mmm...

mmm...

di maipaliwanag na sakit

dun sa isang blog ko dito, kinwento ko yung sakit ko. yung ang symptoms eh di ako mapakali. parehong-pareho dun sa pakiramdam kapag nag-eexam ka tapos ang mga classmates mo isa-isa nang nagtatayuan. ganun. yung parang gusto mo magCR na ewan.

umaatake na naman yung sakit kong 'yun. gusto kong tumalon-talon, umikot-ikot, tumambling-tumbling.

ang mahirap pa nito... di umuubra ang medicol.

Nakakasama ng loob ang multiply

Ang lupit naman ng multiply. Mula 11pm kagabi hanggang ngayon (timecheck: 6:30am), hindi ko nakalikot ang multiply. Bad trip. Mas productive, mas creative at mas emotional pa naman ako from midnight to 6am (promise may oras talaga. otherwise pilit).

Nagmemaintenance work daw kasi ang multiply. Pero bakit ganun? Bakit hindi na lang nung tanghali sila nagmaintenance. Naman oh! Ibig bang sabihin nito eh mas pinapaboran ng multiply ang mga nasa ibang timezone? western schedule pa ang kinoconsider kaya ganun?

Shet naman oh! Pati ba naman sa multiply may hegemony? Ganun?

Owmaygaligas!

Reverie

I thought it was impossible. But here you are sketching the outline of our abstract beginnings, mixing the words and marks to freeze events, to verbalize thoughts.

I never knew hands can be much more graceful than turning on pointe. But your hands make typing appear to be a perfect pas de deux routine. The rhythmic clicks accompany the swift and accurate movements of your fingers. Beneath your stained blue-green blanket, I watch your performance. But you wouldn’t have to know. With my eyes three-quarters closed I take pleasure in memorizing your moves. My God, what else can those hands do?

Shush everyone, every object, every idea, every distraction, every pain, every dream. Let the performer claim his stage. But can a poet be a poet without reading his verses? Can a poet be a poet without sharing his works? If you’d never let me read what you are writing in this ungodly hour, can you still be my poet? When does a poet become a poet? Is it during the conceptual process and negotiation with his MAC or when readers turn the pages of the published works of his creative mind?

Better yet, what is a performance? Does performance always have to be physical? Even in your absence I watch you perform hour after hour. Should the performer be kept aware of his audience? My covet viewings will never be revealed to you. And still, I am a witness.

The proscenium of your work area, your silhouette formed from dim streetlights escaping through the fibers of your ochre canvas curtains, the streaks of highlights from your monitor – damn such scene. Damn the blocking. Curse the stage direction that disturbs my sanity. I’d have cursed you, my remarkable performer, if I’d known you are aware of this enslaving act. But you are not. You perform without you knowing it.

I am getting used to sleepless nights in this marathon of secret performances. Sometimes you would even try to converse with me. Once you even moved closer to pull pillows I used to cover my face with, to check if I was still awake. A couple of times you glanced at me and smiled, seemingly so sure I was still up and seemingly so sure I was observing you.

I thought it was impossible. But it happens. I am stiffened by your performances, my poet. Stiffened, but not out of awe. I wouldn’t dare move for I know at one touch… the wooden furniture, the MAC, the graceful hands, and the outline of my poet with his eyeglasses will all instantly disappear. The stage will be left empty except for dim streetlights escaping from the fibers of my pink floral cotton curtains. At one touch, I know my spectator eyes will be staring at the sturdy wooden side-table with my pink-striped wallpaper as backdrop. Then I will be wrapped in my own pink sheets.

I’ll never let you know I take the best seat in your every performance. I’ll always keep my eyes three-quarters closed. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

No other way than to watch you enchant me, under my own direction.

Para kay Cocoon-who-shall-not-be-named at sa lahat ng butterfly species

How do you deal with anger?

Do you scream? Do you yell at those freaking souls in disguise who are so disillusioned by their own image of themselves? Do you call them mother-fucking bitches? Do you utter curses and wish them to never ever be lucky, to starve to death, or to live their lives in hell?

Do you vent your anger on something else? Do you blame the innocents? Do you blame yourself? Do you make yourself accountable to the disgusting smiles of so-called friends'? Do you actually convince yourself to believe you had a part on all hostililities? That you deserve it?

Do you express your anger in songs, in phrases in jetes and battements? Do you just shut up, contain all the rage and let them burst into a piece of performance? of angsty moves and angsty tunes?

 

How do you deal with anger

                  especially when...

                            you know that...

your grunts...

your tears...

your attempts to match the poker faces...

                                    even...

your prayers...

your hope...

your birthday wishes...

                              

          DON'T MATTER TO THEIR "PIOUS" MINDS AND THEIR TEXTBOOK HEARTS?

 

How do you?

When in fact they don't feel your pain. Even if they do, they'd ignore.

After all...

They are artificial.

                        They are.

 

The hell with titles! wala!

You said you are tired of drama. Understandable. But that means you're tired of me, 'cause I'm all drama.

You said you want to make your life simple. I take it my complications won't fit into that idea.

You said you hate interrupted happiness. That, I don't understand. Maybe we have different definitions of happiness. My happiness is never interrupted. I get to eat, to sing, to cook, to play, to read, to write, to dance, to have a good laugh. Interruptions to those are only momentary.

"It's either you're impossibly oblivious or you're just plain insensitive." I can't believe I heard those from you. I can't believe I'd ever hear those at all.

My silence affected you. But don't you even care to know how it feels to be silent and the reasons behind? I'm pressed to keep things to myself. I can't tell the world how heavy my troubles are. I shouldn't. In fact, nobody should. Nobody is the center of the universe after all. Everyone goes through troubles. I know those things. Who doesn't?

In silence I fight my battles. In silence I find comfort. Sensible people would know that focusing too much on problems and involving everyone in your own misery is one damn act of selfishness. I don't want to be selfish.

I told you there are people who are going through much more, and that we're luckier than most. Sarcastically, you tell me I gave you such a relief? I'm lost... is it really me who's insensitive?

What happiness of yours did my silence interrupt? If it's not my silence, then why am I getting all the hostility? I've had happy moments with you. The good food, good music, small talks, serious conversations, even our trips to the grocery store -- all those made me happy. Does my silence ruin those moments? Really, what happiness are you talking about?