fever

feverish. these red eyes need not stare

apart from what is already seen.

brooding. thou art more lovely

and more temperate.

it is not affection, a toilsome task.

not love, which even blood

embarrasses. the heart, traipsing

on what perhaps could be illegal.

turbulence. it is magnetic, and sharp

like a knife, with its obsession with idiosyncrasy.

only here i bare

for i will not be caught.

The Wolves

A pack of wolves, they had said affronting the demise of attractiveness. She pursued, determined and deaf to the advice she didn't seek to find that beyond the sulking forest life hid the death of her curious ills. She had nothing to protect herself with except her nagging persistence, a red riding hood that made her invisible to her own wounds. With each little step, the forest grew darker, the bark and skins became hardened amber, the leaves became green and jaded. There was a frightening howl from the inside she heard this from across the path like ghosts circumventing the heart of graveyards. Her way forked into not just two paths, but four, each way representing the call to elements -- life, money, career, and love -- split before her like four suits to a deck of cards, where, to pick one card would mean to deal with the whole pack. And on this nook she had been affronted by a pack of wolves. They had said too much to the ill demise of her naivete.

In a room without stars

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In a room without stars, without
the time telling us when to go ...
this had become my home.
I had no right to stay, never
knowing when to say farewell
to the close of our agreement.
Perhaps it had been clearer to you.
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I could only hear the moaning of rain
outside the hallway, where the sun thrusts its rays.
Not here, not where I thought
the void had been filled with hope.
Your scent rubbing off on me
like the pretense of breathing
enthralled with the death of my egregiousness.
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I remember myself grazing the plains,
slender like your abdomen, the hint
of shrubbery where seeds were sown in daylight.
Don't you miss this thing of beauty
this heart beating ostensibly?
I could not find any other dedication
as mild as the untamed beast, yet milder
than its incorrigible tamer.
I had your arms to shelter me
the foundations of the house, or were they my own
holding on the gutters of the roof?
I had only me to shelter from myself.
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The first and the last thoughts, the compromises,
took only two days to forget.
Would it be the dark sky
or merely the intimacy of stars
that I miss so badly?
I'd continue to walk the road alone,
still trapped in your room, or me,
trapped inside my own disillusionment?
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I had no right to stay and all the reasons to leave
here I am feeling shame for my lack of guilt.
And now that I'm in my own room
I realize it hasn't been the stars that guide me.

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It’s the nth time of the month

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The last time we saw each other was last Sunday and I was particularly observant of how much of the moodiness pervaded what should’ve been an enjoyable farewell. My good friend from high school was leaving for Canada the next day and that was the last night we were to have together in what could be another 2 or 3 years till he visits again. Right while I was dressing up, the rain began to pour in buckets, and soon enough, our street was already flooded. Only in our street, only because all the adjacent streets had upped their concrete pavements by at least a foot higher, ours became the receiving basin for the soily water. I had to hitch a ride toward the train station just so that I can get to dry land and get to the rendezvous on time. I was more than willing to go and brave the brown river because I knew my friends would go the distance for me had they been in my shoes.
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We ate dinner in a fancy Italian place inside the mall, and already, I had been told to never do that again, the translation, to never have people meet without their knowing. To my defense, it wasn’t as if I was introducing them to criminals on parole or Hannibal Lecter, I was having my friends meet my other friends. For crissakes, just the night before, I met up with my former officemate in this reggae bar with her other officemates and I was fine with that. I mean, can you lighten up please?! It’s a f*cking weekend, can’t we just unload and not have to be so freakin’ moody?
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Anyway, it was still raining outside while I smoked, raining while unknown performers sang hip-hop songs and promoted the newest HP products I could never afford to buy. There had been a comment on how my friend and I should try to control our need to smoke especially since it’s been very humid lately. Fine. I didn’t force you to join me outside to smoke. It was nice of you to accompany me, but I could’ve done it myself and got back inside and we still could’ve talked and had a blast. Geez …
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And when my friend left because he had to go pack up his stuff for the trip, both of them teased me about my friend high school friend. Hello??? It just so happens that I had been most open with him about stuff I can never talk about with other people, stuff I consider to be personal. It was a sad thing he had to leave 2 years ago when we were just starting to open up to each other. It’s a real close friendship I have with him and it’s sad that things happened the way they did, but to fucking put malice into it just pisses me off.
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So today, my cellular still cut off, I really wanted to cancel going out even when I felt like going out. I didn’t because I didn’t want to be that kind of person who would put something off just because it’s more convenient for me. My other friend had prior engagements, so she decided we just hang out around the area. I ate pizza courtesy of our supervisors, so that had become dinner for me. It pissed her off that I already ate dinner and she was starving, having followed the cabbage soup diet and it pissed her off that she was unable to contact me while my mobile was on silent mode. I couldn’t help it, I am honestly EMBARRASSED when my phone rings in public. I have a wonderful phone but it’s just hate it when I have to talk in an enclosed public area. It’s non-negotiable for me. I’ll call you back when I can (if and when my phone isn’t cut off).
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I can go on and on … the goatee, the asking if it’s only gonna be the both of us tomorrow night, why I choose to sit away from a person I saw (who I also saw the previous weekend) despite being beside the speakers, the not wanting to wear something daring for a change (like wearing a tank top or going “commando” to the bar), how my need to be in a relationship would not solve my problems (as if I know what my problems are), and I fear the list would continue to rant itself away tomorrow night.
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Inside the cab, we were staring at different directions, didn’t even talk to each other. I was thinking about where I’m headed to again, and how she means well, and how I value her honesty, and how I’d probably cancel tomorrow night because I would’ve hated having to adjust to these mood swings again … thinking, thinking, thinking. Again, it’s the weekend and I’d hate to be burdened by these negative thoughts. It was clear we were two very different people, I admit being naïve and stubborn, but that’s who I am. However desperate I am to want to feel grown up, I don’t want to fall into that fit of depression again simply because I’m enjoying what I have now. It can be better of course, but as I’ve learned the hard way, too much of idealism is not healthy. Having such high expectations leads to more disappointments. The impatient already lose by the mere act of waiting.
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Right before she got out of the cab, she told me she’d prefer not to meet with me tomorrow night. Too much bitchiness during this time of the month.
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And here I thought of blaming familiarity breeding its contempt.
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Regarding the Horror Story

Why did the driver have to die? A college friend posted in egroup:

"But all stories, I believe, must give in to an ending for another to begin. And the beauty of the human character is such that no matter what the ending, giving up is never part of the plot."


The story is more a psychological analysis for me than it is a literary piece. Whenever we write or tell stories, there are unfiltered, unintentional biases that form out of the subconscious. I wrote this story more as a means to learn more about myself and as a means of release. If turned out to be a good read, then that's the bonus.

I plan to write a sequel. Ü

I'm not sick, but I'm not well

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"You look so fine

I want to break your heart

And give you mine

You're taking me over."

-- Garbage 2.0

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And just now, I realized, I am attracted to sad people. I don’t know if I’m attracted to the person itself or if my infatuation draws its prehensibility from the existence of the emotional state they’re in. I hardly see myself as a rescuer, since I myself need the rescuing most of the time. I dunno. It’s all fucked up really.

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I have this officemate who is totally not my type. The person is skinny, gangly even, sloppy and moves like a sloth. Although I admire the sense of rebelliousness in the way the person dresses – ordinary long sleeve shirt with slim-legged pants that are too long and unfolded, worn out leather boots close to being the cowboy kind, gelled up hair but still unruly, broken eyeglasses, and either a burnt sienna leather jacket or a brown corduroy blazer to withstand the cold -- everything still seems so unpolished. Often quiet, the only thing I know about this person is that there is fondness for art films like the one lent to my friend, El Crimen del Padre Amaró and The Virgin Suicides. Aside from that, I don’t even know how old the person is.

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Last week though, the person attempted to hang out with my group more often even when that meant extending lunch hour by nearly 30 minutes. I feel there was something the person wanted to say, something about a bad breakup, something about not being able to deal with the job well. I notice these things. I know there’s something amiss, especially when the person left for home during lunch break today on account of illness.

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I want to know more. I am inadvertently drawn.

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Spent

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“I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love”
-- Paper Bag by Fiona Apple
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I spent the evening with 2 friends – one from elementary and the other someone introduced to me by a college friend. I didn’t expect my night to end like this. Tired.
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I wasn’t even supposed to go out. I need to tighten my hold on money till the next paycheck. Another test of my self-control.
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On regular days I keep looking at myself in the mirror, seeing how much of me has changed the last time I lost a pound or two. I haven’t changed. It’s still me but with different clothes, me but with a jaw line, me seeing parts of my sternum, me seeing more of the veins in my arms that stretch out forever in despair.
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Perhaps I should’ve started the diet with my soul. As I examine the looking glass, I find that I’m still lost, still considering these imperfections as warps on the mirror and not who I really am now.
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I thought I could never be anorexic. Let’s see where this all ends.
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I want to forget feeling. I want to forget how it is to hold hands, to kiss, to think of someone and to think that I’m being thought about. I want to forget affection altogether. I need to focus on work and nothing else.
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Apparently I’m not playing the game correctly. I was told outright. Apparently I forget doing something and I don’t know what it is I was supposed to do. It is true, I am pigheaded.
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I want to play more with these ideas, but I’m tired.
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