Once More With Feeling

Bravely, I look further than I see.
Knowing things I know I cannot be, not now.
I'm so aware of where I am, but I don't know where that is
and there's something right in front of me, and I --

Touch the fingers of my hand
and I wonder if it's me
holding on and on to Theories of Prosperity,
someone who can promise me.
I believe in me.


Believe, K's Choice

I can't deny it anymore. I am one lucky, sorry-ass bastard. Ten years ago, I never imagined I'd live up to where I am now. (Although where I am now isn't exactly far from where I was ten years ago.) Still, here I am, just as clueless on what it is exactly I am running on and where I am headed as I was when I was seventeen. I barely made it out of high school, and all that was on my mind was -- well, there really isn't any delicate way to put this -- how to end it all. What it was that pushed me towards that point, I can't remember now.

By sheer force of will, I picked it all apart and scattered each little piece in hundreds of secret pockets in my mind. It took a fairly long amount of time, and networks and nodes of interlocking mental walls were built, but I got it done. Precariously held together, but still, done. Occasionally I would remember one piece, but never as a whole, leaving me wondering why I ever thought about killing myself in the first place, "Oh well," and then I'd move on with what I was doing at the moment.

The effort had its trade-off, however, and I'd felt it only the past couple of years or so. I was too intent and focused on forgetting and moving on that I'd never really paid much attention as to where I was headed. Now that I'm dusting myself off and pretty much done with the past, I'm left in the middle of a vast open field with nothing but the clothes on my back and a "What next?" text bubble floating above my head.

BUT. Strangely. I am not afraid. Like I said, I am one lucky, sorry bastard. I used to be less aware of it, but now I think a major reason why I am still here is because... YOU PEOPLE FEED ME. Many, many times I've felt like crawling back to the muck from whence I came and just will myself to stop breathing, but every time -- EVERY~TIME -- something happens and my plans of a quiet curtain-fall are disrupted. Sometimes it's a simple "thank you" from an acquaintance. Other times it's a major booze-fest with close friends. But each time and whatever it is, it pulls me back and I get voices in my head telling me, "This is worth it. You can handle a few more bruises," and they push me back into the ring.

So that's where I am. Twenty-seven, unemployed, purpose-free, clueless, wandering, but still breathing. I have learned to trust in whatever the Universe throws at me by now, be they people or circumstances, to dodge and-slash-or roll with the punches as deemed necessary.


Of course I won't leave out the usual Birthday bitchin'.
There is always a nanosecond of clarity before the jump, or even before impact. Everything I have ever learned from everyone I have ever met adds little dots of clarity in my eyes, for which I am very, very thankful. Here's to life, and all its beautiful messes.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Without A Name

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS


In your life, have you ever looked at something -- an object, a person, a sort of movement, or even a word -- which you felt you will be looking at for the rest of your life? Not in the literal sense, of course. Rather, in the sense that every time you look at that one particular thing, you feel something locking in place. The hinges catch, the air rushes out, and there is no space in between for influence or contention. The past is, the future is, life is. No words and without a name.

This is mine. The floating obsidian spires of Montt. For almost half a millennia, since emerging as a fledgling Dark Elf from the craters of lava at the northern tip of Sinner's Inheritance in Ignis, Montt has been a fount of strength, a crest of pride. From the towers thrust deep into the volcanic earth to the floating spires of the Grand Castle of the Lyonans, the indestructible obsidian are as bones and veins to Ignis as my bones and veins are to me. And in both, the Sacred Flames of Flox, the God of Fire, flow into infinity.

And yet, despite this abundance, this pride, this strength, a nameless ache has been persistent. No one in Ignis can say they haven't felt it. There have been signs over the past couple of centuries -- the way the air lifts black smoke when in the past there were none but white and silvery-grey, lava ports storing precious mana mysteriously breaking down, ancient ghosts rising in the Academy of Blue Flames. And just recently, the Luzark and the Marvas at the Last Warzone have been stirring. Whispers among the aristocracy that the nomadic Order of Female Paladins have begun to move once again. Worse yet, monstrosities called Worms and Amethyst Golems have been rising in number at the Scorching Canyon.

In the other parts of the continent of Roha, things have been no different. In Via Marea, where the Light Elves reside, numerous uprisings from the rebellious Ekzine Tribe and the Amazon Savages are being suppressed. The normally peaceful Light Elves have even allied themselves with the barbaric Humans from Einhoren to strengthen their forces against the Dhan assassins from the northern continents, who have been rumored to engage into a secret pact with the mysterious Dekans -- the descendants of the One Last Dragon.

The Half-Elves, although quite numerous and visible across the continents, remain neutral and have not allied themselves with anyone... yet. His Grand Majesty George Lyonan has been thinking of reaching out to the Lord Commander of the Half Elves, but action remains to be seen. Perhaps His Grand Majesty is waiting for what the other races might do as various events unfold.

Of the eight races, two have remained silent. First, the Giants from the frozen mountains of Draht. Their silence comes as no surprise to anyone in Roha. As the mountains surrounding their territory have stood in silent vigil for centuries, the Giants have also been known to share the same discipline. Despite their inaction, however, no one can think them indifferent. At World's Birth, Gail, one of the Lessers, created the Giants as First Guardians. This earned them respect throughout the continents and across all the races. What the races fear is when the Giants begin to move, since this can only mean one thing. Bless Flox it hasn't happened yet.

Second, the Halflings from the Eskar Isles and the Geizan. Deep within their underground shelters, one can only surmise how they thrive all these centuries without interacting with the rest of the continent. The Light Elves and the Humans did say that the Halflings are part of their current alliance, but their lack of numbers belie this. Still, at times like these, one cannot take anything at face value. Halflings have been known to be cunning, and have proven themselves brave during times past. They should not be underestimated.

Still, the world remains quiet. Expectant, yes -- air humming with rumors of war, rebellion, and uprising -- but still quiet. Evenings in Montt are the most beautiful. There is a small cradle of shadow within the city which I have claimed as my own, near where Chryme sets up his shop, away from the bustle and rattle of the aristocrats' gaudy carriages. Here I can perfectly see the towering spires of the Grand Castle, black on black on black sky, walls thinly lined with yellow-red lavalight, and corners glowing with the shifting hues of ghostly mana-blue, marking the locations of portals.

There is a nameless ache inside my chest. At four hundred and fifty years, I am still young, and perhaps I do not understand what this ache -- this persistent throbbing -- means. Perhaps it is the thread, binding me to this place. Perhaps it is the fear that someday, that thread will be somehow severed. During my travels outside of Ignis, I remember a Human bard singing the words, "we are the sum of the memories that we have." If that is so, then nights like this, the beautiful pulsing darkness of Montt, the slow-moving flame in my veins, and the nameless ache in my chest, are a prelude to who I shall become.


I, who the spirits of flame and dark and shadow have named Zohariel.

High Noon

It's high noon in March, and everything in my room is simmering in the steady heat. I am in bed, lying on my side, nursing an ache that has taken residence in my head for about a week now. I suspected it was my wisdom tooth, and the first few days of its existence raised hell on the left hemisphere of my brain. Now, after constantly popping painkillers, it has been reduced to a muffled droning, like a distant parade or a machine left running at the back of the house. On a day like this -- hot, humid, and quiet -- the imaginary thrum feels eerily comforting.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. I have been awake since the previous evening, alternating my waking hours with a book and an online game -- as has been my habit since joining the ranks of the unemployed five months ago. My attempt was a little halfhearted than usual, however, and my eyes opened once again. I stretch and turn and face the other way and decide that sleep will not come today. The prospect of waking up does not feel particularly appealing, so the chore of resting my body will have to be postponed. Involuntarily, I grope for my mobile phone to check the time. 12:02pm. Two minutes. I press the Menu button repeatedly just to hear the beeping, and I swallowed the urge to hurl the thing against the wall. The internal effort made me conscious of the stillness of my body.

I allow myself a sigh before rolling over on my back, spreading my arms and legs across the length of the bed. My flesh is a geyser mine, steam rising ominously to the ceiling. I feel half-baked, half-cooked; a clay doll left unfinished by an absent-minded doll maker. There is an inchoate mass of potential in my gut -- the kind that commands armies and dominates worlds -- left stale, writhing and pulsing and decaying in a crumbling earthen oven. The thought made me want to throw up, but again, my body remains still.

Three, five, seven breathing cycles and I push my body to a sitting position. I cross my legs and press the balls of my palms to my temples. Water, I thought. I'm taking a bath and I'm going out to walk. I will be putting on normal clothes and walk the normal roads normal people take for a few hours. No one has to see the half-baked, half-cooked, half-finished spirit withering inside me. For a few hours, I become just like everyone else.

Out in the streets, I hear the tinkling of the bells of the ice cream man, with little children at his orbit. At the back of the house, a rooster was crowing, "You have been judged! You have been discarded!" In another neck of the world, it was someone's birthday. I grit my teeth at the conjuration of energy required to stand up, yet, once again, my body remains still.

She and Her Cat

Today is Global Shinkai Day, and the following post is a transcription of one of Makoto Shinkai's short films, Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko (She and Her Cat). (Nihon'go to English translation by KickAssAnime.)


The season was the beginning of spring, and that day, it was raining.


Sec. 1 [Introduction]


That's why Her hair, and my body too, were heavy with humidity. The air surrounding us was saturated with the immensely pleasant fragrance of the rain. Phone rings.

The Earth on its axis turned quietly without a sound, and in this world, Her and my body continued to lose heat peacefully.

I am currently not at home. Your business, please.

That day, I was picked up by Her. That's why, I am her cat.




Sec. 2 [Her Days]


She was kind like a mother, and beautiful like a lover. That's why I quickly became enamored of her.

She lives alone and leaves for work every morning. I don't know the details of Her work nor am I interested, but I very much like the way She looks leaving the room in the morning. Her long hair, properly tied up, the faint smell of cosmetics and perfume. She places Her hand upon my head. "I'll go and come back, OK?" she says aloud. She straightens her back, and with a pleasant sound echoing from Her shoes, She opens the heavy iron door.

A smell like grassy places wet with rain in the morning remains for a while.


Sec. 3 [His Days]


Summer has come and I have a girlfriend too. It's the young cat, Mimi. Mimi is small and cute, and really good at being spoiled, but after all, I like a woman who is more adult. "Mimi, like Her."

"Ne, Chobi."

"What is it, Mimi?"

"Please marry me."

"Ne, Mimi. I've said this numerous times, but I have an adult lover."

"Not true."

"It's not, 'not true'."

"Let me meet her."

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Ne, Mimi. I've said it numerous times, but we'll have this kind of talk after you've become more of an adult. Or something." This kind of conversation goes on forever.

"Please come over to play again, OK? Definitely, OK? Really come over, OK? Really, really come over, OK?"

In this way my first summer passes, and gradually, cooler breezes begin to blow.




Sec. 4 [Her Loneliness]


One day like that, after a long, long telephone conversation, She cried. The other line is cut, then a busy tone remains. She hangs up. I didn't understand the reason, but She cried for a long time by my side.

I think She is not the one at fault. Only, I am always watching. She is always kinder than anyone else. She is more beautiful than anyone else. She lives more earnestly than anyone else.

I can hear her voice, "Da're ka... da're ka... da're ka da're ka... da're ka tasukete."¹




Sec. 5 [She and Her Cat]


In the darkness that has no end, this world that we are aboard continues to revolve. The season has changed, and it is now winter. The scenery of snow that, to me, should be the first I've seen, I have a feeling I've known it from long ago.

The winter mornings are late, so even when it becomes time for Her to leave the house, it is still dark outside. The sight of Her engulfed in a very heavy jacket makes her seem practically like a big cat.

She, who wore the scent of snow, and her slender, cold fingertips, the sound of the black clouds streaming by far in the upper sky, her soul, and my feelings, and our room... the snow inhales the sounds of all, but only the sound of the electric train that She boarded reached my upright ears.

I, and probably Her too, this world, I think we like it.






____________________
[¹] "Someone... someone... someone someone... someone, please save me."

The Persistence of Memory, Second: Clouds and Cobwebs

I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I turned around just in time to see a metal door closing. What I thought were voices turned out to be the shrieking of rusted doors on hinges. Then there was a rattling of gears and chains, and in another second, a thud.

The stillness in the air made me think of walls -- four-sided, all-enclosing, air-constricting -- but looking away from the door, finally taking in the surroundings, I find myself outside. Clouds were within my periphery, and below, a vastness of empty space. I was afloat -- my flesh pulsing with veins and skin and organs of gossamer.

A memory flickered to life before me -- like a slideshow or a silent film. I was fourteen, the day after I came out to a childhood friend, the first boy I fell in love with. I'd just woken up, the cobwebs of a distant dream disentangling from my eyes. I was feeling the same thing then as I am feeling now -- the inertia of a body floating in mid-air, free from any push or pull, when nothing and everything is wrong at the same time.

"What am I supposed to feel?" my fourteen-year old self said, to no one in particular. "What am I supposed to feel?" my present self echoed. The clouds never answered, nor did the cobwebs, as clouds and cobwebs are wont to do.

The Persistence of Memory, First: Thorn

It was about this time when it happened, when I felt something cold snake through my veins. Fever, blue-fingered and mist-eyed, she sidled herself beside me and gave my neck a lingering kiss. I pulled my jacket closer, zipped it three-quarters up, and tried to sleep. The twilight wind was gentle as a mother's touch, whispering sweet nothings as a lover would, but sleep did not happen. The shivering in my body danced with the vibration of air on my skin, and it calmed a storm foreign and further in my mind.

I opened my senses partly, only for a second, and I saw my hand pale and cold and trembling. My vision fell to my wrist, and it glowed white and silken in the moonlight, tainted by a vein with beautiful hues of super-saturated green. "Strange," I whispered to the atoms of dark and shadow. "It looks like a thorn."

And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I heard a voice not unlike mine and thousands of planets away, "Get me away from here," but it did not happen. Then I heard a scream.

The Unwiring

It felt good being away from the Internet for a few days. The unwiring gave me the chance to finish the fourth book of A Song of Ice and Fire -- finally. It's been quite a long time since I spent almost all the waking hours of one day just reading a book, I almost forgot how mind-numbingly pleasurable it was -- especially if the book's such a compelling read. I was hoping to stretch A Feast For Crows a couple more weeks, but having the willpower of a ruinous, crumbling cracker, I devoured the last third in one sitting, to my utter shame. I'm still proud tho. Having read all four books of the series, it feels as if I have stepped into the tightly-guarded stronghold of that elite society of geeks patiently waiting for the fifth, A Dance With Dragons. Crossing fingers that the news regarding its September 2009 release holds true.

I have also just finished watching the first season of Battlestar Galactica. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I guess it held enough entertainment value for me to watch all thirteen episodes plus the miniseries in one day at least. After seeing the final scene of the thirteenth episode, it felt like the entire first season was merely building up to something greater. If the hype is to be trusted, I should start meditating in preparation before I finish downloading the subsequent seasons.

Sunday was the last Internet-free day, and it was spent with a friend -- first at Bookay Ukay (where my friend purchased two Norman Wilwayco books, Responde and Mondomanila), then at UP Diliman, then, the rest of the evening until midnight, at Jaime Velasquez Park in Makati. For close to eight hours, we did nothing but sing songs mostly from our high school soundtrack -- "vagina rock," as my friend called it. This one, however, managed to wind its way several times into our randomly-generated playlist (I miss Endo).

I got home by 1:00am with the Internet reactivated. I was a bit disappointed since I was hoping to read (and maybe even finish) House of M, but I shelved the idea for the meantime -- I have three days' worth of feeds to catch up on. My degenerate Internet non-life is back on the weave!

My Bucket Is Bigger Than Yours

Weekend will be over in an hour. Not that it would matter much to someone like me, but if it gives one time to hang out with friends, talking until the wee hours of the morning over several bottles of beer, then weekends have their special brand of charm to look forward to -- even for someone like me.

One of the things brought up by a friend was how every person's perception of his or her worth can be compared to a bucket. The size of one's bucket is proportional to the perception -- the breadth and girth, if you will -- of how much space one needs to fill until a sense of satisfaction is achieved. He talked about his parents, how they didn't have very lofty and grand ambitions, but their buckets are at the brimful with contentment. His mother moreso, since despite having a very modest-sized bucket, she still radiates waves and waves of positivity that are influencing those around her.

I thought about mine for a few moments and decided that I'm fine with my bucket. Not a sizable one, true, but I feel I have enough satisfaction sloshing in me already. Ever the honest soul, my friend told me he wasn't convinced. He does admit that there are times when he sees contentment glowing in me, but there are also times in equal measure when that contentment shapes itself more into what seems like resignation -- with a little hint of resentment and regret. My resolve thinned when he mentioned that because... well... it's true.

Somewhere, miles, miles, and many more miles away, I thought I heard a rock splinter, leaving something hollow, yawning with the passing night wind. I downed several gulps of beer to fill in the newly-emptied space. This bucket is full, a thought formed, unbidden. Golden liquid spilling over the edge, glowing amber in the moonlight. I laughed at the idea. "My bucket is FINE," I insisted, and drank again. I heard my friends laugh with me, and I was glowing, and I was glad.

Insert Lame Fair Pun Here

So I was at the UP Fair last night with two friends. I was shamelessly bounding all over the place like a doped-up idiot, and I'm partly putting the blame on the bottles of Red Horse we've downed before heading over the fair grounds. And the other part -- it was my first time to experience the famed and fabled UP Fair. (As well as my first takoyaki experience.)

Someone told me someone dies each year. I was hoping to get in on the action, but altho there was an incident near the stage while Giniling Festival was performing, there wasn't any bloodshed. Ah, well, it was still fun.

My friend's quote for the evening: "Don't cry out loud, for crying out loud!"

The Eternally Distracted Child

Once again, I am being asked by my mother to write a 50-item Values Ed. test for 6th Graders in her school, and once again, I am finding myself heavily distracted by other things. Dragons, to be exact. Cute, cuddly, baby dragons that need hours and hours of attention and click-spamming in order to fully evolve into the mighty and legendary beings they are destined to be. Meanwhile, the test has been left forgotten after item number three.


Dragon Egg Needs Your Warm Tushie!
I am a 12-year old trapped in the body of a 26-year old.