Idea #1

Ermahgerd my creativity is being tickled. When I was in Fully Booked this afternoon, I saw Eliza Victoria's (new?) book and I was itching to buy it. I can't recall the title but it's a compilation of fantasy tales, incorporating in each stories (probably) our own homemade folklore. I wanted to buy it but I was short on money. :( 

I'm thinking of writing a story with the [manifestation of the] moon as the lover of the main character. Problem is, I'm still deciding the gender (and sexuality?) of the protagonist and how I'm going to pull this off. 

I was browsing the trash bin in my email to look once more at a notification from a certain douchebag when I noticed the delete button in the trash bin has been aptly named "delete forever." 

What is the context of "forever"? When you delete those emails, will they really be disposed of for "forever"? Or will they join the stream of unconsciousness where most things are forgotten, only to be remember at a certain place in time and space? Is it really "forever", or is it until it can be retrieved once more? 

Oh my gosh, am I even thinking clearly

Orville the wounded

Orville got chipped

on the road

as he 

fell

like an ordinary angel

wrapped in his black

shroud.

I watched as he fell

from the big yellow behind

and dropped splat

red.

* * *

Poor Orville. I'm so sorry you fell off and hit yourself on the pavement. Now I can't play you for a week out of shame. Mama is sorry. :( Sigh. I can't sleep.

Resurrection

In a swift fluid motion, watered down azure intermingles with the sweet, melodious tones of salmon pink and sultry violet above a horizon of rising ultramarine peaks, connected by the soft glow of an orange sun. The dark earth, already wet with the tears of some weeping entity, laps at my feet like the hungry dog that it is. Every step I take I sink deeper into the mud, shifting with each feet the weight of a frail body bearing the weight of a stone-cold one. 

Intertwined in my arms is a shamble of rags, bundled so closely and protectively as if to conceal what is underneath it. Cradled against my body, wrapped beneath the sea of white, is my brother, his being already so soft and gentle with death; his hands still wrapped around the long gone apple that failed to satiate his hunger. Even through the rags I see his blank grey eyes still staring beneath closed eyelids, seeing nothing but the abyss of an extinguished life. 

As I tread on to look for tender earth to strike, the nearby trees rustle with a hushed excitement, holding their breaths in waiting for something that will never come. The murmur of the songbirds sire a morose requiem for my bloodless flesh. I kneel before a silky patch of earth. But even with the illusion of a luxurious burial ground for my brother, I know it is a pretense of craving earth. Wielding a small shovel, I raise my hands in the air, and with a cry bereft of air, I baptize the soil with the steel of my weapon and the grief of my heart.

I lay my brother's body into the shallow grave. He is gone, I tell myself, yet with trepidation I envision my brother calling out to me from his bed of brown, moaning and reaching out for me to be his company inside the cold grave. But I climb out, and without looking down, shovel dirt, the first handful of soil kisses his corpse. He does not protest, and soon after the earth finally consumes him in its ravaging hunger. I whisper goodbye. With a merciful prayer, I leave quickly. I do not look back.

I arrive at the foot of the hill and look up to the sky. The risen sun scintillates affectionately on the ashen hill, ornate with gloomy trees and lamenting birds, on my brother's new home, deep within the belly of the omnipotent mother. I will have to move on from my melancholy and loneliness, but there is the sweet blooming of hope inside my heart as I remember where I buried his body: facing the east, where the great sun rises. Soon, I hope he too, will rise in glory.

Almost reunion

This day finished nicely as I went out with my former (but still definitely awesome) column mates, Vashtie and Kristel. We only went to Mcdonald's but I enjoyed spending time with them after months of not being able to go out on a gimmick/s with them. I miss the Red Mango gimmicks we used to have back then in first year, when the Social project called for us to meet up outside school. The last time we went together was last January, not quite long after New Year. It's nice to remember those moments, and so I look forward to having more of them. :)

Special mention: Thank you to Nica Nunez for giving me this lovely Minion doll! I LOVE YOU!

Oh why

During Mandarin time today, my teacher in his persiflage greeted me a happy birthday (even if it's tomorrow) in the form of a video droning the "Happy Birthday" song in Mandarin in a terrifying, almost never-ending loop. Much to my chagrin, my classmates gave me sly glances as my teacher gleefully clapped to the rhythm of the song. Even if several people greeted me, I have not felt such inhibition in quite a long time. My teacher deliberately gave us the option to sing that for the oral exam. 

I am quite pleased although confounded by the fact that my teacher let me off on the oral exam due to the fact that it is my birthday the next day. I am just worried that "bonus" is actually a bogus. Several of my classmates found the courage to "make a fool of themselves" (as my teacher puts it) and sang that. As amusing as it is, I would rather dictate three sentences for the oral exam. 

Well, so much for the last day (afternoon?) of being fourteen. 所有是好.

...

Sometimes, when I find myself cornered within the dark recesses of my mind, I see a little girl all alone and afraid. Even after all these years, she is still afraid, still scared of being abandoned, still scared of being left behind. 

I (paralleling that girl) am filled with trepidation for the loss of sweet memories. But with these sweet memories come dark times, and with the perpetual tick-tocking of the clock, I cannot help but become quiescent when I remember these memories. I fear that they will grow numb, but sometimes being numb helps so very, very much.

Progression

Dr ip dr op

water petal

                                 blooming

on the clear lake's reflection

paper balloon

f l o a t i n g high among

(white-headed clouds)

the silent child 

laughing, and 

no sleeping sons and daughters

on the          soft green earth

Pebbles

I do not understand why your ears are so tightly closed. You are always hearing but never listening. No matter what I say, I always see your eyes roll up and your face turn away, and you shut me out the way one would shut out a strong wind. 

Your eyes are open but they never see. What you see in front of you is the result of your own hand. But you only choose to see what does not hurt you. I have warned you before to never keeping looking at one thing, but I failed to realize that you are stubborn. Your vision is straight and narrow, not all-seeing and round. 

Sometimes you are too much like a rock. Too obstinate and too proud, staying in one place so solitary. But you are a rock in water, and I am the water. One cannot block the strength of a powerful stream. I will mold you and change you, until you are no longer a rock but more like smooth pebbles. Small enough to flow with the water, but big enough to stay in one place. 

Do you now see that I am not silent and weak?

For some reason, I really want to own a guitar. To have my very own one. I know guitars cost a lot, and I'm way past my obligatory birthday present, but there's a nagging feeling that tells me that I should get one. :(

In the kitchen

I sit at the kitchen table, my legs dangling like the vines hanging in our garden, and turn my nose towards the wafting scent of the crispy bacon and eggs frying in the pan held by my mother. I drum my fingers on the marble counter top, tapping to a beat much quite out of rhythm. My mother wears a red apron while she cooks. Its color flashes through my mind, reminding me of my own round face yesterday after school: bright, bold, bloody. Crimson bloody. 

A few scrapes here and there, and in one swift motion a hot plethora of fried maple bacon and sunny side up eggs slide onto my plate. My mother picks up the plate and sets it down in front of me, uttering not a single word. Uncomfortably I grab my fork and begin toying with my breakfast. I don't bother to scoop in food into my mouth, instead I poke at an egg yolk which bursts immediately, trickling its yellow soup across my plate. Even if I don't look up from my plate, I can feel my mother's eagle eyes trained on me, narrowing into slits as they pass over the swollen black eye on my face, the cuts and bruises that line my arms and neck. 

She pulls the chair across me and sits down. She remains silent still. The heavy atmosphere between us starts to weigh down on me, and no matter how hard I try to push it away, it always comes back in the form of my mother's gazing look of accusation. The strips of bacon underneath my fork crumble as I unduly spear each one with a heavy thought on my mind. How will I explain everything? The wounds, the black eyes, the blood that trickled down my pale lips----how will I be able to tell her? In the silence of the kitchen, only one answer swirls in my head.

I don't. 

* * * 

Meep. This is actually a rewritten version of a short story I made during Social. My classmate wanted me to write a story, so here it is. :)) Mehehe sorry if it's not too good, or way too cliche. Sinabaw kasi ako.

:(

Distance between us
no casting glances from both,
not even a smile.
Lingering conversations, exchanged between us 
two mutes; start not with
hello. 

Puppy love

I don't know how it happened, but minutes later the chocolate bar in my hands completely disappeared. I must have devoured it out of sheer hunger. I look at him sheepishly, crumpling the metallic aluminum in one hand, and grinned one of my signature embarrassed grins. Dimples showing, he smiles at me and laughs heartily. I tense up a bit. Is there chocolate smudged on my chin? 

He leans in closer and cups my face gently. Taking his thumb, he wipes away the suspected stain of sweetness of my chin. His fingers brushing against my skin sent chills down my spine, but I couldn't help but smile as well. At a distance this close, I notice that his eyes aren't a swirling obsidian, but kind eyes with warm streaks of brown. I could just get lost looking into them. I feel the warmth of his body and inch closer to him. He takes my hand with his free one and squeezes lightly. I smile as he strokes my face, and slowly but sweetly, he speaks to me.

"I love you," he whispers. "Don't ever leave me." 

**

Uhm hi. Just practicing mushy love POVs :)) It's so badly written.

Damn I feel so lonely right now.

Ugh

My head's constantly throbbing. It doesn't take much for anything to soon become an irritating migraine. As of now, a lot of things bother me thoroughly. Ha.

There isn't much homework for this week, although I feel stressed about a couple of things. It takes up a lot of my concern and of course, my peace of mind. August is almost through, and so is the first term. There's still a lot of unfinished business to complete. :(

I really need to drink Paracetamol right now.

Semi-grade of doom

It just sat there on the green paper, black and bold and glaring at me like I've made a huge mistake. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I felt my eyes grow wider with each passing second as I stared at a huge capital letter that meant everything between life and death. Well, not exactly life and death, but it meant a lot to me. 

I felt mocked in a way. The bold letter was printed side-by-side with a numerical correspondence, and both seeped with condescending negativity. My eyes were glued to the paper. It was painful to look at the slip, but I couldn't look away. Damn, this is what I feared the most, I thought. And now it's in front of me. Damn. 

I looked around and saw that my other classmates were stoically looking at their slips as well. Although subtle, I immediately sensed their disappointment and shock. It was hard not to notice, anyway. My teacher started speaking again, not minding the depressed aura filling the room. In one swift motion, I sealed the green paper shut. I wanted to shut that thing out of my mind. I put on a smile and turned to my seatmate. She too, looked desolate. We stared at each other with reassuring looks, channeling one clear message. This is going to be a long term.

* * *

Bleh. I dislike my MTRs. Strongly dislike.

This is really short and irrelevant.

When you bid me good night
and all our old pictures fade grey,
just promise me you'll stay.

* * *

I just feel so senti right now. Sigh.

Friday log

So I'm here staying at home. Sitting on a dusty brown couch in front of the laptop. Salivating over a stone cold monggo hopia.

I feel really exhausted and sick. I'm starting to have allergies again. Sore eyes and a runny nose? Not a good combination. It's probably because of sorting all those musty clothes in the relief operation yesterday. Yikes. I'll need to take my medicine later.

I'm happy that I was able to volunteer for two days straight. This would have been my third day if not for fatigue and itchy noses :( Hay. But I guess I've done my share, even if all I did was sort clothes and pack food. Hihi.

Now I'm having a headache. Might as well rest. :/

Who knew that
so much can

fall

washed away by
pouring rains.

A little bit chilly today, isn't it?

There was
nothing
but grey skies
raining that
Saturday morning.


I set two
cups of coffee
on the table.
Your head was
still in your hands.
I felt bad.
I wanted to
pat you
on top of that
brown head.


I grabbed my
ombre blue 
blanket and
tucked it
over
you.


You said you
felt a little
cold
and moved
further away
from me.


I only
sipped the
black coffee in my cup
It tasted cold.

Ouch

A split/second decision

had landed me

on

    the

         floor.

Black streams fell

from my coffee cup

as an army of petals

marched on top

of my head.

Papers strewn all over

like flustered crowds

scattering in a subway station.

A murmur of creases

take refuge on my clothes.

Huh. I swear I could almost see

the Aurora Borealis

above me.

You stand there,

almost flustered, I see

as you help me up

and frantically search

for my missing

earring.

Overshadow

"What time will you be home?" I ask, never looking away from your face. I notice that your eyes have grown darker and your lashes longer. All around us, the walls mesh into a dreary grey. The color seeps and bleeds and molds around your bending figure, bright, bold, and yet sullen. It hurts my eyes, looking at you like that. I look away for a split second. I notice something odd.There's a subtle crack running down the wall. I have never seen that before.


"Late. Don't wait up." you say. Deep down, I feel a little needle pricking my heart. I swear, I can almost feel the blood gushing out. Crimson. Fatal. You grab your jacket and slip it on. It too, is drab grey. Why so much grey? I wonder, as you head for the door, your worn out shoes touching down on the creaking, miserable sepia floorboards. You place your hand on the metal doorknob. Even from afar, I can feel the chill radiating off its silver conical shape.


The door opens slowly. You place a tired foot outside the door, but you hesitate a bit. Watching you, I can't help myself and I cry out softly. "Please. Come back." The walls begin whisper to me in their grey, hushed tones. I feel a dizzying sensation, having said those words. The stabbing pain comes back again, and as it creeps up my spine I begin to cry. I don't know why, but I cry. You look at me with stone cold eyes. But I cry anyway. Because I know that those stone cold eyes are soft beneath the waters in your eyes. 


You stare at me sadly. "Goodbye." That is all that you say. You turn around and leave me in my own silence, closing the door with one final click.

Friday Feature: Naked Vision by Gwen Hardwood

Naked Vision

Gwen Hardwood

I was sent to fetch an eye

promised for a fresh corneal graft.

At the doctor's rooms nurse gave me

a common paper bag;

in that, a sterile jar;

in that, the disembodied eye.

I sat in Davey Street

on a low brick garden wall 

and looked. The eye looked back.

It gazed, lucid and whole,

from its colorless solution.

The window of whose soul?

Trees in St. David's Park

refreshed the lunchtime lovers;

riesling gold, claret dark;

late flowers flaunted all colors.

But my friend and I had eyes

only for one another.

Expectation overload

I really dislike it when people force so much on you, and they only expect the best of the best from you. Especially when it's a combination of efforts. I'm already being crushed under the weight of my own burdens, be it personal, academic, or whatever aspect of life, but people just drop their own loads on me, expecting me to solve or do everything by myself. I try so hard to keep a calm and patient demeanor, but time ticks away and sometimes my patience wears thin, along with my stamina and strength. Most of the time, I really just want to snap. But I can't.


I need to hold myself together. For my sake? Maybe. But it's mostly for other people's sake. Sigh.


I especially dislike it when they blame you for all your efforts, even if you are the only one who actually stayed focused throughout the whole ordeal. It's a combined effort, as I said up there. I'm not the only one who's supposed to be slaving away. I can't be blamed for the things that go wrong. At least I try. It wouldn't be my fault if I'm the only one trying. 


Ughh I'm not supposed to be complaining, but geez. I'm tired and sick of feeling that way. Give me a break, yes? :)

Listening to the presidential speech

I find it strange that SONA is such an emphatic, verbose event. Why can't SONA be a day alloted for outreach activities that the president so promises to commit himself to and take action on? It's one whole day of endless chattering and heated protesting. It would be a nice change if we actually did something, right?

Wala lang. I'm just curious. 

Some things in life that I do not understand

Sumilong ka sa 
payong ko
at lumuluha ang
ulan,
Ngunit, 'pag tayo'y lumuha,
wala nang iba...


Paalam.

Hay. Masarap maging bata ulit, noh? Kahit isang araw lang.


Nakangiti, walang pakialam sa mundo. Basta lang masaya ako, okay na. 


Ang problema ko kasi ay hindi na ako inosente. Masyado marami akong alam; matindi ang mga damdamin ko sa mga iba't ibang bagay. Mahirap na mabuhay sa mundong ito. Maraming kailangan, maraming bagay o tao na nawawala, maraming pagsubok na dadaanan ko. 


Puwede lang ba? Isang araw, maging bata ulit ako?


Hay.

Woooooo

Hey.

I doubt you'll chance upon and actually read this, but if you do, well, I hope you don't kill me on sight, okay? Haha. 

Sometimes I get mad at you or jealous of all those other people who receive your special attention. I don't expect much from you, but it's difficult for things to work one-way, and you know that, don't you? It's funny since I'm the only one who wants to save this friendship. While I'm working hard to do just that, you do nothing at all. You may protest, but it does feel like that. 

Sometimes I may act as if I'm such an attention freak or overbearing or simply annoying. Hell, I think I'm really like that sometimes, but I only want to talk to you. Even just for a while. Small talk. You scolded me before that we shouldn't talk that much. I know, okay? I'm not stupid. We have a deal. But I swear, it's a really, really stupid one. But it's not like you care about my opinions. I understand that we can't talk as often as we used to (what a shame), but I'm trying to talk to you every chance I get. It's always an awkward silence between us. Do you know how painful that is? Yeah, you don't care. 

I'm sad, I'm angry, and I'm hurt. But you know what? I'm doing this for you. Even if my patience is so worn out and abused, I'll keep on waiting on you. Because I love you, no matter what. I'll love you even if you keep on hurting me, disappointing me, or leaving me. Because I love you. 

And that's what really matters. Even if it doesn't matter to you anymore.

Escapee

She's dead. Oh, God. She's dead.

           

The night was furious and cold, its ice-dagger eyes looking down on the young woman who ran down the dark road, arms hidden underneath layers of cloth. Tucked away in the sea of swaddling white lay a body, still and unmoving and silent. Splotches of flowery-red blood stained the stark-white blanket. Yet the body lay quiet, and not a single cry did it utter, even as the woman struggled haplessly to carry the figure and gather the blankets together. Underneath the glaring street lights, the figure draped on her arms mockingly looked like a cheap, knock-off corpse.

            

She ran even faster now, adrenaline coursing through her veins the way drugs did when they were injected into soft skin. But instead of feeling the satisfaction of ecstasy or giddy euphoria, all she felt was fear. And hopeless desperation. The street was empty, much to her rising horror. There was no room filled with glowing light, nor sleepless shadows that moved behind the windows. Only worn out cars and the scent of dying cigarettes lingered on the dimly lit lane, the ghosts of a far-away morning she may never wake up to. The sound of her heels clicked into the night as she spun around several times, searching for any sign of life in this dead road. Desolate and terrified, she began going up to the houses that were lined up, and as she pounded madly on these doors, the light from a single lamppost flickered eerily to the rhythm of her desperation. She needed help. She needed to get away from him.

He killed my daughter. She’s gone. I can’t let him catch me.

            

No one answered to her knocks. She staggered away, back onto the road, her eyes glistening, petrified. She clutched the bundle closer to her chest, with an unconscious hope that her heartbeat could revive her dead baby. As the night slaved on, she willed herself to keep running. Shadows stretched infinitely everywhere, on her paralyzed face, around the cold body of her child, beneath the closed doors, on top of the houses. They followed her as she neared the sight of a bridge, lonely and ancient and looming in the distance. Unwillingly, she let out a shriek of unadulterated relief. Solace, oh sweet solace, could be found at the end of that bridge. Her feet lifted her off the ground, and wildly she dashed down the dusty pavement, clutching her daughter’s lifeless body, blinded with relief and hope and mad recklessness. She ran away and never looked back, away from him, away from the darkness, away from her inevitable doom.

            

The incoming truck didn’t see the woman.

What happened yesterday

Hi.


Acquaintance Day was fun. This year's theme was a notch better than last year's, but I think I stand my ground when I say I enjoyed last year's acquaintance day better. Though the presentations were better and more amusing; I personally liked the pink batch's show. Blue and Yellow did a nice job, and so did Green, even if it didn't have much substance (don't judge me!). The sports complex was filled with students in funny (and sometimes elaborate) costumes, and I spotted a couple of teachers wearing a cape or wielding a hammer. It was all really nice to watch, from the opening remarks until the end, but my mood was ruined because of someone. Sigh. 


The interaction with III-6 went awkwardly yet smoothly. During the whole program, I was resting my head among the throng of bags because strangely, I was sleepy. But I enjoyed the time anyway; watching both sections cheer delightfully over paper fish and aww-ing to harmonious serenades. We ate in a buffet afterwards. My appetite was measly because my mood was still sour, but the food was delicious anyway. After the party, me, Raizza, and Teresa headed to the new POEE room.


It was so nice to be together with the POEE family. We talked and laughed for what seemed like hours in the big, ornate room with a balcony and a worn-out piano; no one felt out of place or left out. Ms. Rivadeneira suggested that we play Catchphrase, but we were so hyped up that we couldn't quit talking at all. We played a prank on Ms. R first, though it backfired horribly, and we ended up sitting on the floor in a wonky circle. There was a round robin of how our summers went,  and how much has changed in us; Ms. R said I grew taller and thinner. I found that very funny. We tried to play a bit of Catchphrase, though sadly, a lot of POEE friends needed to leave. Ms. R had to attend the teacher's party at 2, so we bade our see-yous and parted ways.


I went around the campus with Graziela since there was nothing else to do. We went around and ended up talking about I-2 and sophomore year and everything in between. Reminiscing is lovely to do, even if it brings back painful memories. We talked in terms of round circle, like last year's Acquaintance Day and first impressions and new experiences. Speaking of which, I missed I-2. There have been some bad times and sad ones, but I-2 is a first of many things for me. This went on for at least two hours, until Graz had to leave. I was lonely afterwards but I enjoyed talking to someone. 


Wooo now I need to study for the forms next week. Hectic. 

Oh, man. School starts next week, and yet I'm staying at home, all alone with my television dramas and thick fantasy books (City of Lost Angels, ftw). I ought to be doing something productive, like fix my school supplies, but I doubt that I'll be needing them on the first day. The teachers are likely to have different requirements for their class from last year's. It doesn't hurt to pray to be placed in a good section. I'm excited and anxious; I just hope I don't have a nervous breakdown! 

* * * 

Lol I really want to talk to someone, but gosh, my personal conflict and the circumstances are holding me back. I'm trying to reach them through some friends, but my friends don't have load. At all. I feel so lonely. :( I'm still trying to understand what I feel and want at the moment. When you let go, you don't expect what's gone to come back. But what if it does? In the meantime, I should just occupy myself with other thoughts. -sigh-

* * *

I need to drink a glass of water. My writing doesn't seem coherent at the moment. :))

Household Wolves

I wake up to the sound of howling. I am half hidden underneath the yellow bedsheets that smell like nightmares and daydreams. Milkshake sits beside me, his black, beady eyes grinning shamefully like the unadulterated smile fixed on his face. Like a heavy cloud hanging from above, the ceiling stares down on me. It's dim inside my room, but thankfully the night light's still beaming beneath my bed, shining like the wispy stars outside my window. 


I turn to my right and look at the clock on my nightstand. It's 11:30. The numbers glow green. 


The howling outside my bedroom softens. I squirm a bit and then, I lay still, all quiet except for my hushed breathing. There's nothing else that I can hear. Reluctantly, I twist to lay on my back and close my eyes, concentrating everything on my hearing. And I wait, I listen, for what seems like agonizing minutes.


My ears begin to bleed at the screaming silence. With the heavy weight of sleep dangling on my eyelids, I start to doze off.


But then the howling starts anew. The two wolves begin to fight.


"You unfaithful, cheating liar!" screeches the first wolf. I listen closely to its shrill growl. It's a female. "The phone calls, the late night shifts, the smell of sickening perfume--you think I wouldn't find out? You two-faced bastard!"


The howling of the second wolf is much deeper, a baritone low. "Shut up, Jo. Just, shut up! Sit down and let me explain." From inside the bedroom, I imagine the second wolf snarling.


"You don't need to explain anything, Mark. Your stupid shit---that's enough for me. I want you to leave. Now." Female Wolf snaps back in a wavering tone. As if she were on the verge of tears. There's a lengthy pause after Female Wolf's line. I suck in a huge, quiet breath and wait.


I hear a low, raging rumble outside, like a swarm of angry bees flocking after the disturbance of their nest. The starchy, yellow sheets cover me in a protective cocoon, but it doesn't protect me from Male Wolf's upset gnarl. 


"Me, leave? You stupid bitch! This is my house. I think you should be the one leaving for good!" 


Female Wolf snarls loudly in disagreement, and soon, I find that Hell is just outside my bedroom door. I hear a marring cacophony of growls, howls, gnarls, and other unearthly sounds echoing throughout the small house. Outside my room, a lot of  things are being upset---the chairs dragged around, that tacky purple vase thrown, books crashed to the floor, the priceless china broken. I pull the pillow over my head, trying to drown out the sounds. My mind's blank until I remember the photos atop the fireplace and hung on the walls. What if I wake up in the morning just to find a portrait of me on the floor, staring from underneath the weight of shattered glass?


Then it all stops. The howling, the thrashing, the clash of battered wolf bodies outside my room---it all stops. I hear only my breath competing beneath the pillow. All is quiet. Until a large, thunderous thump resonates and dies softly. Something, something huge and heavy, had fallen down, defeated, or worse, maybe dead. 


I listen to the shifting motion that paces near the door. Low murmurs emanate continuously, like droning machines. I recognize the tone--it is Male Wolf outside, shuffling back and forth the corridor, standing over Female Wolf's crumpled body. Female Wolf is just laying on the floor, not moving, not growling in defense, but moaning softly, and I grow scared. The rattling of the doorknob doesn't help my fear. I know Male Wolf is standing outside, and now he wants to get inside. I pull the sheets over my rigid body and lay in wait as the doorknob's shaking becomes a mere, haunting lullaby.


I notice that the night light's shimmer is outshined by the darkness streaming in from the hallway. 

The Train Station Beauty

            It occurred to me that on the rainy afternoon of one November 12 day, I saw the most beautiful woman in the world sitting on a waiting shed bench.

                

            I was heading home alone from a day of exhaustingly looking for the perfect dress that I would wear for my school’s Social Graces program. I picked out a creamy lace dress with sweet spring flowers adorning it, and now it lay in a paper bag that bumped against my legs as I bounced down the stained stairs. People from all walks of life dotted the platform of the MRT station, from posh suited businessmen with their cell phones attached to their ears, petite women gossiping about the latest telenovela, to old men who wore dirty red caps and black jackets and held canes.  

                

            The wide expanse of sky grew heavy with dark tears. Raindrops drowned out the droning of the crowd, and the crackle of the lightning flashed across the sky as I stood alone on the Ayala station platform. A rumbling of baritone thunder was heard in the distance, but when I looked down the tracks, there was no sign of the train. Impatient, I glanced at my watch. It was 2:09 in the afternoon, and I should be home by now, just in time for my siesta. I shifted feet and closed my eyes for a minute, inhaling the city smog, human perspiration, and shattered rain. I slowly opened my eyes to find myself facing a bench on the opposite platform, and there sat a lady of 30 years, watching after two rambunctious little boys racing around her like cars. And in that moment, I knew that I was looking at the most beautiful woman in the world.

                

            Even from afar, I saw the crumple of her graceful figure as her mirror eyes were dragged along by the shrieking boys. Her wiry black hair shimmered down her shoulders like a horse’s mane, though rebellious strands of grey hair were strewn across her sweaty forehead. Her disheveled clothes seemed to be a monotonous uniform: a blouse and skirt of navy blue matched with brown stockings and shoes that looked too small for her. Yes, she must be a saleslady. She shuffled slightly on her seat, face worn down and tired. I even imagined her letting out a soft moan of exhaustion. She sat there, looking like she was the most ordinary woman in the world. But oh, she sat there, oblivious to my astonished awe.

It seemed so unreal, watching her from across the platform. It was as if the whole motion of the world, from the fall of the rain to the chatter of the people, had stopped to gaze at this ethereal figure.

I snapped back to reality as the heels of her shoes sonorously clicked against the platform as her two boys danced to the music of their playful banter. God knows how long I’ve been waiting, or staring at the lady on the bench, but hearing the blare of the train echoing in the distance, I’ve been waiting for a while. On my platform, men and women and children scurry to their orchestrated positions and waited for the train to arrive. I notice that the people gathering on the other platform were shooting annoyed glances toward the running boys, and their mother herded them futilely with her hushed voice.

I seemed unmoved by the action around me, only focusing on the lady holding her little boys’ hands so gently yet firmly. Clinging onto her grasp, the two enthusiastic boys calmed down and soon, sat on both sides of her, basking in the comfort of her warm presence. They closed their little eyes as the train chugged into the station. But just before that jolt of motion, the arrival of the train that forever separated me and the small family, I caught a glimpse of a smile on the woman’s wrinkled face.

And in that moment, I knew that I was looking at the most beautiful woman in the world.

Baggage

I've got a little sack

that I carry around;

I hope it's not too big

though it's very quite round. 

A chock-full of emotions

is stashed up inside,

all squished up and churning

in my sack's fleshy hide. 

I think I can measure

a ton of disappointment;

some sadness and fear

is part of the arrangement.

There's a cupful of anger

paired up with raw pride,

and a teaspoon of

loneliness

by which I abide. 

Two spoons of grief,

ten drops of regret,

mix in some tears

and then we're all set. 

My sack is now full

of pained emotions in scope,

but I guess there's still space

for a sprinkle of

hope.

Doubt

I don't exactly

believe in

fairytales and happy endings,

soul mates and destiny,

true love and forever,

but I guess it doesn't hurt

to see if they're true

ever since I met you. 

I have the weirdest dreams ever.

Okay, so last night, I had another weird dream. Out of four dreams, this is the one that's the most comfortable talking about. It's not exactly weird per se, but it's kind of amusing and sad at the same time. 8D


I was with the younger self of my muse, with her long hair stuck up in a ponytail and kept neat with a hairband. Well, not exactly her younger self, but younger in a metaphorical sense. We were in our school uniform, and we were walking through a tunnel-like structure across a body of water. I wasn't really sure if it was a lake or an ocean, but for an ocean, it was pretty small. The structure was made of light, polished wood with clear glass windows that bordered its walls, showing the calm cerulean waters mingling with early sunrise mist, panning out to the tall, looming mountains in the distance. People traveled to and fro inside the tunnel, minding their own business through soft chatter and a brisk pace.


My muse and I haven't been talking about anything in particular. We were giggling and smiling about something, but after a while we became awfully quiet. Instead we became more focused on reaching our destination at the end of the tunnel. Then, out of the blue, I inched closer to my muse and reached for her hand. I interlaced my stubby fingers with her delicate ones. We walked in silence, fingers intertwined. 


It's weird that I grabbed her hand, right? Right. But it's a thing of the past, and besides, I used to do that with someone.


We continued walking until we reached our destination at a place that looked like a stone temple. Just as we bounced down the steps, she turned to me and said, "I'm sorry, but I don't love you that way." Awkwardly, she smiled a toothy grin at me and batted her eyelashes. I blinked once and pursed my lips. "I'm from the future, and you'll love me this way," was all I said. "Oh, really?" She laughed softly and swung our hands higher and higher. I only smiled at her as she lead the way. 


Gaaah this is so weird.

What did I just write

It's funny how over the past few days my emotional state has been spiraling down. 


It simply just happens. I take my mind off a couple of things through means of leisure like watching Dog Whisperer or The Walking Dead or by talking to other friends to keep the loneliness at bay. But for some reason, the abyssal gap left inside me can never be satiated fully; the hunger never stops, it can only be satisfied for such a short while. 


Then I begin to cry. The tears keep coming like grief and anger on a conveyor belt that stretches on and on. Memories come next. A plethora of guilt-inducing moments that make me sick with unhappiness. I try to comfort myself with the nicer memories, but most of the time, the bad memories trump all the good ones. It's a futile internal struggle. Sometimes, I cry so much I eventually become tired of being sad. Instead, I become indifferent and angry. 


Last night, I cried for a good one hour. And I'm not exaggerating. 


Ugh. I'm so emotionally unstable. 


And I feel so alone.

I shouldn't be writing about things like this

It's been a while since I've last written something. I want to write again. 


But what's the point of writing if all I write is about you?


I'm trying to move on. But what tugs at me every day and night, leaving me no repose, not even in slumber, is the fact that we could have been. We could have been so many things if we took the paths not taken. We could have been lovers, really, if I had said yes to you that fateful November evening. 


But I didn't. I said no.


We could have still been friends, if that "confidante" whom I so trusted before had shut her mouth before telling every person in class about our past experiences. 


But she didn't. Suddenly, everyone knew about us.


Every day and every night, I always haunted by those memories of love that could have lead us to so much more.


Yes, we could have been.


But that's too late now. 


It's hard for me to let go. But I should. Because I know that you're gone. And there's nothing to wait for anymore. Nothing to hope for anymore. Just...nothing. 


I'm empty without you. But who cares?


No one does.

Fairytale

Once upon a time

when I loved you

my sad and lonely hand

will long and search and find yours,

ever so fragile and so gentle

waiting to have and hold mine,

waiting to mold our fingers

together

leaving no parting spaces

in between,
not wanting to let go.

Once upon a time

when I loved you

springtime beamed from your 

lovely little face;
golden brown feathers rustled
and perfectly complimented

the bloom of your lips,

a sweet, morning bud pink

which blossomed so beautifully,

transfixing the sunbeams in your smile

reflecting eternity

in the sunrises and sunsets of your

earthen brown eyes.

Once upon a time

when I loved you

I used to have you and hold you

in my love hungry arms

only fed and satisfied by the

smoldering embers of passion that burn

ever so softly, deftly, and brightly

warmly and longingly

gently and sweetly

in your long, everlasting embraces.

Once upon a time

when I loved you

these dusty, neglected lips of mine

ached and longed and desired

to give you only the best

of my virgin kisses,

drunk and plump with

ecstatic fantasies 

and carefree daydreams

and youthful love songs

harmonious with the melodies

of the I-love-yous
that we always sang.


But now, once upon a time
is now over. Those
fragile and gentle hands of yours
now only look like gnarled claws
scratching and ripping and tearing me apart
already so hurt and so harmed
with scars of regret
with cuts of rage and sorrow
with wounds of anguish
leaving me bloodied and defeated
in this battle of love.


Once upon a time
is now over.
Winter and autumn clash over 
the springtime of your face.
Dry, crumpled leaves match 
the wilted, frostbitten blossom 
of your now dark and poisoned lips,
drained of the springtime palette,
leaving nothing but the wrath of
the raging blizzard
to make endless voids of your
ice dagger eyes. 


Once upon a time
is now over.
I grow weary of 
the deathtrap that lies in your embrace,
hungry for bloodshed and ironic revenge.
I am gullible and stupid
like many trapped prey
to succumb to that old, useless passion;
fire burning and catching
in those arms of yours,
longing and waiting for your gentle touch
only to find myself
locked under the strangle of your
writhing hands.


Once upon a time 
is now over. Singed
are my lips, cut out is 
my tongue, for having
kissed you and loved you,
now a crime of treason
to you. The same lips
which used to sing of
our blissful love songs,
and whisper sweet nothings
into my fragile ears,
spit only poison
and pointed daggers
and God-forbidden curses
which strike my head
and my broken heart.


Once upon a time
when I loved you
you were my forever.
But now,
in this once upon a time,
I can only question
what forever really meant.

Untitled poem on the night of April 9

I pick up pieces of your

s h a t t e r ed

being, like broken mirrors

of a hundred, thousand

reflections of fake

m a s q u e r a d e s.

I can't even begin to comprehend this.

Ahh. I'm having trouble writing this in paragraph form, so here it is in bullet form.

• We used to wrap our arms around each other in warm and loving embraces, not a care in the world if people were watching and gawking at us with snake-like glares or curious cat eyes.
• My arms would be around your neck and yours would be clutching above my waist. Your head's on my shoulder while I gently snuggle mine next to the feathers of your hair.
• The scent of your cologne is so distinct and strong. I inhale it and find comfort in the familiarity of your smell.
• I used to give you light kisses on your hair. I liked feeling those brown feathers rustle beneath my course lips. 
• When seated, I'd embrace your waist and look up at you with adoring eyes. 
• You used to rest your head on my lap and I'd stroke your hair and silently hum you a lullaby.
• Whenever I'm seated next to you, I wrap my arms around yours and cling to it for a long time.
• You'd rub your head against me, with all those feathers on top of your head messily mashed together. I'd eventually hug you or do the same and we would end up snuggling, interlocked in an embrace.
• Sometimes, I would extend my hand towards you, fingers wriggling and searching, then you would inch towards me and surrender your hand for me to hold.
• I used to run my hands through your hair and then rest my head on top of yours.
• When I'm standing, I would wrap my arms around your neck or your shoulders, placing my chin on the crown of your head.
• One time, you rested your head on my shoulder. I placed my head on top of yours. We stayed like that for such a long time. And I didn't bother even if you were burning up for some unknown reason (you weren't sick that day).
• You went home early once without bidding me goodbye but you left me a small message: "A big hug for you"
• We would greet each other good mornings and goodbyes, coupled with short hugs from me.
• We used to call each other, even for the smallest things.
• You always went to me for comfort. Always me.

That's mostly what I recall about our relationship. So intimate. So intimate it's disgusting. Yet sweet.