This Is A Call

Where are my people? Where are those riotous in colour and rambling in words? Where are the fragmented, the mended, and the fragmented yet again? The equivocation of old voices, lost in the trappings of memory -- I do not hear them. The young, the new, the footfalls of those wandering in strange hallways, opening doors to rooms even stranger -- where are they? Where are my people?

All I see are fluff, cotton, wisps of gossamer and down. Beautiful as summer blossoms; beautiful as only wraiths can be beautiful. Eggshell fragile and floating in the wind. These are not my people. They speak not my tongue.

Their skin, ephemeral as air, as time -- not like my skin. The skin of our people are thick carapaces of resilience and remembrance. Our skin are the crusts of earth, eroded and made perfect by a force only the seas and the oceans can muster. Our skin are the barks of trees, of rocks, of stalagmites and stalactites -- diamond and mineral of rough and irregular geometries. Our skin is the skin of histories -- blood-drawing, juices-flowing. Where are my people?

This is my call. Hear my voice, and hear it thundering in your chest. You will know if you are mine. Answer, and I will know if I am yours.

Say, Yes

I'm cutting them all loose. All of it -- words in my head, crawling all over my scalp like tiny little ants gnawing at my skin. Words writhing, wriggling up and down my throat, clawing at my chest, running, leaping, dancing, a pirouette, a dip, a screech, rising, falling, crashing to and through my body. Every particle, every fragment of memory -- real or imagined, embellished truth, or visceral lies. I'm letting them go, and fuck what anyone thinks.

They will be shikigami as I walk around the city. They will be helmet and hauberk, gorget, breastplate, tasset, greaves, and sabaton. I will write when words barrel through me like ten thousand rivers. I will write when words supernova in my mind. I will write even if there is nothing to write about.

The past two months at work has taught me the world will never run out of words. A single object will have as many different words as the number of of eyes that will look upon it. Every day I work, I try on a multitude of eyes. Work has taught me there will always be something to write.

I used to be afraid of the word, "writer." I shy away from it, a burning brand to my skin. I used to feel I wasn't worthy of the pain, the burden, and the responsibility it entails to be a writer. After the fear came the shame. Then self-pity. Yet, I find myself going back -- a pitiful supplicant to an intangible divinity.

Ultimately, it's a conscious decision. The Universe is a strange and patient benefactor, and we are timid little animals who do not know how to say "Yes." That is, until we learn to say "Yes," -- and actually say it.

So, "Yes."

The Aftermath of War

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.