none stirs
none speaks
in the aftermath of war
two princes
in armor tarnished
sword all but forgotten at their feet
shadows long
flesh quivers
the fading half-light sees me on my knees
you hesitate; i urge:
there is no army
the sun has gone
finish your work
claim your victory
but if it please your highness,
before you leave, do me a kindness --
make sure
all life
is gone
from this body
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Rage
It doesn't happen often. I can't remember the last time it did -- before Sunday, that is. What happens is, for about two hours, I'd be quiet. Lying down, maybe. Thoughts will be overlapping, one on top of the other, but never really silencing the ones below. If anything, the cacophony becomes even louder. I listen to their distinct voices -- every one of them. I'd agree most of the times. "Morons," they'd say, for instance, but not to me. "Filth," they'd say again, "Everyone around you -- mindless sheep. Morons. Filth." I'd agree.
It goes on for some time, the voices. Layer after layer, story after story, guilt on guilt, fuel to the fire. Still I'd be on the bed, motionless for the most part. My eyes will be moving, following a phantasm in the room. A specter. The voices magnify their chorus.
What happened last Sunday was, I got up after two hours of being motionless on the bed. I went down to the bathroom, and I slammed the door -- a little forceful than I'd intended, to be honest. It was enough, however, the sound -- enough to break something in my mind. A thin film of glass, maybe? A nylon string? An old piece of rope? It doesn't matter. Whatever was bound became unbound, and the specter took hold.
The cooling plastic hook attached to the door was not let go. I pushed the door open again all the way through... and then I pulled it shut even harder. BAM! the wood cried. I did it again. BAM! it said again, splinters exploding onto my eyes, onto my arms. BAM! BAM! BAM!
And just as suddenly, the rhythm stopped. Someone was holding the door, and someone was saying something couldn't hear. I screamed to her (his?) face because I couldn't hear. "I can't hear you!" I shouted. Or I tried to shout, at least. I felt something implode in my chest -- a black hole -- and it sucked all manner of sound into it. I shouted again. I couldn't hear. I stomped my foot, I punched the door. I couldn't hear.
I'm not really sure how long it lasted. I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, my breathing pounding in my ear like sea foam, like the breaking of the universe. My cheeks were burning -- cold and hot at the same time. White noise crept into my mind like vines.
I came to. I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, but I was more quiet now. My breathing was more regular. I felt the needle-sting of a mosquito on my foot, and an involuntary hand reached to kill it. The world slowed to a crawl, and I felt every molecule in the air parting to make way for my hand. Eventually it reached its destination. The mosquito was still gorging on my blood when it died, thick and red and stringy on my thumb. That's when I knew it was over. What was unbound was bound once again.
It goes on for some time, the voices. Layer after layer, story after story, guilt on guilt, fuel to the fire. Still I'd be on the bed, motionless for the most part. My eyes will be moving, following a phantasm in the room. A specter. The voices magnify their chorus.
What happened last Sunday was, I got up after two hours of being motionless on the bed. I went down to the bathroom, and I slammed the door -- a little forceful than I'd intended, to be honest. It was enough, however, the sound -- enough to break something in my mind. A thin film of glass, maybe? A nylon string? An old piece of rope? It doesn't matter. Whatever was bound became unbound, and the specter took hold.
The cooling plastic hook attached to the door was not let go. I pushed the door open again all the way through... and then I pulled it shut even harder. BAM! the wood cried. I did it again. BAM! it said again, splinters exploding onto my eyes, onto my arms. BAM! BAM! BAM!
And just as suddenly, the rhythm stopped. Someone was holding the door, and someone was saying something couldn't hear. I screamed to her (his?) face because I couldn't hear. "I can't hear you!" I shouted. Or I tried to shout, at least. I felt something implode in my chest -- a black hole -- and it sucked all manner of sound into it. I shouted again. I couldn't hear. I stomped my foot, I punched the door. I couldn't hear.
I'm not really sure how long it lasted. I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, my breathing pounding in my ear like sea foam, like the breaking of the universe. My cheeks were burning -- cold and hot at the same time. White noise crept into my mind like vines.
I came to. I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, but I was more quiet now. My breathing was more regular. I felt the needle-sting of a mosquito on my foot, and an involuntary hand reached to kill it. The world slowed to a crawl, and I felt every molecule in the air parting to make way for my hand. Eventually it reached its destination. The mosquito was still gorging on my blood when it died, thick and red and stringy on my thumb. That's when I knew it was over. What was unbound was bound once again.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Just As I'd Imagined
It was just as I'd imagined it would be. We all know how it goes even if we all have our own versions of the story. A chance encounter at a park, a bookstore, a coffee shop -- mine is at a 24-hour convenience store early in the morning before I head over to work. Like last Monday.
The stage was set. The curtains were drawn. All that needs done was to speak, but neither of us did. Not through voices at least. Our eyes did most of the talking, as did the way you stepped back slightly when I was standing behind you at the counter queue. Just as I'd imagined, your scent unlocked the same colors in my mind as it did in my fantasy. I shivered as the sensation of flowing water traveled through my body.
"You'll be late for work," my mind chided. I recoiled and heeded without question. Like a repentant child, and I am all too suddenly back on rock hard ground. I left the store with one last look, to which a smile was returned. But the chiming of the door sealed every possibility shut. And just as I'd imagined it would be, the fantasy was over.
My feet were heavy as I walked to the bus station. Many, many times I wanted to turn around, break into a run, and ask for a number -- a name, at least. It didn't happen. I got into the bus and sat on my usual seat. I had too many things disconnected, I thought. Too much of my circuitry was burnt out. It wouldn't have worked anyway, my mind insisted.
But I'm having enough of it. I should do this right the next time -- and there will be a next time. If not with the same person, then there will be another. I'm still young, no matter how much I convince myself otherwise. I deserve this, no matter how much I tell myself I don't.
It will be nice if it's going to be the same person, though, and in the same setting. He smelled lovely, and it was a convenient fantasy.
The stage was set. The curtains were drawn. All that needs done was to speak, but neither of us did. Not through voices at least. Our eyes did most of the talking, as did the way you stepped back slightly when I was standing behind you at the counter queue. Just as I'd imagined, your scent unlocked the same colors in my mind as it did in my fantasy. I shivered as the sensation of flowing water traveled through my body.
"You'll be late for work," my mind chided. I recoiled and heeded without question. Like a repentant child, and I am all too suddenly back on rock hard ground. I left the store with one last look, to which a smile was returned. But the chiming of the door sealed every possibility shut. And just as I'd imagined it would be, the fantasy was over.
My feet were heavy as I walked to the bus station. Many, many times I wanted to turn around, break into a run, and ask for a number -- a name, at least. It didn't happen. I got into the bus and sat on my usual seat. I had too many things disconnected, I thought. Too much of my circuitry was burnt out. It wouldn't have worked anyway, my mind insisted.
But I'm having enough of it. I should do this right the next time -- and there will be a next time. If not with the same person, then there will be another. I'm still young, no matter how much I convince myself otherwise. I deserve this, no matter how much I tell myself I don't.
It will be nice if it's going to be the same person, though, and in the same setting. He smelled lovely, and it was a convenient fantasy.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Outside the Karmic Circle
Anything can be said without fear of karmic retribution, that's what I love about getting together with friends. Especially when we're under the influence of the holy distilled spirit, the things that parade out from our little heads can span countries and countries of utter silliness and insane inanities.
UP Diliman, that's where we usually hang out. It was never our alma mater, but the three of us have made our own tiny planet out of it. Sarah's especially -- or what we affectionately call Susan's, just because. Afternoons would be our domain, just a little bit after lunch. We will have the place to ourselves, and, barely starting with the first round of beers, we let loose the absurdity. This will stretch on until around 7:00pm, where we will either have dinner at an out-of-the-way place in Krus Na Ligas -- usually Sefali -- or we will head home.
By this time, the buzz in our heads will be a lovely tinge of pink, and we will be invincible. We will, however, be too tired to function any further, so the power is wasted on us. Not that we would care.
Company is always welcome, and new minds are encouraged to dive into the mad, mad cacophony. If you find yourself feeling restless one afternoon, craving for time outside the karmic highway, click your heels three times and say the magic words.
UP Diliman, that's where we usually hang out. It was never our alma mater, but the three of us have made our own tiny planet out of it. Sarah's especially -- or what we affectionately call Susan's, just because. Afternoons would be our domain, just a little bit after lunch. We will have the place to ourselves, and, barely starting with the first round of beers, we let loose the absurdity. This will stretch on until around 7:00pm, where we will either have dinner at an out-of-the-way place in Krus Na Ligas -- usually Sefali -- or we will head home.
By this time, the buzz in our heads will be a lovely tinge of pink, and we will be invincible. We will, however, be too tired to function any further, so the power is wasted on us. Not that we would care.
Company is always welcome, and new minds are encouraged to dive into the mad, mad cacophony. If you find yourself feeling restless one afternoon, craving for time outside the karmic highway, click your heels three times and say the magic words.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
The Long Walk Home
A significant chunk of my day is spent walking, walking home, and it is something I could never be more thankful for. The rhythm and beat of my sneakered feet on gravel, the weight of my backpack, the snug hugging of my black sweater, and the flow of music from my ear to the rest of my body elevate me to such a state of meditative bliss, that getting home is almost a disappointment.
Fridays are the best, as I can really take my time. The high I get from walking coupled with the scent of weekend just around the bend is a drug I would never exchange for anything. Well, almost anything.
In a few minutes, work will be over for the day, and I will be leaving for home. The commute from Commonwealth to Ayala is a welcome prelude to the walk from Ayala to our house. There aren't a lot of people out and about just yet at 2 in the afternoon, and the sun's not blazing hot to be unbearable. When the year started, I promised myself to start letting go. It all begins with this single step.
Fridays are the best, as I can really take my time. The high I get from walking coupled with the scent of weekend just around the bend is a drug I would never exchange for anything. Well, almost anything.
In a few minutes, work will be over for the day, and I will be leaving for home. The commute from Commonwealth to Ayala is a welcome prelude to the walk from Ayala to our house. There aren't a lot of people out and about just yet at 2 in the afternoon, and the sun's not blazing hot to be unbearable. When the year started, I promised myself to start letting go. It all begins with this single step.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
What She Wants
Everyday, my mother has always made it known how dissatisfied she is with her life -- whether she's aware of it or not. She does her best, though, and we can see and appreciate that. Sometimes, however, her resilience takes its toll, and the darkness that grips her starts leaking out.
Today is my mother's birthday. Normally, the sound of my mother shouting at my father in the morning would be commonplace, inconsequential -- a bland fixture during weekend mornings. On a day like this, it's just sad. "O, birthday mo ngayon ah," I said to her. "San ka punta?" "Kahit saan," she answered, plates banging, the chorus of forks and spoons shaking the air, eyes unseeing. It made me afraid to talk to her.
I hope she's seeing my sister today, though. Ever since my sister moved out after she finished college, they've been getting along real well -- a stark contrast to their relationship when my sister was still living here. Used to be they were the ones who were at each other's throats. Now, my mother would spend most of her free time at my sister's house, helping her and her husband with whatever it was that needed helping. It gives me relief that it affirms her, and I am glad my sister's life resonates with my mother, somewhat.
Still, she lives here with me and my brother and my father. However way she chooses to spend her day, I hope she finds a little pocket of peace. And it's rare, but I hope when she comes back, I get to see that little glimmer in her spirit after she's done something she'd always wanted to do. I hope my mother gets to do what she wants to do today.
Today is my mother's birthday. Normally, the sound of my mother shouting at my father in the morning would be commonplace, inconsequential -- a bland fixture during weekend mornings. On a day like this, it's just sad. "O, birthday mo ngayon ah," I said to her. "San ka punta?" "Kahit saan," she answered, plates banging, the chorus of forks and spoons shaking the air, eyes unseeing. It made me afraid to talk to her.
I hope she's seeing my sister today, though. Ever since my sister moved out after she finished college, they've been getting along real well -- a stark contrast to their relationship when my sister was still living here. Used to be they were the ones who were at each other's throats. Now, my mother would spend most of her free time at my sister's house, helping her and her husband with whatever it was that needed helping. It gives me relief that it affirms her, and I am glad my sister's life resonates with my mother, somewhat.
Still, she lives here with me and my brother and my father. However way she chooses to spend her day, I hope she finds a little pocket of peace. And it's rare, but I hope when she comes back, I get to see that little glimmer in her spirit after she's done something she'd always wanted to do. I hope my mother gets to do what she wants to do today.
Friday, January 01, 2010
The Revolution of Unlearning
It is foolish to try to understand Life. Love, even moreso. The past year was calming, for the most part. Static, to some extent even. And despite the multitude of epiphanies 2009 has relentlessly pommeled me with, I suppose I could say I came out all the better for it.
True, the little demons in my mind are let loose once in a while, but I found it is better -- safer even -- for me to do so, rather than let them fester in my brain. Better to let them take shape in letters rather than let them remain formless and elusive. As limiting as words can be (or as limited as my abilities are in forming the right words), language -- written or spoken -- can contain just about enough power to deal with such things as these from time to time.
And so, another year. And rather than resolving to learn more, I think it is about time for a revolution of unlearning. About time to let go, rather than hoard knowledge. About time to shed off the excess skin and lay naked, pure, and vulnerable under the sun. About time to stop inhaling and start breathing everything out. About time to just give in.
Let your waters flow through me, Life; I accept it.
True, the little demons in my mind are let loose once in a while, but I found it is better -- safer even -- for me to do so, rather than let them fester in my brain. Better to let them take shape in letters rather than let them remain formless and elusive. As limiting as words can be (or as limited as my abilities are in forming the right words), language -- written or spoken -- can contain just about enough power to deal with such things as these from time to time.
And so, another year. And rather than resolving to learn more, I think it is about time for a revolution of unlearning. About time to let go, rather than hoard knowledge. About time to shed off the excess skin and lay naked, pure, and vulnerable under the sun. About time to stop inhaling and start breathing everything out. About time to just give in.
Let your waters flow through me, Life; I accept it.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
On Too Much Water
Scared is what I am, more than anything, I think. There is nothing anchoring me to one place, nothing to lend strength and promise that I will reach solid ground. Adrift, unsure of where to face, and without energy to paddle, I am utterly, completely, absolutely lost.
How many out there are fighting a similar battle as I am? How many are as afraid? How many turn to fragile words of gossamer, flung blindly into the proverbial void, hoping it would latch on to something -- anything worth clinging to? Worth staying alive for?
It hurts me to think that this sanctuary I have made for myself has turned into a cloister of demons malign and malevolent. No more do I speak of idle day-to-day ramblings. No more do I write about love lost, gained, and lost again. Whatever it was that colored my world in the years past -- no matter how silly or shallow or profoundly sweet or cruel (sometimes both at the same time) -- everything has melted and drowned away. Watercolor canvas on too much water. Letters thrown into the flame. All that is left is a blackened room of ash and fragile things, crumbling to dust at a moth's touch.
And then there is guilt. Guilt that perhaps, all this -- all that is crippling me -- is a whole body of nothing. All that needs doing is to look up from the ground, brush away the dirt from one's clothes, face the sun, and walk again. Lesser people have overcome, why not me? Other people are facing even worse battles, why do I flinch away at the first few strikes?
Shame settles onto my face like an angel -- beautiful like benediction -- and it cripples me further. Give this life to someone more deserving, I say. I do not honor anyone by being alive. Let no stories about me linger when I pass on.
Let no one know my name.
How many out there are fighting a similar battle as I am? How many are as afraid? How many turn to fragile words of gossamer, flung blindly into the proverbial void, hoping it would latch on to something -- anything worth clinging to? Worth staying alive for?
It hurts me to think that this sanctuary I have made for myself has turned into a cloister of demons malign and malevolent. No more do I speak of idle day-to-day ramblings. No more do I write about love lost, gained, and lost again. Whatever it was that colored my world in the years past -- no matter how silly or shallow or profoundly sweet or cruel (sometimes both at the same time) -- everything has melted and drowned away. Watercolor canvas on too much water. Letters thrown into the flame. All that is left is a blackened room of ash and fragile things, crumbling to dust at a moth's touch.
And then there is guilt. Guilt that perhaps, all this -- all that is crippling me -- is a whole body of nothing. All that needs doing is to look up from the ground, brush away the dirt from one's clothes, face the sun, and walk again. Lesser people have overcome, why not me? Other people are facing even worse battles, why do I flinch away at the first few strikes?
Shame settles onto my face like an angel -- beautiful like benediction -- and it cripples me further. Give this life to someone more deserving, I say. I do not honor anyone by being alive. Let no stories about me linger when I pass on.
Let no one know my name.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Lighthouse
"Know thyself," people say. The idea that we don't -- or sometimes even, can't -- really know ourselves fully sits at the back of our consciousness, a broken lighthouse trying to pierce through the gloom. We ignore it for the most part, preferring to navigate our waters by ourselves, believing the wind will sway us where it wills us to be, or maybe our hand will take up the oar and we row. There are times, however, when the light sways our direction, hitting us square on our faces -- and it will not be ignored.
Three weeks into this job, and three things I have always known about myself have been reinforced quite strongly. These I say with complete objectivity, nor do I pity myself for recognizing and owning them: (1) even if I try, even if I persevere, and no matter how much faith I shine onto it, my written voice will always be as it is now, and I can never call myself a writer; (2) this must be true for most of us, but I am deathly afraid of the world, of life itself; and (3) I will always feel guilty about being alive, I am now, and I have always been.
Three things, and it seems they answer any question that may be asked about me. Why can I not keep a job for long enough? Why can I not commit? Why do I not have anything to turn to, to feel good about myself? Why, when it counts the most, do I retreat in the dark, preferring the company of my own gloom rather than being with friends? Pick one -- (1), (2), or (3).
The lighthouse is still, and the beam of light does not sway from my face. I nod a greeting to no one in particular and I sit back on the boat, feeling nothing but the gentle cradling of the waves. There is no wind, and I have thrown the oars to the waters. I know where land is, but I much prefer being here.
Three weeks into this job, and three things I have always known about myself have been reinforced quite strongly. These I say with complete objectivity, nor do I pity myself for recognizing and owning them: (1) even if I try, even if I persevere, and no matter how much faith I shine onto it, my written voice will always be as it is now, and I can never call myself a writer; (2) this must be true for most of us, but I am deathly afraid of the world, of life itself; and (3) I will always feel guilty about being alive, I am now, and I have always been.
Three things, and it seems they answer any question that may be asked about me. Why can I not keep a job for long enough? Why can I not commit? Why do I not have anything to turn to, to feel good about myself? Why, when it counts the most, do I retreat in the dark, preferring the company of my own gloom rather than being with friends? Pick one -- (1), (2), or (3).
The lighthouse is still, and the beam of light does not sway from my face. I nod a greeting to no one in particular and I sit back on the boat, feeling nothing but the gentle cradling of the waves. There is no wind, and I have thrown the oars to the waters. I know where land is, but I much prefer being here.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Nobody Else
I used to think that I'd have more people in my life as time went on.
Doesn't work that way.
Yeah. I'm starting to realize that.
It's almost like, as we get older, the number of people who really get us... shrinks.
Right. Till we become so honed by experiences and time and...
... nobody else understands.
(Six Feet Under, 5th Season, "Static")