Help me.

Help me lock away my heart. Hide the key. Don't give it back to me until I am up there, until my name is secure.

Remind me to close my tear ducts. Tell me whenever I need to hear it that tears are for sissies and that I am no sissy. I am that wall, that indifferent bitch you'd be afraid to mess around with.

Look me in the eyes and tell me all you see are my lenses. Touch my hand and remind me not to touch you or anyone else back. Touch me and feel my coldness. I am depositing all my warmth in a safety deposit box and giving it to you for safe-keeping. Keep it until it is well for me to have it back. Touch me then go.

Help me to not feel, to not care. I need to be numb; I need to forget the breeze for now. I need to close my eyes and lie.

...next to the mausoleum...

Help me play dead. I need to be... *lowers my eyes*

Help me.

Jamming it all up

Got only one life to live. Hence, I'll do as much as I can during its duration.
Not do things indiscriminately, no. I'm much more classy than that. Do what I want. When I want. How. Why - and the answer to this is gonna be "because".

Of course, it's still going to be little ol' goody two shoes: me. Only with more spunk.

Jogger

Ahh...

It feels good, just running without stopping. The breeze runs along with you and you hear the crunch-crunching of dried leaves and the snapping of twigs under your soles.

Your thoughts constantly flicker towards other images, other memories: those lines from a song you heard about 4 times before you left your house, images of someone laughing, of someone's back, the "high", the feel of...

And you run again. Ahh...

It feels good to be back.

(And you make it a point to always come back. The feeling is so wonderful that it makes sabbaticals worthwhile.)

What?

I can sing?

I think so, too! haha

I say

no more to masochistic adventures and "end-less" roads.

no more to hot, senseless pursuits, to one-sided devotions.

I am no saint. But I also don't want to be the losing sinner.

I was at home in that insane whirlwind but got scared of being spewed out a little too early.

to stay means to subject myself to whiplash.

to leave means I'd only have might-have-beens to look back at.

but there will never be might-have-beens, cause there never was.

"Whatta laugh." But I'm not laughing.

I wasn't supposed to think about this, but I am. I am drawing castles in the air.

the breeze chills me. And it reminds me of a faint perfume. Not mine. Never mine.

"Walk away?"

I wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. My own feet just thought wrong. Even my instincts failed me. My heart? Leave my heart out of this.

there isn't anything here for me to wait for. Not even hope for.

you have never been here with me.

your home was elsewhere, but I had the gall to think otherwise.

what I think must be said, but think otherwise.

"I know", but I don't really want to listen to words that would further crush my pride.

I could have been. I could be. But, no. My chances are frugal. Possibilities though endless, remain in my head.

you think this line of thought is inappropriate. I think it is only fitting.

"Walk away."



I say, I will.

---- And I will.

Assumptions are the mother of all fuck ups.

Rant time, everyone.

1. Sucked in class today. So what else is new?

2. Was all set to go to this drinking thing. But my pals had to cancel since they have a previous engagement. Gah. I didn't want to go by myself. So I went home instead.

3. Was all set to go to this fun thing tomorrow but someone else made plans for me. Understandable. But I really wanted to go... :(

4. Got really hungry while driving home but then when I asked my yaya what's for dinner, she said she didn't cook since she assumed I was eating out since I had no class tomorrow. Gah. Sure. I will never tell her again that we wouldn't have classes the following day.

5. I'm blogging. I'm hungry. I don't want to go out and eat since I don't like eating out alone. Also, I don't want to have to open the gate myself and parking my car again later since my yaya would probably be sleeping in a matter of minutes. Yes, I've thought about having food delivered but then... I'm too pissed to eat now.

6. Someone came up to me earlier and asked if this person and I are now "officially together". I stared at her. I never thought that, at this point (a year has come and gone), "we" still wouldn't be "officially together". What was up with the question? Then I remembered. The person who asked is the "official" girl of a sibling of the person she was asking me about. Does this mean that for the siblings, the person she was referring to and I are still not "officially together"? Good Lord. I am unofficial.

7. *Read the title of this entry.*

8. *Read the title of this entry again and think of other possible reasons why I'm stressing on it.*

9. It has always been a bad, bad idea.

10. I'm all sober now and can see everything. I hope I won't get intoxicated again so as to not be up in Cloud 9 once more.

11. Sigh.

Hate mode. ON.

Hearts' Day

Off to the flower district yet again to do some favors for people. Lovette (dry laugh).

I went there with three friends before and got so intense in finding the perfect bunch of liliums for a friend's girl that I forgot myself and asked the flowersellers there (the men) to help me find the foliage for my liliums. "Foliage". In the flower market. Smart. Sometimes I get so into it I forget to use the vernacular.

We made several trips to the flower market that week and then returned a few weeks thereafter for "special requests": anniversary, birthday, make-up-flowers, what-have-yous. I was all for the trip with my friends, who just followed me around as I haggled and wheedled my way into the Princess Irene tulip freezer. I liked visiting each and every supplier and comparing the wraps and ribbons. I'm all for unconventional arrangements: mixing goldenrod tulips with dark red berries, in lieu of grass (although no one has consented to that idea yet).

I've done orange Royal lilies with pink gerbera daisies, dark pink snapdragons, and lemon leaves. The requests involve the usual blooms: roses, a few tulips, mums. Twice, liliums were requested, but usually, people stick to roses, which is the Hearts' Day staple. I have yet to encounter someone who knows and would ask for Japanese irises with reticulatas. And when someone requests roses with flat ferns, I'd shake my head and make them see reason.

For one friend's bouquet, I had three liliums with carnations and accented the bouquet with Silver Dollar eucalyptus. They say eucalyptus has an aromatherapeutic effect. I wouldn't know. I've only held the bouquet for an hour or so, while holding other bouquets as well in the backseat.

The flower market also has the usual ferns and baby's breath available. Surprisingly, I saw some Japonicas once. But they don't have Magnolia Leaves, which I really like because although they, at first, look like the normal big green leaves, a day or two thereafter, they turn into this beautiful golden orange color, which reminds you of autumn, my favorite season. It would be nice to get a bouquet yellow or peach roses or tulips accented with gold-tipped pink carnations and Magnolia Leaves. (Would it be too pathetic to send one's self an anonymous bouquet of that sort?)

There was this other time when a friend of a friend needed to surprise his girl. This friend of a friend was in the province so he needed someone in the metropolis (where his girl was at that time) to find some nice mums and make his girl a sweet note, nevermind the fact that he wouldn't be able to sign his name on the note itself. Hey, the bouquet was pretty refreshing. And the note (fine, the poem) was smartly done, if I could say so myself. Twas worth the damned trip. I only wish I could have mixed yellow roses and white lilies, as well as wisteria (which is rarely available in the flower market) or Holly's ferns with those reddish-orange Italian mums. But, of course, there's the friend of a friend's budget to be respected. *sigh*

There was also a similar instance when a boyfriend of a good friend called me to ask if I could get his girlfriend, who was my thesis partner at that time, an ordinary bouquet of a dozen pink and red roses and a breakfast treat. Incidentally, the guy was in the States so he couldn't buy the items himself. And the girl was working at a call center (while we were still in college). Her "coffeebreak" was at 7:00 to 7:30am. I was a late sleeper and, thus, I tend to wake up really late, too.

Cursing time and friendship to oblivion (but not really meaning every word since I was pretty hyped about the surprise factor - I love sweet gestures and thoughtfulness), I woke up at 4:00am and headed to the flower market an hour thereafter, got a bunch of roses, arranged them and grabbed a bunch of balloons (cheesy, I know). I went to Starbucks (sorry! I was rushing and I didn't want to buy McDonald's stuff!), grabbed a non-fat extra hot Caramel Macchiatto, a whole wheat sandwich (I couldn't remember exactly what was in it), and a slice of cake. I rushed to Ortigas, smiled at the guard, ran into the building, went up to the 34th floor, to her desk, and gave my friend a big, big smile while holding her boyfriend's treats. She was so happy.

But, of course, there were times when I would just order something from the flower shop. I gave someone's aunt Hydrangea plants (yes, complete with the pot and the soil) once. She loved them so I guess potted plants, which you just grab from the flower shop, work, as well.

So it doesn't matter if you'd have to wake up early or if you have to brave the traffic on the way to the flower market and get lost while delivering those cheesy bouquets. It doesn't matter if you just buy and prepare the flowers (as opposed to receiving them for the most part). When you see the reaction of the girls, their wide-eyed smiles, and when you hear their squeals of delight (as well as the oohs and aahs of the people around them when they get their gifts), you'd also be happy in spite of yourself. You'd realize that even if the world is filled with hate and anger and poverty, there'd still be that one day in the year (at least one day, for that matter) when most people will strive to be thoughtful and sweet for that one special person. On that one special day. And you're happy since they're happy. On that one special day.

Well, at least you're supposed to be happy in spite of yourself. And, yeah, at least it's not supposed to matter. Supposedly. But it does, doesn't it? And you ask yourself, "Wait a minute. Why do I have to be the flower arranger?"

But you only get a big smile from the girl holding the big bouquet of flowers. Your flowers (or at least they were yours while you were still arranging them in time for delivery.)

A Valentine Note to (place your name here)

I'd been staring at this screen for about 5 minutes before I could even begin to type this first sentence. It's not because I have absolutely nothing to say to you but because I don't know just where to begin. Like the motormouth that I am, I have a lot to say - stories to tell you (the chorale is working on an interesting piece and although we have yet to finish it, it has, I must say, come out rather well. I can't wait for the whole song to be finished), rantings to unearth and force out of myself just so I can hear your soothing words, questions to bug you about (do you...? did you...? why is the sky blue?), and truths to confess.

This note, or this blog rather, is too small a space to write down everything I want and need to say to you but I'd try. Frankly, I know I never would nor COULD, even if I wanted to, say everything I want and need to say outright. Social norms prevent me from doing such. Thus, here I am, resorting to explanations on why I couldn't type things as quickly and bluntly as I could. Here I am, resorting to tales and childish questions.

But this is all I could ever do.

It's going to be Valentine's soon enough, and although I don't really celebrate the occasion (I'd smirk and say with a patronizing tone, "Who does?!?" but of course, deep down, I'd also love to receive some flowers and girly whatnots, which never ever come, by the way), I'd take a big step forward and type embarrassing things in this "note". No, I don't have alcohol and circumstance to blame this on right now. I only have myself to claim all the credit for this stupid move. Consider this one of the dumbest moves I'm ever going to make.

Still, I don't know how to begin.

*takes a deep breath*

*prays for guidance*

*bites lower lip and curses her need to confess*

*imagines herself looking into (place your name here)'s eyes*

Crap.


Then again, scrap Valentine's, big leaps, and dumb moves. I'm keeping my pride. Or at least, what's left of it.

cantante

I've been singing the whole day. Thus, my diaphragm is now begging for a reprieve from the high notes and cheesy lines. I've been singing so much that the words just come out automatically and my brain doesn't really register their meanings anymore. So while I take my break and let the others belt their intestines out, I step back and appraise the songs which are randomly popping into my brain right now as well as those songs which I had listened to and sung (or hummed) for the day.

Most songs tell the same, or at least similar, stories: love, love lost, love, and love lost again. Or sex. Sex with someone you love, sex with someone you're not sure you love, sex with someone who loves you, sex with someone you don't know. Mild sex, rough sex. Watching someone else have sex with someone else, promising to be the best sex partner another has ever had, promising to never have sex again. Promises, yes there are songs about them. Wedding promises, filial promises, broken promises. Promises in all colors.

Then there's death. Death of a loved one, death of the flowers you planted in your neighbors' backyard, death of a relationship, which then brings us back to the love song yet again.

But there are also songs about fights - between and among friends, families, lovers - and, of course, fights with one's conscience. Drugs and booze also make up a big chunk of song topics. Some songs recommend them, others put vices up on a pedestal and declare that they're the best "escape" one could ever have, or the best "friend" one could ever get, up until they crash their cars and enter the Golden Gates. Some songs say they're the bane of the world's existence and that kids should never use them. These songs are referred to by many as "preachy" songs. I wonder why.

Some songs are about bitterness and others are about finding something wonderful and amazing at the end of a rainbow. Ultimately, we are led back into love songs. Bitterness is an offshoot of love (lost). The discovery of something wonderful is often about love. So, love is often the deadend of most songs.

And even if the theme goes on, over and over: a repeated litany of feelings and all supposedly uncanny emotions, these songs still sell.

I wonder, if we write songs about other things, not the aforementioned topics, would the singles still sell?

Right.

I'm having the time of my life here - in a way. It's just right. :)

I suck.

Not literally, no.