Seven past two

Probably, this is the last time that I am gonna think of her and of the every moments we shared together. It’s been two hours and six minutes since her birthday and I am still re-assembling the contents of a report to my manager. I wished her a happy birthday, as a result of my to-do-or-not-to-do askings from my two helpful co-workers.  I was not hoping for a reply, but I guessed I was half-wishing that she will.  But she didin’t.  It’s now seven past two and I would really like to sleep this off. 

Then again, I don’t know why it still hurts.

A continuance (but still unfinished)

I have had enough of office readings for a quite a long stretch of time that I ended up not updating this thing.  There were a lot of things that happened: I became affectionately attached to another girl; I was promoted to seniority after two years of gawdammert stay; the girl I am talking all this time has abandoned the office and left to whereineverknow; and, lastly, the girl I was affectionately attached with left me behind, through an electronically, unbelievably and atrociously unspeakable wordlessness of a text message.  Awful.  The days that passed were like the waves of the Atlantic amidst a hurricane: cold and full of ups and downs.  I have not recovered yet.  That is awful.  Today i wonder why hope has to come along singlehandedly just to make way for a heartbreak that comes in pairs.

October 27th of 2009

Summer of “(500) Days” is incomparable with the lady beside me.

Red

This is an excerpt from an unfinished creation started right before February 14, 2009. 

Ayaw kong magbigay ng red roses.  Naisip ko hindi naman iyon kailangang-kailangan lalo na’t wala pang “tayo” at wala pang gumagawa ng paraan upang maging “tayo.”  Naisip ko baka kasi ‘di mo ‘yon magustuhan at lalo ka lamang matauhan na hindi ako bagay sa ‘yo.  Pero gusto kita at ‘di ko lubos maisip kung bakit patuloy ako sa pagkakagago sa paghihintay sa takdang panahon na maibahagi ko sa ‘yo kung gaano na kalaki ang sukat na kinuha mo sa puso ko. 

 

Ayoko’ng magbigay ng red roses.  Ang alam ko ‘pag nagbigay ako non, pinipilit ko lamang ang sarili ko na makihalubilo sa overcrowded na daigdig ng mga may kairog sa araw na iyon.  Kung hindi pa ngayon ang panahon para bigyan kita ng panahon para bigyan ng red roses wala na akong magagawa doon.  May iba pa namang paraan para maipakita ko sa iyo ang kung ano man ang dapat mong makita mula sa akin.  Kaya nga ako nagsusulat dito para isipin mo na kahit wala kang red na matanggap sa araw na iyon, maiisip mo na pinagpuyatan ko ‘to at ito ang naging dahilan para mamula naman ang puti ng mga mata ko ng matapos ko ang entry na ‘to (which hindi nga), despite sa tambak na deadline natin sa SGV.

Midnight Love Shift

Midnight

It is three minutes to midnight when I came closer to reality.  I’ve been contemplating about the consequences of being closer to reality before but many times I, like turning down a win-win grocery offer, put myself away from it, hoping that things would still work and things will also come closer to reality. 

But things turn to some things as those three minutes slip away.  Before you knew it, you are left with nothing – and with no time.  As midnight ticks to life, choices become apparent.  Waiting versus now.  To love or be loved.  Your love to her or her love to you.  Which good outweighs the other good?  The good that brings rain or the good that rains?  Midnight parts the day and night.  The night fades now.  The day rises.  Forget the past, welcome the present.  It’s for us to know what the future holds.

Love

Oh.  This is overly banal.  What you think, guys?  Better not discuss it.

Shift

Sometimes there are things in life you ought not to find.  Reasons: one, it’s hidden (very well hidden that is); two, it’s not there (not anywhere, not nowhere – inexistent); and lastly, it’s someone else’s (and he has kept it very well hidden).  For these reasons, or for one of these reasons, it is very much human to look for some other things definite or search for some things that’s there but we are still yet to know (or sneering in-your-face at us and we still not know it).  We are creating feelings that soon in our earnest wishes will become true, that soon everything will change for our benefit. 

True.  Change.  It changes everything.  It is inevitable.  Change, even, changes changes.  (Now I like that.)  We grow calluses in our work.  Our eyes will turn blur as we age.  We bring the house down (literally) when we’re mad.  It is change that we change – minds.

El Dorado

I remember a dream in my childhood

There was a captain of a fleet of ship

A voyage towards chests of fame and gold

To grip tighter to a shaken kingship

In the way he made himself a believer

As the sunset sunk deeper behind him

Right is where the wheel is to maneuver

Although the end is like the devil’s grim

Poked in the head he woke up as a start

And realized that his kingship was thrown

Now a captain left with a struggling heart

Paddled in the dark, weary and alone

A dying light at hand, a heart that hopes

Facing sunsets was the last thing in mind

Finding the end of the line, the boat gropes

A hoping heart may stray, but ‘tis ne’er blind

Lady, will you be waiting at the end

And muster for me the courage to fend?

Between the Lines

It started on our firm’s anniversary night and it seemed to end at the end of this one.  This is a document to tell the tale of what happened between the ends of the line.

The first night she was stunning, with her yellow and black dress wrapped like nothing around her body.  Her eyes were bright hazelnuts as she stared at the camera before them.  Her hair wasn’t red.  They were colored dull brown - shimmering in the bright lights.  She left me breathless.  She was gone for the night.  I smoked the first and the last (I hope so) sticks of menthol cigarette of my life.  I drowned in the cold and bitter bubbles of kegful of beer.  I tripped my way home with two companions.  I was not thinking of her.  I never knew I will be thinking of her.

          A lot of days passed.  I was still not thinking of her: of her loveliness, of her fine beauty, of her grace, of her eyes, of her everything.  These were the days when I put a lot of savings on finding my way back to the boondocks and cherish the long-days-of-work-is-over sweetness.  I was still not looking and longing for her.  I do not know exactly when the time when I began to miss one thing.  I was pre-occupied with the thought of having to spend a little time with my family again that I missed what I never thought was worth missing.  She was out of my mind when I was going back to the city’s lights.  My heart was beating for no love, save for the life, family and Him. 

          I went down to the bus stop that started to take the daily dreamers to good life at about seven.  My mind was sleepy and my heart was normal.  That was a normal scenario.  The first three buses took some about two hundred people that came before me.  I followed the suit of the last person who filled the end of the longest line that I ever experienced in my first year of working.  Someone stopped behind me; then somebody took the end of the line behind that someone behind me until the end reached the corner of España and Padre Noval, right in front of that photocopying house that I know exist not.  The line moved as the fourth bus took some fifty persons away.  I’m I guessed the thirty-fourth person in the line and the next bus that will come will have me at last.  The fourth bus became out of sight as it rounded the corner and headed south.  That was the time I was wondering what had me last night.  I was recollecting my thoughts about a certain dream of which none of the feeblest wisp of her silhouette crossed.  Dropping the unremembered dream, I trailed the tiny woman in front of me towards the fifth bus.  It took about only three people after me.  Thanking, I sat on an empty three-seater with my mind vacant except for the yearning to sleep for at least three-quarter of an hour.  Two ladies filled in and we were good to go.  As the fifth bus started to move away, I was drooling into the deep swirling nothingness of a short sleep. 

          The trip was at least ten minutes before it reached an hour, but it felt like three minutes or something.  My mind awoke regretting to the boisterous reality of the eight-hour Makati.  I feel nausea hitting my way but did not come.  But the pain of lack of numerous amount of sleep and the clear truth of not getting some in the next few months are like bullets in the ass that will come through your mouth eventually.  But the ugly truth was still no her in mind.

          I walked down Makati Avenue and short-routed through the parking area of a building that until now I still don’t know the name (or was it Makati Stock Exchange?).  Knees wobbling like a Nick character, I pushed my way across Ayala Avenue, put my ID on and strutted (or walked head drop) to meet the Manong Guards.  Usual stuffs were processed for the diminishing streamline of people presenting their laptops.  Here’s the real deal: for people having classical laptops, owners tend to pull a corner of their thing on subtly and show the identifying number; however, for people having their freshly out of the manufacturing laptops, they seemed to brandish it like a discus.  Moaning comes afterwards, saying “what a laptop!” and swearing, “I wish it did slip off!” 

          I am on the latter side.

          Obviously, I didn’t know how to recall the way how I have begun to wish for that girl after that night.  All I know that there was one time in the shuffling mood of the office inhabitants I notice her and there it started, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, like the first drop of sunray on my face. 

Fast forward:

She has a boyfriend.  I saw them, holding hands as they swaggered their affections on a street side of the city.  I don’t know what I felt that time.  I just felt that the future memories that we would create started falling away.  My heartbeat has gone lazy and flat lined.  I felt flitting at random in a sort of a vacuous lonely world.

Before that, I said “Hi!”  I leaned to the possibility that she would hi back.  She didn’t.  That left with a million possibilities that would rather result in to a trillionth of possibilities that my mind has to think of yet.  Days passed and there was nothing else left waiting for.  But as a song goes, “I hope she takes her time ‘cause I don’t waiting on a woman.”

Now, I really want the singer dead.  It took a lot of time, you know, waiting on a woman that didn’t exactly make an intention to get back.  It’s like billowing a balloon to its limits but didn’t burst and you’re left with no air that you wish you just die. 

Yet, thinking of the situation in a quite mature manner, like the behavior of a tweener in the body of a nineteen, I didn’t give off the impression to be answered back.  What’s a “Hi!” from a stranger to a stranger?  It’s empty.  It results to empty results because it begins with empty beginnings.  It’s like trying to seduce an ant with a pinch of salt.  The ant won’t bite, not because it has no teeth (it has pincers, you know) but because it is not seducing. 

A month I think before the fast forward:

She’s looking back in secrets.  I saw her as I secretly stalked her with a pair of dreamy, stalking eyes in the office.  I felt elated.  That is answering back.  Her eyes were like saying, “Geroff!” though.  But I don’t mind.  I didn’t ask her to look back and she just made it.  So, that would make me rather victorious like Severus Snape (The Half-blood Prince, Chapter .  After a day, the whole gang that she was in was now working afar, like some ten tables far from where our table stands in.  I guessed that was because she suggested it.  And, oh, by the way, before that, they were working in every empty cubicle that their eyes lay on.  So, that will not make it “after a day.”  To be safe, please read the fourth sentence before this as this: After some days….

This will be updated if words ended in my head as a result of a few office readings.  (This is not the end of the story so the loving is ending yet.)

It Will Arrive Like a Holdup Man

The night of Thursday of the midmonth of July 2008 at the twentieth hour came a thief that stole the possessions of the non-expecting, leaving them of nothing but raw slashes on their uncovered skin by a rusty knife.

This is not metaphorical. This is real.

That night was a revelation of how imbalanced the world has been and the contradictions that resulted from it. That night there were lucky and there were not. There were unfed and well-possessed. There were the silent and the courageous. That night I realized that material things don’t matter when life itself is the payment. But somehow, there were persons that night who would risk something more valuable, as life, for fake riches that cannot be brought to heaven or hell. That night there were people who gripped the easy handles of knives to get through the struggles of the whispering hunger. That night was the night of all lessons. That night was learning. That night was an experience you can selflessly trade off, but you rather keep it for some reasons you still don’t know. That night I thought of all the persons I love.

A question interrupted me: What if I died that night because I’ve given more importance to keep that iPod rather than paid attention to that man’s pointed, impaling thing. I’m sure it’s not worth the risk. But, somehow I managed to get through it. I say that was because of a seemingly divine help. What I care about now wass that how the thief could get through the night, and the rest of his life regretting a hideous act. I guessed that was not my problem anymore.

11:48 pm

July 17, 2008

The Wind Through the Open Door: A Will to a Friend

This is not this time.

This is long time gone.

This time he’s had enough of his world

He was searching for the truth in his actions

He was contemplating it’s again his fault

That he was right again all along

Like it did before, like it will do tomorrow

But the answer came as water to fire

It seethed only anger that made him decide

“I’ve had enough of his world.”

This time he will be crying

Like he did before

Like he never did imagine his life

For he cared only for loving the world

And receiving some loving back

He did not know the hurt that was breaking him

That he bleeds when he’d say you’re not bleeding

You feel nothing at all

Tonight, he will moved out into the open

Like a wind through the open door

Leaving into the vastness of the random world

Starting back like the steps of the unborn

After a second to forever, that door will be still

Inviting for some gale or a breeze

Or it will be closed, like he passed through it

The walls reverberate his country songs

He seals this with the mark of his death

And until he finds nothing more than himself

He will come alive and haunt him

And he will laugh

It’s time for him to laugh

He had always cried from that day on

He never seemed to notice

But he cried from that day on

9/17/08

11:55 pm

Not Letting Go of This Holding On; Holding On to This Letting Go

Here Comes Goodbye

Do you hear me, talking to you?

Across the sea of all the faces that try to part us,

Saying things unexplained, unconfirmed, unproven.

Do you see me, looking at you?

You don’t even stare now, although I know that you feel me present.

What’s wrong with the idea of loving you?

We being together?

Do you believe them, and their hearsays?

Don’t you believe on the things you yourself feel?

Because right now, I don’t understand this beating heart.

I tried to be far from you.

I succeeded.

That’s when you’re not near, when I can’t see you personally.

But, when at times that I see you, it all goes back, like hero to zero, from a single point to full circle.

But I haven’t had the heart to say things to you.

I just can’t pluck the courage.

Can you pluck the courage for me?

Of course, that will be inappropriate.

But one thing, I’ll never forget you, and the way you make me love like this.

It felt good.

It felt bad.

I’m hurt.

Can you picture me now, my heart is bleeding.

The loving dagger is pressing deeper through my heart than I have ever imagined.

I just don’t want to see you, so I can go on not missing you.

But you know I can’t do that.

But you’re letting me do that.

You’re trying to make me let go of loving you.

You are nearing to success.

I’m barely hanging on.

But I am HANGING ON.

“If it’s a broken part, replace it.

If it’s a broken arm, then brace it.

If it’s a broken heart, then face it.”

-Jason Mraz

 Details in the Fabric

 We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things

For the sake of the day (no minute wasted)

Here is a poem I wrote some 366 days ago. 

9:47, she’s giggling as she sits by the table

At last, this day will not be wasted

9:48, she stares at those forcely enamored eyes

He is counting his number ten in his list

9:49, they were stepping on each other’s feet

Trying to give their make-out song a groove

Like drunk bees,

Zooming in and out the circle of lights

In search for honeys

As 9:54 ticks, I envy the pretense

The next three minutes they are drinking cognac

A French toast to a no-French affair

My girl intoxicated of the poison

Turned to roses within the minute

9:59 her vision blurs, his vision sterns

At the twenty-second hour, they were gone

His mind scribbled the invisible ten again

At a handsome square, where the red stars twinkle

The dead night whispers to life

Hearts beat, hearts flat-line

Like they were climbing up and down

Some extreme beautiful feelings

In the passing of the quick moments

My eyes darken with newfound hate

Sweat beads, and at the peak of 10:07

Freedom roars like a sated lion

Eyes thinning yet for meat again

The night rolled, I roll with the waves of my dreams

They roll as they were in a dream-like state

The night rolled over again

Them, praying it not to end

I, praying for the day to knock now

For when the hands of the night reached the middle

This madness ends

Mine and their madness

This day is a year away

Breathe In, Breathe Out with Death and Paranoia and All Their Friends

07 Viva La Vida

There’s a time interval in breathing: exhaling and inhaling.  You can not do it at the same time, do you?  In between those acts, not everyone would expect, you die.  For a millionth of a second you lose your life and have it back up again.  Like a phoenix that will rise from the ashes, you have a second to live life better after your death, for the next second you will die, and back again.  That is to say you have to make every second of your life sounder. 

A revelation came to me last night, before I called my earthly-strewn eyes to sleeping.  All of us die.  We never know when it will come to sneer, or smile, at us.  All I know was that it’s a painful thing to see and to experience. 

As a precocious child, I’ve always wished for me to die first before someone else’s in the family will.  That was my way to escape the feeling of death when a family member dies.  I’ve seen a lot of people leave around me.  Close people that both deserved, in a positive way, to die and not, people in the boob tube, people in the random world.  Death is inevitable like paying taxes, although, slyly, we can reduce the possibility of the happening of the latter.  So it will happen, a little the way a holdup man will come.  It may happen in our sleep, in our way home or in our own little way.

But, as a revelation, the dead might not escape the feeling of death in his dying.  I believe that the dead’s soul don’t live that quick from the world.  I don’t believe that the feeling of feeling alive in a dead man’s soul flushes out of him like stool in the toilet the instance he dies.  In contrast, the dead soul’s discovering that he’s dead is the most uneasy feeling he will ever feel in the world.  There is no way back.  The world crumbles as if the world hasn’t yet crumbled.  Death in death.

I’ve chatted with one of the person that I’ve found available one time when I was late from work and I need to let go of the exhaustion by trying to talk to someone.  I am not the kind of a person to talk about the way my day happened.  I am not the type of starting a conversation with people I don’t care a damn about with.  But I am not saying I don’t care a bit about this person. It just that there are some things that happened along the way and some things just don’t get back, or at least, yet. 

He talked about his death when he was about twelve and sex in him was thriving.  He died at twelve and rose back to the cruelty of life some thirty minutes later.  He said he felt like dreaming.  He was in a place where all things around him were white and swirling.  He was gliding.  I said holy cow wow to this: gliding!  Like Peter Pan or something.  Or like some ghostly creatures that scared us to sleep when we were younger. 

But he was in this white place he swore he has never been.  He remembered he was moving to a direction, towards a destination, without a care in the other side of the world where her mother was flourishing in tears and nearly dying too.  There was a pinprick point far away that broke the vastness of white around him.  But for some reason, he couldn’t reach it.  Gliding, flying like comet now, he was getting no way nearer until he broke back to life.  His knuckles, from grey and dead, turned to rosy pink.  There was a tumultuous guffawing and praising after that.

He came back to life.

Coming back to life.

Sigh.

Coming back.

Going on.

I feel like dying.  I hate the thought of finally being erased from the memories of every people that once loved me, even from my own memoirs.  I hate the thought letting go of something without doing anything. 

But I feel the whole world is crushing in on me.  I feel death and all his friends creeping nearer towards the mat on my doorstep, swimming through the sewerage towards the faucet from where I drink, flying like pigeons that sit on my windowsills, pecking on my glass, its pieces slitting my throat.  I guess the paranoia is attributed to that single piece of word I messaged from long time ago.  I guess that is what a longing and desperate heart would do when it comes to the verge of something that it couldn’t help to hold anymore.  Saying a single word would ease everything up, and now I am entangled with this feeling of death and paranoia as I breathe in and breathe out.

 Heard something, it has nothing to do with this entry.

The Cubicle Dream

The last fortnight that I had not seen her made me alarmingly paranoiac.  I think it was something that I said the last time (the first time I directly sent “Hi!” on her message box) I messaged her.  I can’t remember when I did that.  I just remember why.  I just thought I had to do it.  I ought to do it, if that’s the one thing that I can do to start knowing her.  But it seemed not working at all.  I might be damn hallucinating when I saw her looked at my direction the last time I saw her.  I’ll be damned if I saw her even smiled at me.  The punishment that I have to deal with the last fortnight was to adore her omnipresence in my mind. 

The days passed by. It ended with a dream about her: a dream that I wished would be endless.  Endless it wasn’t.  I should not be writing anything now on this short page of what I call a miss-you sponge if it was endless.  I hope it can carry all the things heavy that live in my heart, the sponge.  For this is only the start of siphoning off everything that I felt inside about her, everything that I hid inside that adored her.  There is more to draw off.

The cubicle dream.

Well, it really was a dream, a very vivid dream that was.  I was feeling every emotion what a real life me would have felt if it was really happening. 

I was sleeping to start, sleeping in my dream.  I was sleeping in my dream right in front of the cubicle that she used as seclusion from the stares of me when we’re in the office.  But I guess the real deal about that was just to make herself undisturbed (by the stares of me).  Maybe she got distracted and she can’t work.  Or she got distracted and elated and she wouldn’t want me to notice that she felt elated when she was distracted by my stares.  Oh boy, that’s hugely arrogant to say things like that.  You should be humble and keep everything at pace.  She won’t like that.

Shut up!

You told me. But I bet it won’t do any good.

Fine.

Okay. That dream.  I was sleeping, or pretending to be for I knew she was in that empty cubicle working.  It was weird (well, everything in dreams is weird).  Isn’t it weird to be sleeping in the office with your sleeping bag laid in front of the cubicle?  I must have been kicked out of the office no moments as soon as a manager or a partner caught me so.  But it was a dream, and weird things happen in there.  So I laid there without the feeling of uneasiness and all the negative things you feel when you’re in the arms of your working environment. 

I pretended to sleep.  Moments later she sneaks a stare at me.  My eyes began to tremble.  She was staring and walking or gliding at the same time towards me.  She stopped when we’re hairbreadth near.  My eyes shut open.  Someone cast a spell in the air and a weird thing happened again.  She was now the persona of her officemate smiling at me.  I knew her.  I talk to her when I had time to.  I think I smiled at her.  And then the scene became hazy and it had gone back to the scene where she was staring at me.

I woke up, or pretended to be waking up.  I greeted her “Good morning, beautiful,” and I woke up to the stale embrace of my mouth and reality.  The last time that I saw before I woke up was her secret smile.  Oi, how in the world have you seen a secret smile?  You’re pathetic.

What in the world do you care about for, huh?  I am you.  You should act like me.  Let us be one.  Yeah?

Okay.

And stop answering back!

You asked me.

I didn’t ask you to reply!

Okay, okay. I’ll shut it.

Thanks.

Anytime.  (Alter-ego grinning.)

Hail to Kirsten Dunst for She is a Real Redhead

This is one is lifted from my previous blog: