner I never am (or was).

I know I said before that I like to stay in school forever (that was the dominant dork in me, "speak for yourself!"..Sorry, ever since my friends let me handle their plurk accounts, I've developed a semi-serious case of multiple personality disorder.. And yes, I sometimes scare myself). Now, I take it back.. Without the company of those people I have fun with (primarya, the dork squad, and the extended friends I have), the school that I usually see as an institution too small suddenly seemed so big and yes, empty.

"Ubi sunt que ante nos fuerent?" (Where are they now, the ones who used to be here?)

I remember that being discussed in our British Litrerature class last sem. I was with people who had more balls (as compared to the ones I'm stuck with as of the moment). But now, I even feel hesitant to share my usually dark and green humor with the ones sitting beside me (I sit alone at the back, by the way... This certainly spells out loner... And I'm not used to being one - the loud person that I am) for fear of them not being able to get it (this is not to insult them coz I like some of them, but from what I gather, we have different ways of looking into things).

With no one to have lunch with and no one to walk with me around the campus, I attempt to find solace in sitting down in a corner whenever I have free time. And with the kind of grief I've been carrying around since last summer (the memory of that fateful May 27 still lingers like an uninvited visitor who now resides with me even if I try to chase it away), this won't be healthy for me. And plus my mouth isn't used to keeping still. And I keep remembering this line from The Wanderer,

"How cruel a comrade sorrow is

To one who has no beloved friends."

...but like what one person said to me at plurk, I'll find new friends to be with in time. And she's right, I probably will. I have to keep believing that "this too shall pass" because "a disheartened mind cannot alter destiny".

His first day of school

The nauseating smell of new clothing worn by students who walk by in a hustle, most of whom half-heartedly do so while searching for familiar faces (and for classrooms), whose eyes carry with them traces of gloominess inspired by the end of their time away from school... The others? They prance about with such glee (okay those "others" may be just him), desperately trying to make out just one familiar face amidst pacts of young strangers.

As he does so, he is reminded of two things: 1. that he may be too old for school since signs of puberty at its earlier stages (earlier than his, more likely) can be seen in the faces, in the posture, and even in the choice of clothes of this crowd; and 2. that he (badly) needs glasses (or contacts...you hear that Papa?).

Wearing his younger brother's cap to hide a bad haircut, he managed to squeeze into the mostly-fresh mob and found his way into his classroom. Late again. Inside, he is not welcomed by the usual faces anymore. He expected to see the faces of those people who've grown used to seeing him come in late but they weren't there in those seats anymore. Nobody even called out his name as he entered the room. Before, his classmates (nay, he calls them friends...well, most of them anyway. There's still 4 or 5 of them who he can't name) used to call his attention and project him snickers that somehow dignify his misdemeanor. Although accustomed to those snickers, he was given only a few smiles with glaring inhibitions. Smiles that tell of their non-closeness to him (okay so maybe he wasn't prancing that much, after all).

Now being the eldest in the class, he has been assumed the role of a "responsible student". A label that fits him like "a triangle to a circle". Class dismissed.

Outside, he saw who he's been aching to see: that panda-lover who's torso has been covered by the sky... *Michel Polnareff's song playing in the background*

His next class was about to begin and so he quit staring at the human sky, copied some stuff from the blackboard, looked at his notes and remembered one more thing about himself: that he has a good penmanship.

100 songs (this took me a while)

Appaprently, I've been tagged by Rian with this List of 100 Songs That Will Save Yor Life meme (okay, did I use the term "meme" in the proper context? I know I've been blogging for years now but I still get confused as to what those words mean exactly).

So here is my list of songs (in no particular order):

The Romantic Egotist (err...Masochist)

"I'm a romantic: I hope for an untragic tragedy. I want the impossible resolution, which life generally shuns."

Ever since that fateful Wednesday (27), every day has become a Sunday. And you all know how much I dislike Sundays.

Yes, these past few days has made up a chain of Sundays that seem to elicit an aura of "tempered mourning" on my part. The hotness that I complain that Sundays usually posess have brought upon me an emotional drought... And thus the garden of happiness (mmm..gay!) that I've tended for over two years have all been reduced into cracked and scorched earth (that's for thinking I have a green thumb)... Earth that once contained me, once held me with love and security (however false the foundations may have been)...

The subdued ambience that I have to live with is constricting. This "quiet reprimand" inspiring me towards madness... It forces me to continually grieve, to regret, to feel pain, to suffer - this is my idea of what penance is.

It's becoming more and more like a familiar mood, a substitute to someone who was once an ever present companion. But familiarity has its plus sides. I'm now learning to get used to not getting used to the person that I once was so used to having around.

And the presence of renewed characters (my best friend, other people who genuinely care) has made me feel hopeful. And I can say with such confidence that heartaches are never easy. I know I'm being dependent to other people for endurance right now but I am yet to learn to stop hiding under my best friend's skirt (especially if she rarely wears panties...just kidding, silly!). But I'm getting there. After all, this is a one-way road. But the thing about one-way roads is that you can always go back to whence you came and even allow yourself to be consumed by what once was when you decide brave backwards (really starting to scare myself now).

Here's to hopefully not looking back...

Not for long.

One of the characters (an aging tramp) from a television show I've been watching this summer to drive boredom away made a comment about her personality that made me think about how the two of us are quite similar (and I don't mean that I'm also an aging tramp). She said and I quote,

"I don't stay unhappy for long."

Now I don't really know if this is a good thing since for some reason, I find it insulting to the circumstance that calls for dismal emotions. But no matter what the reason for grief is, I still manage to find a way to smile or give out a laugh even. I keep forcing my mouth not to curve upwards but it's just not in my nature. I can't help myself from smiling or bursting into laughter whenever the opportunity to do so presents itself. I always spot something funny and worth being happy about even if just for a brief moment. I live for those - momentary happiness, since I believe that melancholy has made itself dominant in this day and age and that bliss exists in small packages so as to give us reprieve from all the overpowering sadness that everyone is doomed to feel. And a person should be receptive to these tiny sources of happiness in order to have something to live for in this troublesome world that man has brought upon himself.

If you've noticed from my previous blog entries, I've been having an emotional crisis. I have been whining about how I got hurt like some other silly character who's life revolves around love alone (yes, believe it or not, I too know a thing or two about love and I sincerely wish this phase that I'm in would end). It really hit me hard. I've been having sleepless nights not only because I'm now used to staying up late (night time used to be our time) but also because I can't stop thinking about the love I've lost.

Lonely and bored, that's what I've been these past couple of weeks and I find myself frequently asking the question, "Now what?". It's hard to live outside your habits. And since I've been used to including that person in all of my decisions, I now find it really hard to think for myself alone. It's even harder to find out that all of a sudden, in one false move, you've become a stranger to the life of someone whom you have known for so long...

I'm still saddened by it and I should be for a very long time. I've told myself that I should give that situation the respect it deserves by mourning over it until "the last syllable of recorded time". But I can't. As much as I want to, I just couldn't. No matter how hard I say to myself and to everyone else that I'm cynical, the truth is, I am a very positive person (and that wide grin you see plastered on my face every single day is proof of that). And it isn't fake. I don't want to come out as someone who supposedly "wears masks" infront of people, hiding what I truly feel on the inside (that act is sooo passe!).

I'm not smiling yet sulking on the inside. I'm feeling both. I'm genuinely happy and I can be so while being sullen. There is no such thing as a single emotion monopolizing everything else (somehow I feel that I've contradicted myself there...but that's me, a mass of contradictions).

You may have noticed how I've tried not to use smileys in my plurk account but that attempt did not last long. The pain is still there but it's gradually eroded by time. I can't live without happiness and thus, I've turned myself into a bigamy of emotions: I am happy even when I'm sad and vice versa.

Like what I said earlier, there exists small packages of happiness that help us breathe in a positive energy that make loneliness bearable. And in my case, these minute packages lie in the company of friends. And that is precisely the reason why I don't stay unhappy for long...

Feeling a lot like Lord Randall

"i am sick at the heart and fain would lie down...."

I was at the exit, trying to see if my mind can work this time but like my countless attempts before, it didn't. It's brightest idea was to try to make a deal with the devil but as it turned out, Satan stood me up. And so I was left realizing that there is no hell. There might not even be any God at all (Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret). So I stood outside gripping my bag's handle tightly in my right hand as if everything depended on how much force I exerted on clutching it. I sent a text message and suddenly heard his voice call out my name with a "Sir" coupled to it. I could hear the panic in his voice (he had a suspicion that something was up) and I decided not to let him hear mine so I just gave away a forced casual nod that carried with it a smile (I could feel the muscles on my upper lip tremble).

With the bag's handle tightly gripped in my right hand, I stood there in silence and so did he. There was noise all around - the noise coming from the motors of the airport taxis passing by and the noise from my mind that was screaming at myself for my unpreparedness, ordering me to say something real quick to ease the tension, and unusually enough, the most talkative person on earth (that's me) couldn't think of anything to say (one of those very rare moments) - but between the two of us, there was only silence. Finally, after a moment of blankness, he decided to break it. And from thereon came the outpouring of explanations and yes subtle tears.

We were walking around at the airport. I tried to stay close to him. How lovely we must look together with him only a few inches taller than me, and peculiarly, enough we have similar outlines! We could've been one of those couples. They're fascinating people. We sat and finally reached a decision.

In the taxi, silence found its way again and we did nothing but cry. After he got out, the driver asked me, "Why was your friend in tears?". I told him, "He lost his lover today." "Then what about you? Why were you in tears?", he asked again (who knew taxi drivers could be so nosy?!). I stared at him through the mirror and said, "I lost mine today, too." I looked away throguh the window to the horizon and turned on my PSP and sought the comfort of Nerina Pallot (and yes, Fats, Bonnie Pink too)...

".........do ya hurt but still feel alive like never before, oh Sophia?"

..and the tears were at it again.

Not gonna end good.

We do it all the time. The things we tell people. They're embedded in our words, in our daily conversations. We tell varying degrees of them for various reasons. Some of them subconsciously get into whatever it is that we say. Some of us have become very good at it that we don't even know we're giving it out anymore.

My own lies are catching up on me. Now I'm tangled up and buried within them. Choked and buried alive. You can't even see the person anymore because I'm all covered up in lies. Like getting smothered with paint to camouflage yourself from the enemy. And that's exactly what I'm doing. Except that I'm not doing it to an enemy. It's for someone I love. My enemy is "truth" itself.

Buried by a number of technicolored lies and yet I don't seem to mind since it's one of the things that keep me breathing. I have to endure all that - getting choked and being buried - just so I can breathe. I reek of deceit and I can't even tell that I do. I'm so used to the odor that I don't even notice how much I stink.

It's a new low even for me. I haven't lied this much to a person before. Not even to my parents or to my friends. Because we usually lie to the people whom we constantly talk to, and those people are assumed to be your parents or your friends, to make ourselves more likeable, to be in it for keeps.

I am it. I'm a walking lie. I'm a living mound of deception. A con-artist that's prophesizing about being caught a few days from now.

A person knows if he has lied too much. Enough to know if that amount of cock-and-bully stories of his is enough for him to get caught and punsihed. And I'm convincing myself that being punsihed for it is enough when in fact I know full well it isn't. How did I allow myself to be this manipulative and heartless?

But I'm not at all heartless. That's what I believe myself to be. I am the the most non-heartless person I know, as a matter of fact. If I were without a heart, how could I have been able to love? How could I have chosen to do this? To create this, to be what I believe is a better version of myself?

______________________________________________________

It's a word that I can't say out loud with a sense of pride. It's something that I've been deprived of, hence, I deprive others of it in return. No, that did not sound right. I should never put the blame into others. I alone are responsible for my actions however influential others have been. Those who allow themselves to be tricked gets to be tricked. It's tolerance. And tolerance, like it or not, is all you. It has nothing to do with how strong or weak other people are. It's how you respond to them. YOU. I. I alone am to blame.

And now, I feel that they have choked me enough, my lies. Like I said, enough to have me caught. You know you're being choked by your lies not by listing down all of them but by believeing them to be the actual truth. By desperately wanting them to be the reality you so loathe vehemently.

But still here I am, lying my way on a one-lane street towards getting caught. After all, all destinations lead to the truth, whether or not you started the journey with such falseness. Everything will end up getting solved and then I'll feel myself exposed. Naked with my own lies that cover up my body. Nudity is such a terrible thing. Being predictable, pellucid, vulnerable. Everything in its nakedness is susceptible to anything, most especially to shame. That is why people wear clothing, to conceal what is unlikeable (or dear) about them: their naked selves. And everyone wants to hold a naked body. You'll never know how people would handle it, your body. Some of people's grips can hurt you. That is why we choose the people we can be naked with. That is why we spend most of our lives being clothed. A lie is completely different. Lies are not garments. They never keep you warm (even if you think they do...feigned warmth, that's what it is).

I'm nearly there. This trip's about to end. And it's not gonna end good. There is never an assurance that something is gonna wrap up in a good way. Something is always bound to go wrong. It can happen while you are about to set sail, while you're half-way of getting there, or while you're already there. There is no end to the possibility of experiencing grief. And to lie impertinently seals the contract for that possibility. And I can only be certain that this just isn't gonna end good and as much as I've been trying to prepare myself for it, I still feel like I'm never gonna be ready for it. So now I hold my breath and here goes nothing...

Hello, I Need You - Michelle Featherstone

Because everyone just wants to be your friend.

Aren't you glad that you can actually build a foundation of your relationships with people without even meeting them in person first (especially when you're not so good on first impressions)? Call it a trial run. See if it works out.

Everyone is just an "add as friend" button away. And it's thrilling to know that people have become more welcoming these days. We sometimes absent-mindedly accept these strangers who force themselves into our lives, not knowing that they may actually be potential suspects to our being beaten up with backlashes. For some people, it's a great opportunity to get close with those whom we desperately want to know. It's a different version of flirting with disaster, if you the person has the most evil of motives.

Yet, sometimes, it's amazing what beautiful friendships you can force into people. And I choose to look at it that way. Let me savor my denial. Add me! XD

Hope springs eternal...

This summer has been all about preparing myself for an impending tragedy. People say it's better to know ahead if something bad is about to happen, but in my case, I'd rather be taken by surprise.

Knowing that something undesirable is in the offing and knowing that you can't do anything to stop it from happening is worse than being blind-sided by it. Just like when you read Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Ilyich". You know Ivan's gonna die but there's still that little candle of hope glimmering inside you, wishing he won't. You don't mind relighting that candle when the flame suddenly goes out everytime you get reminded that the character's actually gonna die. But still you keep on reading, determined to find a different ending than what was already foretold; unfazed by what was already predetermined.

Yeah, it's like that. Days suddenly become too short. Hours seem to move in such fast pacing. It's like holding up a handful of sand on your palm and allowing it to be blown away by the eager wind as if you owe it something and you can't say no to it, taking away the sands from you. For some reason, you can't close your palm and save the grains of quartz from being scattered away. Worse, as they get spread out into the air, some of them get inside your eyes, hurting you, making your eyes red with tears.

There was a certain point back when I managed to remain alive after being inflicted with consumption (you know, the sickness that crippled me during the last two-three semesters), when I verily thought that that was it; that nothing worse could ever happen to me. It was such a brief yet liberating moment. For a short while, I thought of myself as invincible (like what I used to say, "that which doesn't kill you makes you want to taunt death even more"). I've convinced myself that I've crossed some sort of finish line and that beyond that line promises no things sordid. Of course, I was wrong. And this summer of helplessly waiting with resigned audacity for that tragedy to happen is proof of that. I've realized that there is no single finish line, only different races that you're bound to participate in every single time.

And yet others say for me to cherish every moment. But from the way I see it, you can't cherish every moment while you still can. I don't think that's ever possible (even if I keep saying "carpe diem" to some people...but then again hypocrites are like that). Because you, I mean I (since I'm not sure if I can say the same for you), always hope against hope that each moment won't be the last so that I can save some for the next (sounds twisted? That's okay. I don't expect you to understand -- and I did not just call you a dim-witt. I meant that in an inoffensive way).

Every single day while I keep counting down what's left of them (the time left), I earnestly guard the flickering flame of my candle. It's all I have left. I can only hope and do nothing but cross my fingers for the best and prepare for the worst (since my google search results for "how to sell your soul to the devil" hasn't actually reaped substantial results); to keep on living this moment that I have with someone as if it weren't gonna be the last, albeit I am fully aware of the misery that's been smiling at me and dying to meet me up ahead.

"Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper." And since I'm very hungry and it's all I have left to eat, I'm just gonna have to suck it up and chew... It'll all be digested soon anyway. And since it's my name (Philip Hope, people!), I'm chancing that at the very least it has to count for something.

P.S.

I know I've been very vague in this post but don't bother asking what that tragedy would be. You're bound to find out soon anyway.

The Bad Brother

Sorry for the highly domestic content. I think I may have been watching Desperate Housewives way too much these past couple of days (where's that "d'oh!" emoticon when you need it?!).

Teasing your younger brother and sister is probably normal in most households. In fact, it's so normal that people even only brush off what it can do to the ones who were teased and to the ones who did the teasing.

We are four lucky offsprings of a happy family in the suburban world (geez, did you taste the sarcasm right there? I swear it's as bitter as my version of burnt rice -- when the rice cooker is put to rest for a while, of course) with my brother Marc and I being the older ones and my other brother and sister being the younger generation.

As the ones who have experienced the world first, Marc and I like to lord over the 11 and 10 year olds. Yes, we love playing the age card. It somehow puts us to a higher position (seniority rule). This somehow warrants us to boss them around and to let them do our bidding (even if we can always do it ourselves, but the lazy a-holes that we are, we like ordering weaker people -- something which I guess we got from our parents... You know how domineering they can be.. Urgh!). Yes, we're like the evil stepbrothers only that we're the real ones (actual brothers, not the step ones although we may as well be since we do a lot of stepping on them anyway).

But one thing I know that's bad and I can't stop doing is teasing and resenting my younger siblings whenever I see them get excited about something. Like when we were on our way to pick up the monitor for our other PC (which means they finally have a PC of their own and they can finally play games there without having to beg us to use the PC intended for us older children which we selfishly keep to ourselves), I can tell that they were thrilled about it. And like a reflex reaction, my brother Marc and I killed that excitement by teasing them about being excited, about being a newbie. Then I somehow got annoyed by their jumping around and by their asking a lot of questions and yelled at them. They get scared when I yell and so they sheepishly stood there still, wearing now-somber faces. And Marc and I did more mockery of their fervor. And my poor younger brother and sister desperately tried to reduce what's left of their excitement into slightly noticeable quivers of glee. They really tired hard to cover up their joyous anticipation. They wouldn't want their Kuya Philip and Kuya Macky to tease them, or worse, get angry and snap at them again.

For some reason, Marc and I discourage the feeling of exhiliration. For my part, maybe it's because I don't like to think that I wore the same stupid expression of enthusiasm whenever I get all excited about something new. Also, maybe it's because I know that that pleasing feeling will not last long. Pretty soon we'll go weary of being excited with something and then we break it. Or maybe because I'm jealous of them? I'm not really sure which one it is.

So now, little traces of excitement are seen in the faces of my younger siblings. And I feel sorry for them for denying them of the pleasure that comes with expecting something nice to happen. Oh, why must I take part in killing their joy?