before I soak my aching feet in hot water...

There's something awfully lonely about christmas.

The cold air? The malls and busy streets jammed with people thinking about presents, bonuses, and the inevitable traffic jam?

Nothing about humanity in between, save in the minds of the charitable few.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not persecuting the happy people. Neither do I want to be a scrooge. And, no, I don't believe writing "WORLD PEACE" there on my grown-up Christmas list, so to speak, would actually change the world for the better.

I'm just thinking out loud. Being stuck in Shaw Boulevard after being ditched by a taxicab driver I had commissioned (for a lack of a better word) in Rockwell to take me home to Quezon City due to the heavy traffic in EDSA does that to you.

Christmas can really be the loneliest time of the year. And I'm feeling the blues too much to even write anything else.

Love is all around: some thoughts about that ol' thing

"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore.
So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love."

Rebecca- age 8


"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different.
You just know that your name is safe in their mouth."

Billy - age 4


"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other."

Karl - age 5

"Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs."

Chrissy - age 6

"Love is what makes you smile when you're tired."

Terri - age 4

"Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK."

Danny - age 7

"Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more.
My Mommy and Daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss"

Emily - age 8


"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen."

Bobby - age 7 (Wow!)

"If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate,"

Nikka - age 6
(we need a few million more Nikka's on this planet)


"Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday."

Noelle - age 7

"Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well."

Tommy - age 6

"During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling.

He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore."

Cindy - age 8


"My mommy loves me more than anybody
You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night."

Clare - age 6

"Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken."

Elaine-age 5

"Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford."

Chris - age 7

"Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day."

Mary Ann - age 4

"I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones."

Lauren - age 4

"When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you." (what an image)

Karen - age 7

"Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross."

Mark - age 6

"You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget."

Jessica - age 8
And the final one -- Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge.

The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.

The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife.

Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.

When his Mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said,

"Nothing, I just helped him cry"

Why not?

Nathan and I had a discussion about preference. Why not you? Why not me? What does anther have that each of us don't?

Among the seas of faces we encounter daily, how do we select the person we do select - for a friend, companion, acquaintance, object of our affection, the like. Yes, the labels. (And no matter how insistent we become about how we DON'T believe in labeling and how hard we deny that we don't condone such, much less practice it, the whole labeling thing is inevitable. Unavoidable.) Why do we make the selection? Why them? Why these people?

We issue standards. We comply with them 0 sometimes struggling as we do so, sometimes with ease: unconsciously, as if we were born to make our choices based on those standards. Other times, we discard them and declare our independence from personally established norms, so to speak. So, when do we do so? Why do we do so? Why pick that person among all of them? Why do we make that choice?

The answer, you might say, lies in the free will of humans. Freedom to select. Freedom of choice. Right to organization, even (as if friendships are organizations - well in a way, they are, but that's debatable). Point there. But that really does not answer the how's and the why's of selection.


The answer is different for every person. Yes. Of course. Or else, those not selected will never be selected. And there'll be hordes of people vying for the same people, as well.

Why me? Why you?

I could listen all day to each answer.

Finding Polaris

It was the first time for me to see Orion's Belt. (Come to think of it, it was the first time I had been able to make out a constellation even though I had often prided myself for being good in connect-the-dots puzzle games, courtesy of Manila Bulletin.) Worse, even if I had actually passed all my science classes, it was just last night when it REALLY dawned to me that, yes, the earth rotates! All the while I had believed that the stars that twinkle in the night sky are permanently positioned in such a way that when you look out of the same window at night, you get to see the same stars. When daylight comes, you cannot see them anymore but they're still there: in the same place as you look out your window. They don't move. Neither do you. Yes. I am such a dumb prat.

The unbearable freezing temperature of the room at a Batangas resort, and the lost aircon remote as well as the fear of being electrocuted if I were to yank all the wires I see in pure rage, prompted me to traipse outside and snuggle close to the exhaust fan at the terrace. And then I looked up and listened.

The North Star, or Polaris, is at the end of the Little Dipper's handle, which arches toward a small cup formed by four stars. On the opposite side of Polaris is the constellation Cassiopeia. Travelers often use Polaris for navigation. Wanderers look to the North Star to find their way. There's a Native American tale about the origin of this star. It was said that a brave son tried to impress his father by climbing the tallest cliff he could find. Through difficult conditions he continued until he arrived the top of a very high mountain. The mountain was so tall that the son looked down on all the other mountains. Unfortunately, there was no way down. When his father came looking for him, he found his son stuck high above. Not wanting his son to suffer for his bravery, he turned his son into a star that can be viewed and honored by all living things. And so the North Star.

Me? I was just captivated by the stars last night. And I liked the serenity the lake provided and the wonderful company I had. I liked listening to the tales, fictional or otherwise. I liked the night breeze.

And I liked sitting there by the exhaust fan as I tried to warm my feet.

and so it is...

"When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake then it subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision; you have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you two should ever part, because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness; it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day, it's not laying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No, that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love, itself, is what is left over when being in love has burned away. Doesn't sound very exciting does it? But, it is." Captain Corelli's Mandolin

Fall

You bloom in autumn
with the golden hues reflected
in your pensive eyes;
faraway, the conch bids
a nostalgic lament
and succumbs to the whispers
of the rustling leaves.

Thoughts unfold
and you're demystified -
Time holds no mystery
but of its own perpetuity,
its constancy.

A quiet smile faces
the cool, passing breeze;
around you the maple
and the caballero weep
of its beauty:
you are captivated.

The park is serene
and splashed with the warm
colors of the sun.
By twilight, it is embraced
by the night's solitary breath.

This marriage of contrasting poles
leaves you with a pained smile.
Autumn is your Spring.
You bloom
and you weep its beauty.

Upon waking

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

- A.C. (Algernon Charles) Swinburne

taking a deep, positive, breath

A master of the art of tax and procedure told me to stop being melodramatic. And that I have absolutely nothing to be insecure about. And that having faith can sometimes prove to be beneficial to one's spirit.

I don't really agree with him but I guess I won't damage my brain if I do try to be positive for a while, or at least until my nerves can't take this (noxious?) change anymore.

Truth be told, I want to trust people badly and just hold on to that sprig of hope that there ARE still good people in the world. Honest people. Trustworthy people. Sincere, good people.

Fine. I just want to be in control of everything. I don't like to be surprised. So what better to do than to anticipate cruelty. But I guess that's just not how the Heavens had wanted Its people to be like. (Funny I always say "the Heavens" instead of God, Father Almighty, etc.) I guess that's where faith steps in.

I spend 99.9% of my time (almost) just worrying about the future and doubting people's intentions. The practice hasn't made me more human nor more discerning. In fact, I think it has made me older but, definitely, most definitely, not wiser. I should trust people. Especially those who have been there for me, through the good times and even some of the bad times.

They might have hurt me along the way, with their insensitivity and whatnots but hey, I've hurt them too. An eye for an eye, though I am most vengeful.

But hurting is not the point. Learning is. And "searching for the thing that's worth living for." The search. I've found mine more than a year ago, after praying at the Monastery of Transfiguration in Bukidnon. Although a few months thereafter, I've forced myself to think that the happiness will not last in order to "remain sane". However, it worked against my purpose.

There must be a reason why the Heavens (okay, God) led me to where I am now. To amuse and entertain others with my crazy antics and my uncanny knack for corny jokes? To nurse people when they're not in tip-top shape? To be there for the one person I care much about during his "down" times? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I could only surmise but I shouldn't expect my reward immediately thereafter. Neither should I demand for it. Heaven knows what to do and I should have faith.

Love? Of course I should have that too. And DO, that, mind you. Without doubting, without asking why and what for. Without bartering for something in return.

It's a long way off my usual course of business but I guess it'll be worth all the sweat in the end. The learning process never stops and if I'd ever find myself falling from a cliff after, I shouldn't regret. Even falls feel good: the wind blowing through your hair, the velocity, nothingness around you. Falls do not go on forever. You hit the ground and you have a new life. Life begins for you again, one way or the other.

I wish he'd read this and feel my sincerity, my contrition. I've been self-destructive for so long and have always justified this by some lame excuse or another. It has got to stop. I have got to live meaningfully.

I'd laugh a lot more. Laughter is not only good for my heart but also for my abs. Since I'm thinner now (I remember that light post of a guy who had referred to me before as "chubby"), having sculpted abs should make me look tougher.

If the month ends with me in tears, fine. In laughter, better. No regrets still. Every step I have taken to get here has a meaning and a few gashes won't make me less of a person. The important thing is that I have taken those steps, and lived.

P.S.
Chang, please support my "positive" stance. Comment positively. Hahaha!

Ode: To the Barristers

So they went forward,in the direction of the sun
past the pillars, onto the uneven cobblestones;
and their hearts hum a low but hopeful chant
that within those great halls their dreams may truly come.

rebus sic stantibus

change
me
along
with your Time
so I
could move
along
with your world
that's now
different
from mine

(words
don't fit
anymore
nor the pacts
and promises
bestowed)

change
me
so I
could comprehend
the phases,
your doctrines,
the reasons
why.

For Georgia (A Repost)

This is my ode to Bukidnon. Somehow I feel comforted reading the lines again.

It’s a toss between Savannah and Manhattan. Who’d ever want to leave Savannah, with its plantations and idyllic country life? You wake up to the sound of the birds chirping at your window and to the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. The sun’s already up high at 7am. The cook’s knocking softly on your door and you know breakfast of eggs, toast, and hot chocolate is waiting. The cold water you used to despise when you were still little Michael Darling who had to be carted off to the tub by dear Nana becomes a favorite playmate to fend off the summer heat.

Never mind that the town is a bit farther than it once was – you don’t mind hitching for a ride nor do you mind getting behind the steering wheel this time. You’re all grown-up and you have your license to prove it. Never mind that life is slow-paced and people would raise their eyebrows if you step inside the bowling alley and gasp if you ordered a light beer at any of the grills. You know you have to live with their stares. Your girls will have to, themselves, when the time comes. Having your last name as it is denotes pros and cons, and it’s either you conform to the structure of your family’s history or dye your hair red and cackle with glee while playing pool. Oh your dad will curse you if you ever choose the latter – but you won’t, of course. You’re too boring. You suit your Savannah.

That’s why you love it so. The lake is minutes away from your country house. You like it there – the sun’s reflection on Nazuli’s face, the peaceful rippling of the water, the leaves floating along the edges, the rocky bottom, the trees that surround your secret place, the kids and the teenagers with gold hair and bright blue eyes who swim like merpeople. They’re so different from you and yet you both love the icy water splashing against your faces. You don’t know how to swim but that’s the last thing on your mind. Who cares if you dive in and never live to see the surface again? At least you’re within the tranquil fort you dream of owning someday.

Though your Savannah sun gives you practical leeway to get out and smile, it also turns against you at times, scorching your hair and drying out all your enthusiasm. Close proximity to Heaven does that to you. And just as the sun can harshly lap at your face and never tire from doing so for hours, the rain can also be unforgiving. You remember having been stuck at the state college one bleak summer afternoon. The rain had come pelting with such intensity that you feared the roof of the buildings would give in to the tremendous harassment. You know that there are times when the rain would break and hit the rocks and the roofs. Hale. Your neighbors tell you to be thankful for not having experienced being hit with icy drizzles on the head. They sting. You had thought they would, naturally, but being the curious, crazy kid your father always complains about, you always go outside and smile up at the clouds, hoping with all your might that Heaven would throw you even a tiny icy dot. It never did; you liked getting drenched in the rain, though.

You have so many fond memories of rain here. It had brought first love to you. It was a surreal day when you and your friend’s older brother found yourselves under the same umbrella. You had been 13 and he, 18. he had thought you were at least 17 and had been enraged when he found out you were practically a baby. It hadn't been easy detaching yourself from that chapter of your life. You felt the pain of the distance and the sheer difficulty of making hopes meet. You had to go away. Age had become just a trifle thing. Status had taken its place. Maybe, you think to yourself, things would work out someday. And maybe you, yourself, would make things work someday.

Rain also gave you and your cousins a moment of bonding and adventure. (Actually, it had been you, your two nieces, and the first cousin of one of your nieces but you called each other “cousins” anyway.) You had gone around the city in search of something nice to do: you had hung out at the pizzeria, the hotel, the high-end boutique, and even to the drugstore; still, you were bored. Rain had suddenly whipped your hats away. Your clip-on earrings had fallen into the muddy heap and had floated along the canal. Your summer outfit had stuck to your body and everything felt good. The four of you had laughed, skipped, danced along the street like loose, drunk women. You had had the time of your young lives. Rain always teases the soul of your Savannah.

And of how you had been teased not just by the rain but with the sweet words of men. It had always been a reciprocal fever: flirtation and naivety had chuckled and blushed between both of you. You and the flavor of your month. Or week. You had always been fond of playful talking, sometimes to the point of blatant seduction. But like your Savannah, you had gone home every night and had spent every moon on your bed – dreaming alone.

You want everyone to be enamored by your simplicity, subtle wit, and understated enthusiasm for all things wonderful without expecting a dangerous ride. You nurture them – their thoughts and their pains. You like it when they go home to you, their true north. And if they ask for more than what you give them, you shut them out.

Dusk turns your home into a quiet sanctuary of warmth. Laborers go home, tired but in high spirits still, just like how they had been yesterday and the day before. Farmers return home with sacks of corn and rice from the mill, with their horses, with their hearts. Late nights are for the restless and the debutantes. There are small bars and your neighbors’ houses for that. But for you and everyone else, nights begin with the discovery of home. Once you find it, it’s yours forever; but the magic of its discovery lives on, teasing you always as the sun sets behind the Blue Mountains at your backyard.

You had made your discovery here. Now, you watch as your tears melt with the rain, nourishing the grass under your feet. Naked, you are full of promise, seductive yet serene. Your smile will go to seek certainty. Your smile is wistful and knowing: you are about to live an adventure yet again in an altogether different place. Far from here, you will go to seek certainty. You will go up the steps of imposing buildings, flash your ID at the security guards and officials and walk among the crowds in the busy avenues, indifferent and anonymous. You will wake up thinking about the eggs you’d have to cook for breakfast and sleep, wondering if you still have eggs in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. Soon.

You smile and feel the wind caress your cheek. Manhattan has always been kind to you. It has given you much – even more than you had ever asked for. You love its notoriety, its vivacity, and its flair. But you are soft, so unlike the severe portrait you flash at others. You discriminate and hate; you throw your head back in laughter and gasp at surprises. You cry in silence.

You are the flat stone that boys send rippling across the water, the coffee bean that awakens the writer’s senses in the early morning. You bow your head in sadness and the forest takes you in her arms. You cherish promises and nurture friendships, you embrace memories and more memories, and you treasure your home. Try as it may, the rain can never dampen your spirit, nor can the sun ever burn your hands. You are Savannah. And this, this is home.

'til it happens to you

i know what i said was heat of moment.
there’s a little truth in between the words we spoke and it’s a little late now
to fix a heart that’s broken.
please don’t ask me where i’m going,
cause i don’t know, anymore.
it used to feel like heaven,
it used to feel like may.
i used to hear those violins playing heart strings like a symphony.
now they’re gone away.
nobody wants to face the truth,
but you won’t believe what love can do
till it happens to you.

till it happens to you.
went to the old flat
guess i was trying to turn the clock back,
but how comes that
nothing feels the same now
when i'm with you?
we used to stay up all night in the kitchen when our love was new.
am i a fool to believe in you?
cause i don’t know, no, i don’t know anymore.
it used to feel like heaven,
it used to feel like may.
i used to hear those violins playing heart strings like a symphony,
now they’re gone away.

nobody wants to face the truth until their heart’s broken.
don’t you dare tell them what you think to do,
till they get over. you can only learn these things from experience,
when you get older.

i just wish that someone would’ve told me.

-Corrinne Bailey Rae

lucky day

I'm containing the tears. Trying hard to. Dad's here. Can't cry. Don't wanna cry.

One tear fell. Then another. No more. My hands are shaking as I held my phone. As I touch my face. As I write these lines. My friend is not here. I texted three. Two replied from the same number. I am not alone.

You have to be valued... you have to value yourself as well."

The lines make sense but I cannot hold it in my hand. If I could only go inside a mirror and stay inside for all time: a reflection of the eyes that stopped existing.

My intuition is flashing a warning sign; I am aware of the worst possibilities. But I'm helpless. I'm strong, but I'm helpless. If I could only let my tears flow, I'll be strong again, but a knock from my dad would cost me a lot. Pride, you might say. I don't want him to see me this weak. I've never cried in front of my dad. I've been angry in his presence, and often the anger was directed at him. But I haven't ever cried in front of papa.

Now, I am tempted to knock at his door and break down. But I won't. I want to, but I won't. I can't.

I want to go away. Walk. Get lost somewhere. Go to an isolated place. Or a crowded place. Where no one could hear my heart drown in its own addiction. Happiness. Misery.

Masochist.

7-7-7. 7/7/7. 777. Lucky numbers. Lucky day. Maybe for the rest of the people in the world.

Swallow me whole just so I can stop thinking. And feeling. And writing. Turn me into a lyric poem, with my personal tragedies and pains. And my luck. Such luck.

I've done my part well, I said to the Heavens on my way home. When will You ever do yours for me? I still exist. I'm also Your child.

Insurance cases. Torts. I'm damaged and unproductive.

Tried my best to be happy during his silence and coldness. To be patient. Understanding. Told my dad to stop being so cynical and self-righteous. That pessimism is bad. But as my spirit is crumbling down, I can't help but wish I were like that too. It's true. Idealism smashes your faith in the end, so much that you don't have to sit in the curb and wait for a car to ram against you. To crash into you.

I made patience my virtue but for whatever my efforts were worth, they obviously were wasted.

And so I wait for my niece, my 16 year-old niece, who's as childish and as unfeeling as can be, to come home. I'm hoping her presence can give me comfort somehow. Or that maybe she can make me forget my tears. Momentarily.

Maybe later, when all the lights are out, I'll let myself cry.

and I quote

I'm not special: of this I'm sure. I'm a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me, and my name will soon be forgotten, but I have loved someone with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.

-Nicholas Sparks

Crash into Me: Of Fear, Of Faith

Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.

I have always feared that possibility. The fear actually replaced my prior one of getting pregnant at the age of 16, being thrown out of the house by my father, and having the sperm-donor forsake me as he learns about my pregnancy. I made sure that didn't happen. And it did not. (I'm now 22.)

Then comes the new one. Compared to the unscheduled pregnancy fear, this one is much harder (and takes longer) to avoid. Whereas, then, I was just focused on getting past my 16th year here in this vice-filled earth with a flat tummy and a pristine womb, my new fear is more likely to linger until God knows when - either until the family I have successfully established with the person I had vowed to love for the rest of my life crumbles and falls apart (proving me right in my pessimism) or until I breathe my last, leaving my entire family mourning for my demise. Now in the second scenario, I would be proven wrong: my fear would cease to exist since I can be sure that the broken family curse didn't stay on with me. But more importantly, I would also cease to exist alongside that fear.

I can never be certain about where the roads will take me. Sure, I may know where I want to go, where I'd like to end up and with whom but the Skies may not share my dreams and preferences. It may rain on the day I scheduled a trip to the mountains. A car may hurtle from across the street and crash into me as I walk to school one fine day, erasing all my plans.

When I was younger, I tend to dream about all sorts of beautiful things and believe I can actually have them in, say, 5 years. Time passes by quickly and... my dreams remained as they were. That also means I never let them fade away. Yes, still I dream of being happy and stable someday, sans the tiara and the Beauty/Belle yellow ball gown: me, happy and secure with a good family which will never be broken by worldly factors.

It's strange that when I'm in my world, I tend to be more confident about the future. I get to have the strength and the hopeful disposition of 10 Sara Crewes; I know for certain I will be in the top spot in the near future. I believe that my dreams can and actually will materialize before me anytime soon.

Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.

But when the line comes out of another's lips, I'm left speechless. My courage leaves me; my dreams crumble. I fall.

It was not my fault that circumstances drove my mother away from me. I didn't assign myself to be brought under the care of yayas for about 78% of my life. I didn't wish for my father and mother not to marry each other and raise me as a normal child in a 'complete' family. It wasn't my choice to make and I shouldn't automatically have that fate, too, all because of the decisions my ascendants made during their time (or what the Skies made for them, whichever is more apt). Whatever happened to due process?

A preacher then told me to have Faith. Faith. It's such a small word for something so difficult to cough up. Why will I trust in something I couldn't see? How can I believe that things will fall squarely into their places when others' lives are such a mess? Does God play favorites? People tell me God will surely be good to me but how can they even say that? How can people know that they qualified for a happily-ever-after trophy?

Faith. The word ricochets all over my consciousness. I've prayed for it over and over again. I've willed myself to succumb to the Skies and its Map. Faith's wall had taken me quite some time to build, only for it to crumble and turn into sand by that same preacher's demeaning swipe.


Now, I long to sit on the pavement and wait for a car or anything heavy and deadly to crash into me. Maybe then, Faith will be there when - if - I open my eyes.

Labyrinth

This is the point
where you close your eyes
and let the brown walls seep through,
calming your nerves.

Open your ears to the constant strums
rhythmically filling
the tiny cocoon
as the aroma of freshly roasted beans
wafts through.

No one says anything -
the words all but soothes
the silent lips:
this is the place
where you ought to be mute
in order to feel.

Beyond the glass panes,
the crowd bustles about
excitedly, doggedly,
routinely taking their paths.

You,
in your cocoon,
you hear not the ticking
of the clock.
Time is merely Time;
you do not grow old.

You are not trapped -
any moment, you'd have to step out
and join the moon
as it changes its orb,
inevitably.

For now, it is a comfort to remain,
benign and serene,
in your earthly abode,
away from the strife
of motions, of noise.

Within the world,
yet apart from it.

A Wanderer's Morning

The Sun's rays has never awakened me more. New days always begin with a question of your existence: who are you, and who are you going to be today? But on this particular day, it was 'why'?

There's nothing special about either the question or the way sunshine streams through the white lace curtains hanging by the east windows. That has always been the occurrence on sunny summer mornings. But the question itself on this summer morning led my eyes to the ceiling in a prayer. I have always tried to understand the world by bending into its palms without any further thought or resistance, voicelessly floating amid its reasonings.

Why?

The ceiling doesn't answer and I fade into a trance, mesmerized by the faint lines of cobwebs that face me. It is true then - Time exists even for non-believers. The Clouds fade into the Sky without any warning or any modicum of sound. Men fall and turn into worms that search for more life. And we, the drifters, do not feel all these happening. We float away in time for another tryst with the insignificant unknown.

Morning. Mourning. The thoughts confound me like the silence which only an overcrowded beach can give - populated but most private. I am naked but clothed enough so as not to shame myself. It is blasphemous to reveal Weaknesses but more blasphemous to reveal Truths.

Why?

I get up and fix myself a cup of coffee. Black, bitter, but still with a hint of sweetness even without a pinch of sugar. A new day is before me, a continuation of life. Another chance to be spent walking, dreaming, and just feeling the Earth beneath my bare feet. There is nothing to rectify nor retrace: there shouldn't ever be. The air is there for you to breathe. It cannot hear your confessions; it cannot disparage your guilt.

Why.

And the word hangs on.

The Happy Pill

We look far and wide for that laugh, that warm moment. We scavenge so much that we forget to stop and just survey our surroundings at that precise moment. Happiness happens every minute, everywhere. It is that vision in the eyes of a child, that bundle of joy in every mother's arms.

Happiness is that pink marshmallow that's left of your rocky road scoop, that tiny (seemingly) insignificant detail that sweetly melts in your mouth. Happiness is that sixpence in the pudgy boy's pocket, which he cheerfully gives to a little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar on a cold Christmas day.

It is bobbing for apples and carving pumpkins for the second-grade twins. It is thanksgiving, roast turkey, and the apple pudding grandmama always brings. It is that first time ever to sit on Santa's knees and ask for a bicycle, a doll, or a new baby brother.

Happiness is that quiet smile that wakes you up in the morning, the same smile that tucks you in at night. It is your Winnie the Pooh fleece blanket, your room, your comfort zone. Happiness is the night and its jewels that shines above you. It is the Makati skyline, the hidden lake with the tire swing.

It is that little feather that floats in the breeze but has the effects of a butterfly's wings. Happiness is that light feeling you carry with you as you go to work. It fills you up and gives you that bounce in your stride. Vitamin E could never make your face glow as much.

Happiness is that natural high. So don't look so far. Happiness is just around the corner. In fact, it lives there, there within your heart.

picking up the brush again

Walls shouldn't be left naked
or the cracks will show.
And when men turn into angry boxers,
there'll be nothing to hide
the cuts with.
Though weak, foundations
should appear sturdy,
vibrant, constant.
It shouldn't age,
it shouldn't move,
it shouldn't be damaged at all.
Paint does that:
it hides the age,
the imperfections,
the inconsistencies.

The painting had stopped
for a moment
and the artist's eyes
were led to believe in permanence
and rosy intricacies.
But men always turn into
fickle boxers,
who crash into the walls
and through the dreams that cover them.
Soon,
the walls are blank,
they're naked and weak
once again.



The Painter is back;
go find your walls.
She needs you to cover her in dark hues
to mask her stained, bruised face.