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Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Yesterday, I felt the universe mocking me:

Two friends told me their loved ones had irrevocably left them. You see, Joy? You are not special. You are not the only one basking in glorious misery. (But our case was different. We arrived at a mutual decision...) Sure, sure, say what you want to say. In the end all that's left are the detritus of human sentiments, spilled guts and blood and all the rest of the broken pieces of a botched emotional experiment... It's over and he's gone... (Anak ng kamoteng kinain ng kambing... Tumigil ka na lang. All hope is not lost.) Gee. When are you goin' to wake up, girl? (When there is no more beauty in feeling pain.) Oh you insufferable, insufferable fool! (Oh you arrogant, unfeeling realist!)

Yesterday, yeah, I felt the universe mocking me. I mocked right back.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Use LIVER and CHEESE in a sentence.

"Liver alone, cheese mine!"

Of all his jokes, I loved that one the best. I gave a hearty chuckle when I read that off my cellphone. 

*         *         *         *         *

That was a week ago.

Friday, April 15, 2005
Waxing poetic, waxing pathetic. (Otherwise known as: Blah. Blech.)

I am feeling a strange kind of peace.

It is the peace of a thousand words left unsaid, of knowing that not knowing is how things are supposed to be.

It is the peace that rocks me to sleep every sleepless, starless and silent night; the peace that whispers songs and sighs, every want and wish, of visions and dreams unrealized.

It is the peace of the hopeful, the peace that comes with the promise of resolution.

It is the peace, quite simply, of surrender.


So yeah, I am feeling a strange kind of peace. It's not so bad.

Sunday, April 10, 2005
Matthew 12:37

Scares the hell out of me.

Friday, April 08, 2005
"This is me, breathing."

Certified romantics own boxes. Lots of boxes:

Old angst-filled letters, testaments to young love and ghosts of heartbreak. Pictures, all flattering, all creased and worn around the edges (much like the memories they purportedly stand for). Dried flowers, withered and wafting death-scents, still beautiful in their own tired ways (a fate most females would be tempted to take). Holepunched bus tickets and an unused passport.

Candy wrappers. Report cards, flyers, red-marked essays. Pass-around notes, battered Sterlings and the wayward inkless pen. Borrowed paperbacks, gutted teen magazines, an unread copy of Eco's The Name of the Rose.

Pencil sketches on yellowing paper, mildew spots on wedding invitations. Dusty standard-issue fatigue pants; belt buckles, cross-rifle pins and swords marked with rust and restlessness. Certificates, trophies and medals; drafts of aborted novels, an incomplete wedding entourage, prescribed memorial service programs and an undelivered valedictory address.

Crystal elephants, snapshots of yellow gumamelas and coffee-stained mugs.

A white-collared green blouse with eighteen delicate butterflies, someone else's handkerchief and a sleeveless Sari-Sari two sizes too large. A blue cylindrical pillow, a promise written in velvet and broken by the passing of time.

This is my life. Bits and pieces of it, safe in cardboard castles. Sitting in quiet little corners.


Mahal, you are

Shooting stars. Stares from the first row to the last, conversations with dark ceilings, furtive excursions and a four-month bout of Weird Questions. Swiss mocha doughnuts, pansit canton and ten-peso barbecues. Sapphire dreams and wooden chimes; asynchronous prayers and airmailed kisses. Smiles and whispers and breaths of fresh air.

This is us. You and me, together. Closing our eyes on nights when we sing songs of ourselves.

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