Misfortunes and minor victories

Photo

Wed, 23 May 2012 14:03:46 +0800

Sleep tight

Wed, 23 May 2012 10:27:34 +0800

My mother has seriously called me meow meow ever since I started wearing my cat ears hairband. And you know what? I enjoy it. Except one time when I went to the supermarket, unconsciously wearing that hairband and my cousin (who accompanied me) didn’t even mind to tell me. People were looking at me like I’m some kind of retard. When I glanced over a mirror, I saw my reflection and oh the horror! You could imagine how I laughed with my embarrassment. My cousin kept on laughing too then started calling me meow meow. Then I retorted at my cousin to never ever address me in public with that nickname.

Since we work as early as 3 am, I’m slacking off in office by around 10 am. Stretching my arms as high as I can, as if I aim to reach the sky. Yawning deliberately to show that I’m sleepy and starting to get lazy. My mother would tell me that I’m like a cat that sleeps all day. I said “I really am, I’m a cat.” Then she said that if I really am, then she would just feed me with fish bones. I said I’m a high class, top breed cat and my stomach requires the food that humans eat. And a lot of petting too. Then she became logical and asked my shower pattern. So I placed a book on my face after blurting out Meow! Cats do that, right?

Anyway, I’m at home again. Meaning, I’m sick. I woke up feeling lethargic, and went downstairs right away and groped for paracetamol. And thermometer. Still, I went to work, but around 8 am I went home because I really can’t stand the pain. I’m wondering how call center agents cope up with their reverse sleeping pattern. Because I can’t, no matter how high the salary you would offer me, I won’t start my day as the moon rises and sleep as the sun ascends on the sky. I want to live normally, sleep normally. I begin to appreciate the benefits of sleeping.

I think I would be sleeping earlier than usual when classes begin, then I would wake up earlier.

They say that our mind is more creative and profound during midnight, and I really believe that. But it’s healthier to sleep during those times, not just physically but also, emotionally. My mind might be bursting out of ideas during 1 am, but I need my mind to be fully awake during class hours so I could absorbed more ideas. So, here’s to more hours of sleeping.

I’ve been tagged my Zarah (shebabblesalot) :) What is the first thing you do every morning? I open...

Wed, 23 May 2012 10:13:43 +0800

I’ve been tagged my Zarah (shebabblesalot) :)

What is the first thing you do every morning?

I open my eyes. Since I’m waking up every 2 am to prepare for work, I would go downstairs and lie on the couch for another fifteen minutes…just the same if I wake by 8 am.

What do you feel about the color ‘coral’?

Reminds me of peaches. I’ve never eaten peaches but I really want one.

If you were to create a fruit, what would you name it?

Crinches.

What would you do during a zombie apocalypse?

I’ve never thought about this to be honest, because I think I’d be one of the zombies. And I’d catch you all! So better be prepared with all your tactics because I won’t let you escape! Yes :)

What was your first impression of me?

You look like my bestfriend in your picture, so I thought you’re a snob like her. But you talked to me…then when you told me you like cats and penguins, I had concluded that you’re one of the few people who could understand my weirdness.

What are your thoughts about gay marriage?

I’m not opposed to it, in fact I would love to attend my gay friends’ marriage if it ever becomes legalized. I hope. And I find it sweet. They’re just two people in love, it really doesn’t matter if they got the same gender. What I find weird is that, some have so-called fixed marriage that is forcing two people to get married. Some even just marry because of unexpected pregnancies. Now that’s just really far from the real meaning of marriage, right?

How does the color orange make you feel?

Before, I hate the color orange. It used to disgust me, I don’t know but I just hate it. It’s ugly. But ever since I saw this orange leather bag, I suddenly want orange. It seems so unique and underrated, so I like it now.

What would your last words be?

I’ll call you.

Do you believe in parallel universes?

Yes. I have been thinking about this before, thinking that in parallel universe I’m a boy or I’m a cat.

What do you think about cats?

I don’t think about cats…I breathe about cats. And my breathe says that if I stop, I’d die. Cats are eloquently dashing and the same time, simple. Class and stealth.

What type of wallets do you use?

I have an orange coin purse (because I really like orange now) with an embroidered elephant on it. And almost everyone that sees it says it’s cute, so it’s the only wallet I use (if you consider it as a wallet). I stuff my money bills on my journal so I could pretend I don’t have money every time my friends ask me to treat them and I get their attention using my cute coin purse. I have a yellow duck coin purse too. Leather wallets are stressing me.

I need a script writer. A close minded rant, I’m telling you upfront. And lots of...

Tue, 22 May 2012 16:18:00 +0800

I need a script writer.

A close minded rant, I’m telling you upfront. And lots of parentheses.

He’s the man who could make young girls’ hearts melt type of guy. Well, that’s how we would always tell me. Ladies and gentleman, my father, who taught me to be arrogant and proud of something insignificant. He was such a quixotic type of man, who would paint you your portrait or give you flowers as he goes down from stage (and yes while singing your favorite song). My mother would always tell me how he seemed to be a fictional character that came alive. He would surprise you with things you only read from books or seen in movies. And I wouldn’t forget his way of putting love letters with faded ink under the cookie jar. I was glad he’s my father. He had this video camera with him, and we would hide it behind books on the shelf and he would surprise my mother with the cake he baked and everything would be recorded. And yes we even made a short film, where I was the captive and he was the soldier (with matching costumes) and it was 1 am and the video was in night mode and by that I learned to kill a cat with a gun. And yes, don’t forget the grenade we brought to the mall that I told you before. I feel so lucky he’s my father. I was lucky. Was.

The first time we knew about his mistresses was when I was four. To cut the long story short, he knelt before us, crying and pleading. Next girl, and another and another with baby souvenirs he leaves in his women’s wombs. I wonder how he attracted these girls. He might got the look, but is that what everyone is after for? At one point of my childhood, I believed that it was.

When my parents separated legally (finally!) and after learning about my vast number of unknown siblings around, I had questioned the idea of honesty and loyalty. They don’t exist anymore. Trust became something I had kept with me, and promised to never every give that to anyone. And my mother, oh how she loathed good looking man. She would generalize them all by saying that they will break your heart. I kind of lived with that notion too for a while, but I met people and my views changed. No one is ever alike, and you can’t generalize people just because you were hurt by a certain one. But sometimes, like a nightmare haunting you, I would remember that notion about man breaking hearts. So I break theirs first. Just in case. Just to be sure. Just so I won’t lose the game.

But yeah, of course I changed. Life’s not all about it. And somehow, I get over the idea and shifted into believing that everyone is different, if you just give them a chance. I’m different, I promise ha-ha how convenient.

But my father, I don’t know if he had even thought about changing his lifestyle. Every year, new girls and new siblings. One day, I wouldn’t be surprised if I met someone who looks like me (because they say that I really looked like my father), and I saw their baby pictures in facebook (yes my sources gave me the link) and they got his eyes.

The last time I saw him was when I was 16. He went to school saying he really went there for me because he miss me and that he would try to reconcile whatever that needs reconciliation. He was getting my pity, he was doing that fictional character’s way of pleading again. I think I know now how he lures his mistresses despite his age. He’s 40. Of course I didn’t believe him, I’ve learned a lot, thanks to him. I just told him that I was fine. “Oh yes, father I’m doing gooood. You look healthy, your mistress must be feeding you a lot. Say my greetings to her and my baby brother, or was it sister? Bye, sure, no thanks.” He was disappointed that I didn’t get his bait that time, because I usually do before. I can see the disappointment on his face, I felt victorious (no Claire, daddy doesn’t need your pity, don’t feel sorry, be cold, wear that poker face). The next day, I learned from a trusted source that he went there to get his papers because he’d be heading out of the country (and the reconciliation he was talking about was complete nonsense, I told you Claire).

Anyway, this June, we would be attending a wedding. It is the wedding of a very close family friend. The groom is my father’s best buddy, the bride is my mother’s bestfriend. They personally handed us the invitation letter last night. My father’s name is written on the invitation, stating that he would play a role in the matrimonial ceremony. He would be there, assured the groom and the bride. We should be there, pleaded the bride and the groom.

Oh boy, I’m so going to see you father after three years. I shall make you feel the guilt and shame you brought us. No of course not, I’m not sure what I would feel to be honest. I’m not angry anymore, or even bitter. Though I seem that I am. I’m kind of excited, to see this man who taught me to never ever trust anyone and to never ever be real with anyone. I was even glad he was like that, at least he served as a warning.

And another thing, we have a lot in common. They say I’m the girl version of my father. My mother hates it a lot, and she hates how much I reminded her of him (she would always tell that to me every morning, like a national anthem every Monday and everyday is Monday in our house). We were so alike. We really are, so I think I know how he would act if we see each other next month. I should prepare for that act. We’re great actors.

I need a script. And a nice dress. Time to put on a mask. Masquerade whatnots.

How to be a grown-up?

Mon, 21 May 2012 19:00:57 +0800

Older people would always tell me “Act your age!” and I just want to tell them that “Hey, it’s my first time to be 19. I don’t know how.” Can you please teach me before you demand?

Of course, that’s what my immature response would be. Of course I know what they expect me to be, I’ve seen it in movies, I’ve read it in books. I’ve heard it from philosophers and such. But if I were to look at the people around me, they do it differently and it just confuses me. I just made a mistake and they would tell me that I’m such an irresponsible being, and that I’m not a kid anymore. Why? Do grown-ups can’t commit a mistake? Again, this is my immature response to such situation. Sometimes, I can’t just tolerate them as much as how they can’t tolerate me.

Maybe, after five years I’d look back at this thought and I’d try to see if I have grown up. Or maybe, if I had grown up to someone they all expected me to be, I’d be so occupied with things that I wouldn’t have the time to ponder over my childish thoughts. Reading my past journals would seem like reading fairytale books – inappropriate, but it would serve as an escape.

Just like now. I’m hungry.

Different person

Mon, 21 May 2012 15:46:00 +0800

Love at first sight, oh please you don’t believe on that do you? Practically speaking, it’s senseless. I mean, it’s stupid, right? Love at first sight is just based on physical appearance. And oh maybe the scent of her perfume caught you. Or how she plays with her hair as she waits in the train terminal. Your imaginations are luring you into thinking that she’s lovely and that you are in love. Gimme a break! That’s not love, just attraction because her appearance caught you. I’m pretty sure you’d lose that so-called uppity feeling when you get to know her more. You’re good at that; judging the book by its title and author and when you gave it a try you realized the story is boring and whoosh, you’d tossed it out with your other unread books – mostly books about Math and Sciences. The hell you care about it? Oh yeah, the hell you care? Next girl please! Y’know, you’ve got the time to look for someone else and give it a try to know if this love at first sight cliché is true. Love at first sight…love at first try. Then try and look for another one again! What a fun idea!

But then you saw this person one time, sitting across the convenient store as you wait for your microwaved lunch to be done (self service convenience store – how convenient). She’s not that attractive, no sex appeal or whatever you can see to play with your imagination. You wonder why you’re even staring at her. Then you caught her eyes; plain but there’s something about them. She’s looking at you now, and you know it would freak her out, yet you just stare at her. You can’t help it. What is this? As if the whole universe suddenly emerges out of no where and now it’s taking your breath away with its view. Shoot. You don’t believe on cosmic whatnots. You’re not even poetic…but as you look into her eyes, it is as if the time melts and everything is in slow motion. Her eyes transpire everything you’d never thought was there before. You’re lost for words, in translation of feelings into coherent speech. “Wait a minute, where did I get these words?” you’d think.

And you realized, love at first sight is not literally “first” and “sight”. Because when you saw her, she looks familiar, you saw her before. That you have planned to have this meeting a long time ago, it’s just that you forgot about it. That souls have planned this meeting before quote pops out of nowhere. Love at first sight isn’t necessarily mean “sight” alone. But the feeling, the connection, the movements allure you, not just the appearance. Your heart sees her soul, her light. And right there, at that very spot, at that very “melted time” (as your sudden poem suggests) you become in love.

And as if you’ve become a new person, you suddenly believed that love at first sight is real.

Pareidolia

Sun, 20 May 2012 17:01:23 +0800

You are that little blue space in the gray cloud filled sky

And the face I see as I close my eyes

You are the memory that makes me want to cry

But you’re also the song I’d love to reprise.

You are that little hope that flickers in my heart

But also the darkness that fills my mind

And yes I cried when we were apart

Yet I hope I’d be someone you’d never again find.

I see you everywhere, is this sane?

No it’s not, said my brain.

Pareidolia, said the psychology chart

Perhaps love, said my heart.

*The psychology chart is much reliable than my heart

**What on earth is pareidolia? Click this.

When I have accepted that I don’t mind losing the game, I found myself winning it without putting...

Sun, 20 May 2012 15:31:29 +0800

When I have accepted that I don’t mind losing the game, I found myself winning it without putting much effort. When I have accepted that I will lose everyone with my mistakes, I committed less mistakes and gained more friends, supporting and cheering for me. And when I have accepted that I will lose everything and end up having nothing, that’s the time I realized I have so much more than I needed. Life’s little ironies. It’s also true that we’re more real when we’re around people we don’t know. We trust them more with our secrets, secrets that we would never even tell to our closest friends. We all have those kinds of secrets, right?

If there’s anything I have to regret in choosing this path I’m walking through now, that is, I wished I had taken this a long time ago. I might be six years late, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here, alive, learning. When I have accepted that I don’t care about anything anymore, to let life decide for me, that’s the time I have almost everything under control.

Where I have been these past years? Well, I don’t care if I was lost before, because if I haven’t, maybe I wouldn’t find myself today.　

The XX - Islands

Sun, 20 May 2012 15:30:57 +0800

The XX - Islands

Who is the first person you think about when you wake up in the morning? The past month, I’d been...

Sun, 20 May 2012 15:00:25 +0800

Who is the first person you think about when you wake up in the morning?

The past month, I’d been thinking about my teacher wo gave me an INC. grade and she promised that she would fix it, it’s been a week but it is still INC.

Ice cream or cake? Justify your answer.

This is hard. I mean, one does not simply choose between those two. But I’d go with the ice cream. I’m certain to be an ice cream lover, and my sensitive teeth won’t stop me into becoming a real one.

What is your wildest dream?

I had a dream last night. It’s actually weird, and that was I woke up in Hypogeum of Hal-Saflieni in Malta. Effect of watching Natgeo these days. Now, I want it to be true. I’d go there someday.

Who is your most trusted person in the world?

No one.

List 5 people who you care about and indicate why.

My mother: no matter how we argue so much, she’s still sweet and I really can’t imagine myself without her.
My sister, she’s been the only one I could talk to these days, however, she’s too young to understand me.
Wee and Alice; I consider them as one. I’ve been with them since I was 13 and like my mother, I can’t see myself without them.
Anjie; she’s been there this past year though I seldom talk to her since we separated schools. Still, she’s there.
This if for everyone who I talk to. I attach myself with someone so easy that I find myself caring about them.

What is your favorite movie? Why?

There are a lot of movies that had taught me with so many things and I could give a long list to show you. But my most favorite is Little Mermaid. It’s the movie that I had watched a thousand of times since I was a kid, I have my own VHS, CD then DVD. Why? It’s my childhood, and watching it brings back the 5 years old me who lies on the couch alone while my parents leave me in the house for a whole day.

When is your birthday? And how young are you right now?

April 24. I’m 19. Still young, still young.

What is the last possession you lost?

My pen. I just dropped it, now I can’t find it.

Are you happy right now? Why?

Kind of. I can’t find any words to describe what I’m really feeling now, so I’d settle with the answer yes.

What is your ultimate goal in life?

To have 9 cats in my own house, and be a lawyer.

How do you find me as a person/blogger. Please answer honestly. Thank you. :)

To be honest, I find you really thoughtful and I appreciate your concerns regarding my health. You’re one of the few people who ask if I’m alright or if I have seen the doctor. I find it really thoughtful, because in real life, people would always tell me that I’m just being exaggerated about my health so I don’t take it seriously and end up being sicker. Thank you :)

Mug shot

Thu, 17 May 2012 17:33:00 +0800

I just got home.

I thought I was just having delusions earlier because of lack of sleep, but when everybody in the bus looked out of the window to witness the scene I’ve been watching, I realized I was seeing something real after all.

He was wearing a pink t-shirt and denim pants; he has a black sling bag and another bag on his hand. He was smiling while walking leisurely through the crowd. He seems so ordinary and plain, that if weren’t for the weird grin on his face, I wouldn’t even focus myself to him.

Then a shrilling voice suddenly woke me up from my trance. Another guy shouted “Snatcher yan!” and that’s the time when the man in pink shirt – who was about to get on the bus and suddenly panicked – went down to run. Because there were so many people along the sidewalk, it’s easy for him to hide through them, besides, you wouldn’t even think he was the snatcher. The victim, who happened to be a girl around her twenties, was just left at awe. She was about to ride in a taxi when somebody grabbed her bag. It took long before it registered on her mind that she was robbed, hence, her 1minute late reaction scream.

If weren’t for the traffic along EDSA, we wouldn’t get the chance to witness the whole mayhem. Oh my, I could still recall the man’s smiling face. He would really look good in a mug shot, especially behind the cells.

I could recall a few faces of people who made little criminals. The man who almost kidnapped me, when he pulled me while he was riding a motorcycle. The couple who locked me up in their room in an internet shop last year, I had reported them to the officials though. The fixers in city hall, the signature plagiarizers, another batch of snatchers, pedobears, those who sell kids and prostitutes.

If you see them, they look so ordinary, unlike how over-dramatized soap operas show them. In fact, if you know them and their story, you would understand why they do it. Others were so eager to have security and safety, that they find it acceptable to cheat, to lie, to steal or even to kill. They justify their sins and vices using their weakness and unsought necessities. Survival of the fittest, to kill is to live.

Photo

Wed, 16 May 2012 18:17:00 +0800

Love-sick puppy dog

Wed, 16 May 2012 17:23:25 +0800

I’ve had pictured how we would meet, remember? I imagined that we would meet in a bus and I would get hit as I go down and remain alive and you won’t remember me anymore. I’ve made poems about your smile, about your hair, about how we would have breakfast together. I’ve made up a prose on how I would rip you off like a wrapped gift box. I made plans on how I would wake you up, and how I would not let you sleep. And I had made up a plan – just in case – on how I would murder you without leaving any trails that would point me as a suspect.

Of course the last part was just a joke; forgive my lame sense of humor.

I always talk about you, I always have you on mind. You’re the protagonists in the stories I wrote in my journal, you’re the hero. Which is funny, because I don’t know who you are. You’re inexistent, a product of my imagination. The person my feelings invented. I’ve never met you. Or maybe you could be one among those who would read this, or who I may have bumped with in the bakery, or you could be the one sitting in front of me in the library. Or you’re the one who is living in the other room of this house, or the one I always ignore in the office. How I wish you were the one I have a crush with since I was 13. Or maybe, I haven’t met you at all.

So I’m deciding to stop. I don’t want to have a set of standards or signs and whatnots. I don’t want to stick around with the plot I made in my head. I just want to meet you in a way I’ve never imagined, watched, read or heard. I want to be clueless; unaware of anything beautiful is about to happen. A surprise. An I-just-woke-up-one-morning-and-I-knew feeling. I want to be completely devoid of scenes I had played on my mind like an on-repeat song in the playlist. I want to feel like I’m facing a whole new universe, something I’d completely be enthralled about.

Something I…okay I should stop. Just surprise me, okay?

Donated love letter

Wed, 16 May 2012 13:48:00 +0800

I really feel glad that some people donate their books to the library, especially for people like me that can’t afford to buy a new book every week. However, most books are the old ones that consist of classic books and books written way back in 1940’s. Some books have yellow pages already, or have coffee stains and insect remnants. Some have torn pages or worse, have missing pages. But I find it quite fascinating whenever I see handwritten remarks along the pages or underlined phrases. It’s like communicating with the previous owner that is now old…or dead. Especially the books in our college library, students with student numbers 1989 have comments on how they hate or love a book written on the front page. But the best one? A love letter written at the back of the book.

I was in the public library in city hall yesterday afternoon, and there was a new batch of donated books. One was the “The Little Prince” ; it’s cover caught my attention because it has a picture of a real kid instead of the usual drawn prince. The picture was taped on the cover. I flipped the pages and when I reached the back, there was a long letter written on it dated way back 1961. The message was so sweet that it seems it was a letter used in a classic movie. The cursive lettering added to its dreamy effect. I wonder what the story behind this couple was.

Based on the letter, they’re young couples who both loved reading books and enjoy getting quotes from books to describe each other. I wonder if they got married or they separated. I wonder if that book was from the shelf of the one who received it, or she gave it back to the sender when they broke up. I wonder if they got together and they gave that book to their kids or grandchildren, and these kids donated that book. Nonetheless, I would never know the story behind it. But one thing I know is that, that book was one of the witnesses of their love story, whether or not it ended happily. I’m so melodramatic, forgive me.

Too bad I can’t borrow home those donated books. I can’t stay in the library all day, I got work.

My mother got a whole shelf of books, but she donated it after we moved into this house. I felt sad about it, it was like giving away your friends. Just like in Toy Story 3 where Andy gave his toys to another kid. It’s tragic, yet I know someone would benefit from it.

I was thinking too, after 50 years, where could my journals be? Torn, burned, wrecked? My grandchildren discovering my things and laughing about their grandmother’s secrets? The books? Would there be a girl in her 20’s reading the letter I wrote on one of my books donated in the library – assuming that the library still exists 50 years from now? I think this blog and e-books got a possibility of existing years from now, but books and journals? I think they would not. Maybe, in the future, paper and ink are as obsolete as the old-fashioned trinkets in the antique shop. Today, we say that paper and ink are enduring friends, maybe in the future, enduring friends would be as extinct as paper and ink.

Wow, from love letters to extinction of letters.

Bridge of epitomes

Wed, 16 May 2012 12:32:00 +0800

I was standing on the bridge yesterday, overlooking one of the busiest streets in Manila. I could see people walking, working, running – it was such a chaotic scene. Everyone is rushing, some were shouting. Strife on going on this corner, a little debate of kids on the other one. It was like a terrain battle; a war to survive this harsh life. Reality, in short, not the life you see in television.

At the far end of the bridge, there was an old blind man singing while playing his guitar, instead of begging mercilessly by following you around. As he sings, I seem to hear the oppressed people’s cry from misery and poverty. Despite that, he was left overlooked mainly because everyone’s busy and it’s too noisy. But he gets a few coins from people stricken by his sad song. Few coins – how would one live and survive from few coins? Money is not everything, at the end of the day you’d realize it. But to reach the end of the day alive, you need money.

A lightning darted through the sky covered with gray clouds. It seemed to be angry with this sad reality. From where I stand, I could say there’s a big chance I could be hit by a lightning. Or I could simply jump over the bridge to end my problems. I got a big audience to witness my drama. But that’s silly. Life’s hard, but ending it wouldn’t change anything. Death is not an escape; it’s a trap you’d make if you consider suiciding.

I continued watching people as they scurry around the outskirts of Manila to reach the next city. The wind was cold and filthy, like the truth I see before me. Big buildings covered with big billboards saying that there’s a new mall rising soon. How about houses to rise soon? Oh, there they are, demolished to pave way for commercial buildings. Oh, there they are, tarpaulins and planks of wood rising as houses. It’s their fault, landowners would say. We were born here, they would say.

From the top, you’d see people working – busy, fine, okay, alive. From the top, you’d say there’s no problem. I went down to buy something, seeing the donut cart made me hungry. From the top, it’s easy to spot on. But when I was on the ground, looking for it was like looking for a needle in the haystack, this is human haystack. I found myself lost in this mayhem, I couldn’t see the donut cart nor the foot of the bridge. I have to swim through huddles of people, half wishing I would find the cart, half wishing I didn’t go down at all.

When you’re above these people, you’d say everything is fine. But if you’re on the same level with them – oh boy, it’s worse than I thought.

I couldn’t blame the elite for thinking that the ordinary people live a normal life – because they’ve never been there. I couldn’t generalize by saying that they’re blind – because if you’re on top, everything seems fine, balanced, right. Normal. But if you’re on the ground, you’d see the unbalanced treatment, you’d feel poverty, you’d hate those who just “look over the bridge”. It’s not normal after all.

After a few minutes of half wishes and running, I was on the bridge again. I looked for the donut cart from there, but it’s nowhere to be found. The blind man was still singing, people still walking pass him. Some people were beginning to notice me “What on earth is she doing here?” One does not simply stand and stay in a footbridge leisurely. But I want to. And I want to call everyone’s attention to stop and see the scene I’ve been seeing – how lunatic I may seem. From here, you’d realize some things. But most people today don’t need realizations. They need answers, solutions. A quick fix for a problem, not a long term treatment. They don’t have time for theories, they need a tangible fix – in a snap please.

Which is wrong, but I couldn’t blame them. We need to be practical, blindly practical. If you’re hungry, you’d eat whatever you could grab, no time to think what’s healthy, what’s better. And us, we’re hungry for development, ease and relief. We’d grab whatever opportunity comes our way, no time to think if it’s legal, if it’s safe.

No wonder we’re all contended with rising malls and condominiums, and the ability to swipe our credit cards to buy the latest gadget in town. We see it as a sign of development, when actually, it just covers the real problems. And we all get fooled, blinded and lured by these sugarcoats.

We will all be people crossing the bridge. We rise to top and meddle through while we’re on top, only to find ourselves going down again. Ignore the harsh reality, what’s the use? Ignore the blind man singing for help, who cares? Make fun of the girl standing on the bridge, what is she?

And we will all turn into dusts, through this filthy air.

Can I have this dance?

Mon, 14 May 2012 17:26:26 +0800

She was ripping off her childhood memories like gift wrappers, hoping to find out if there’s something hidden inside, among the remnants of her childhood. She’s twisting fairytales, looking for the messages kept by her beloved authors under their sugarcoated words. She’s peeling off her pink wallpaper that colors her room to make it seem cotton candies, she’s looking for phrases and drawings inked on the white patched wall.

And at last, she found out that her childhood consists of nothing too peculiar or significant. Her world as a child revolve around a small space, only in the four corners of her room her parents used to locked her up inside. She realized that fairytales were lies and never real, just stories written on books, and books her mind devoured on when she was young. She grew up, but she remained as the Rapunzel inside the tower. She remained as Ariel with no voice, and turned into nothingness. She remained as Cinderella scrubbing the floor and talking to animals. She remained as Alice, lost under the rabbit hole, forever trapped in Wonderland – never to wake up. Never to rise from slavery, never to walk on her own, never to be saved from the tower.

And underneath the innocent color of her room, the unkind shadows and bareness lie. Her curiosity to find something transpired the hidden message: there’s no message. No clue. No answers to her perennial questions.

And now she sees someone to save her from her miseries from this drill she made. She’s thinking of ripping him up, opening him to see his bleeding limbs. He wants to unwrap his skin, to unravel his bones, to undo his rib cage. Does he have a heart? That’s what she’s been looking for for years.

She’s destructive, she breaks everything that comes her way, whether they’re her friend or foe – they’re all the same anyway. She’s untamed, she eats everyone with her morbid thoughts and darted eyes. Her eyes seem to dig people until they vomit their lies and songs. Her words are knives cutting her enemies skin until they bleed their apathy. She’s a ferocious beast, like a hungry tiger ready to eat anything to satisfy her appetite. Everything she touches has scratches, she leave them broken.

She’s hopeless. There are two possible solutions to fix this monster she had turned into: 1) Lock her inside her cage again – the past 2) Save her from her thoughts and show that the world is still kind. And oh, there’s another solution: Kill her, and everything would be fine.

But nothing will change. Her soul will rise from the tomb and dance her way to you as you sleep tonight. And she will haunt you, until you join her waltz in hell.

Now tell me, will you still dance with me?

Hi I just got home from work. I haven’t had sleep since yesterday, yet, I can manage to sit here....

Mon, 14 May 2012 16:57:57 +0800

Hi I just got home from work. I haven’t had sleep since yesterday, yet, I can manage to sit here. It’s a work I do with my mother and stepfather; we pack some food and sell it to people by 2 am. I can’t believe that there were hungry people by 2 am, I thought I was the only one. But yes of course, there are people who live on the streets and sleeps without having a decent meal or any meal at all.

This will last for a week, there’s a seminar conducted nearby. Meaning, I’d be sleeping too early to wake up so early and to sleep by noon. This is blasphemy.

I’ll wake by 2 am again later, or tomorrow, or what. I don’t have my sense of time right now.

My mind is floating.　

Virtual paw clap…or whatever it is called.

Sun, 13 May 2012 14:40:49 +0800

Virtual paw clap…or whatever it is called.

I lay my head beside my mother’s back last night. I can hear her heart beat and every pulse her...

Sun, 13 May 2012 12:48:00 +0800

I lay my head beside my mother’s back last night. I can hear her heart beat and every pulse her insides make. I can hear them as if they’re whispering a monotonous tone. My mother was talking, so I heard her words as if they were submerged in water. She laughed, and I heard her laugh as if it beats with a drum. They all sounded so blurred, like a song I heard in dreams. But they seem so peaceful – away from reality.

I wonder, were these the very same sounds I heard when I was inside her womb? They got this sense of familiarity, it sounded so “at home”.

Then my mother leaned forward and told me “Get up, you’re getting heavy.” Were these the same words she said 19 years ago? Get out, you’re heavy, a heavy burden. One of the most heartbreaking things my mother told me was she almost aborted me. But one of the sweetest things she told me was “I’m glad I didn’t.”

Happy mother’s day. Forgive your eldest for not being so showy about her feelings. She hates cheesy things. And she’s broke for buying all the cakes you requested yesterday. But she’s happy. She’s happy to have you as her mother, through thick and thin.

And she’s praying all the best for you.

P.S.

Happy mother’s day to all your mothers and to all the mothers out there.

Poets had said it

Fri, 11 May 2012 17:27:52 +0800

This is the night that can make Neruda write the saddest lines. This can make Cummings say dying is fine. Edgar Allan Poe would say The night, though clear, shall frown, and the stars shall not look down. A.A. Milne is waiting at the window pane, as I do too as I wait for the sun. The clock is ticking, and Shakespeare would count it to tell the time for me. And it’s time for me to get up and go somewhere. Dickinson once told me that she had never heard the word escape, and I’ve never heard it too to be a sound plan to solve anything. But Bukowski said that long walks at night is good for the soul, and that’s what I’m doing now. I’m not escaping. I’m off to a friend to tell my wrath; Blake had told me that he was angry with a friend. And he told his wrath, it did end. And this friend and I shall never meet again. Twain said Your image, graven on my heart, forever shall remain, and this would be the same line that I’d tell to this friend of mine as I say goodbye.

And yes, tonight I will write the saddest lines.