Saturday throwback. Back when I was ugh, uncovered? Meheh.

Unread love letter. Unrequited love.

Everytime we talk, I find you funny. And I am happy that

I was sitting right beside you because everytime I

look at you, I could laugh hard and laugh at

you, but you don’t get mad at me and believe me or not,

it makes me really happy.. You disturb me and tell

me jokes that aren’t actually funny. But if you tell them, it makes me

happy once again that I couldn’t contain the laughter

it makes me laugh so hard. I don’t know why, if someone

makes jokes, they aren’t funny but if it’s you, it has a big impact to

me. You really are that special, I think. And it makes me

sad to actually part ways with you.

It has been a wonderful time with you. I haven’t found someone who

makes me happy and feel special like this. You make

me smile even if I don’t

want to. You make me mad and then you make me want to

hug you. I don’t know what I’m saying

it makes me stupid right now. So stupid. Promise

me you will never forget me. Promise me that you’ll do the things you

want to do. Promise me that you’ll be strong and

tell the person you love that you love her. Because I tell

you, not having to do so is the greatest regret.

I testify to that. So go out there and don’t hesitate to

LOVE someone you really love and tell her. Even if it will hurt

YOU. Even if it’s not me.

Don’t fall in love with a writer by Desole Boy (reposted)

I’ll tell you about it. Writers are like aliens. They string words of proportions to make people understand and see what their views yet behind all these, they have their own planets, they have their own language that even people of their own kind don’t get to fathom, at least most of the times. Writers are boring. They tend to look at the sky without particularly knowing why, or which part of the sky they’re staring at. They swoon over silver clouds while talking to a bunch of alter egos they always drag within them. 

 

Don’t fall in love with a writer. They love weaving magic carpets of words that will lift your poor soul far beyond the fray and cacophony of heartache and strife and will carry you to a realm of fantasies and dreams. Still, remember that words are words and fantasies are fantasies and that essays are just essays. 

 

Writers have the most deadly temper and the quickest switch-on switch-off mood. They are slaves to their emotion and can dramatize even a rusty leaking faucet. They justify everything in the name of their art. They read other people’s receipt and tend to eavesdrop at a couple having coffee nearby, not minding that you’re at his side, telling the most awesome tales of ants trailing the sidewalk. This, of course, is justifiable by saying “it’s research.” 

 

Also, writers give the cheapest of cheapest gifts. They’ll dote you with cards made of milk cartons with a written four-verse poem that doesn’t even rhyme. They’ll bring you flowers handed to them by admirers and would sometimes write “I love you” in your arms. Because state of poverty, to writers, are major avenues of their calling. They look at themselves as creatively complex and hard to understand in a Pablo Picaso cubism sort of way individuals since suffering is art. And because life in the media industry can be a cruel and a fickle beast, they can’t accept just any job. It has to serve their purpose. It has to contribute to a general public and must live to their philosophy yet, still, pinch a nerve near the heart. 

 

Even the most intimate details of your relationship could most of the times turn up in their writings. And although they are mightily concealed behind metaphors and allegories, you, of course, will still recognize them. It’s all about you after all. 

 

Although they never really intend to insult you, they will sheepishly remind you that “your” and “you’re” are different and that “despite” is the right one and “despite of” is the wrong one. I’m telling you, they’ll notice the smallest of details about you as an orgy of your descriptions are banging wildly inside their heads. Yes, even the color of your socks. 

 

Conversations with them are tough. They will talk about characters in books and art films as if they’re real, as if they’re someone tangible, someone he recently got a chance for a vis-à-vis over some tea and biscuits. Annoyingly, they have this habit of writing parts of your conversation on some dank piece of tissue paper. And like lawyers, everything you said is valid and can be used in favor or against you in future discussions. 

 

Probably the hardest one to understand is their addiction to solitude. It might not be close to that of Ernest Hemingway’s seclusion, but a time alone is always a must. It’s not a snob. It’s not barricading. But in solitude, not only he is gathering his thoughts, formulating sets of theories, but also re-arranging himself. 

 

But writers are one of the most romantic people you’ll ever meet. They’re lamentably passionate and will adore you for the most natural thing about you. For they don’t succumb to the societal dictates of beauty and form. You are an abstract masterpiece seen in a philosophical beautiful way. They are phenomenally too human that even their tears are sometimes trails of fluid words. They’re achingly martyrs and they can tell you in thousand ways how much you mean to them, how much they adore you and how much they love you. 

 

So don’t fall in love with a writer. Don’t fall in love with me.

Don’t fall in love with a writer (reposted)

People say not to fall in love with a writer because if you do, they’ll never stop writing about you and you’ll never die in their writing. They’ll always live in the memories of you and the feelings of the past. They say it’s quite scary when you fall in love with a writer. Honestly, I don’t think you should be afraid to fall in love with a writer, but rather the person themselves. Fall in love with a writer, who gives a shit? You’ll never die, but so what? You’ll never stop seeing writings about you, but fall in love with them anyway because you shouldn’t be scared to fall in love with them. Fall in love with the person they are, not just because they write.

If things don’t turn out the way you’d imagine it to be, it’s normal because one day they might fall in love with someone else, then stop writing about you and start writing about them instead. Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of them writing about you on some rare occasion, but hey can you blame them? They’re writers. Of course, you’ll always have a spot in their heart. They’re writers, but they’re human too. People who write are exceptionally observant and they treasure little details that you probably would forget over the next few months or even weeks, perhaps days. They make you discover things about yourself you probably wouldn’t have noticed for the past years of your life. They’ll remember tiny details about you like where your moles are, the way your you twirl your hair, perhaps the way you squint when you tear up watching a movie, or how brown your eyes are. They remember little things about you and write about it, but they’re writers. They’re just more observant than others and there’s nothing wrong with that.

So, fall in love with a writer. I dare you because it could be the best thing that ever happened to you or it could be bittersweet and the feelings will stay afloat because of the memories. That’s the risk in falling in love with a writer, but give them a shot. Fall in love with them as a whole, not just because they write. That shouldn’t scare you because what should be scary is when they stop writing about you. People say not to fall in love with a writer, but I dare you to because it might be the best thing ever. So, fall in love with them, not just because they write, but because they are beautiful and they cherish you more than you can ever imagine. Don’t let the fears of them writing about you stop you from falling in love with them because they deserve to be loved too just as much as you. So, fall in love with them because I dare you to and you might see that there’s more than just a writer.

NARCOLEPSY (the story)

Did you ever feel death? My name is ‘I’ and there came a time when death visited me without my permission. Yes, death. I felt it chilling me. It was there. It’s death, it’s SLEEP.

I am awake but i am half-asleep. I see people but i don’t feel anything towards them. I can see people looking at me with disgust, pity, or question. I don’t mind them, I just keep on walking. For when i look back, I might feel something and fall asleep.

Have I felt something except from this emptiness? Yes, indeed. It was when I looked into someone’s eyes that I felt some warmth for the very first time of my existence. I knew it wasn’t something ordinary. It was LOVE. But i held back. I had to. For what was in jeopardy was my own feelings, my life, and my own breathing.

That moment, I knew life wouldn’t be easy anymore. I must not fall for him. I must keep my distance from the idea of love, hate, happiness, pain, or envy. I must live plain and with nothing. I lived alone, and I’m dying alone.

Yes, my eighteen years of breathing weren’t a piece of cake for me. I had to decline everyone who wanted to make me happy, to love me, and to make me feel that i’m living. Even doctors haven’t found any cure to this. I don’t hope anymore. As long as I can go with the flow and as long as i’m breathing despite the times that i was just sleeping.

Having a narcolepsy, the day that i avoided for few years had finally came. It was when i met someone who changed me. It was when I had finally felt in LOVE. I cannot love him nor he can love me. I cannot make him feel what it’s like to love someone like me. I cannot hurt him for I cannot love him back. I just can’t.

But I wanted to. I wanted to be as normal as anybody else, to be a woman and to have a man taking care of me. I wanted everything so bad because in the first place, I didn’t have anything. I wanted to live. So, I lived. I did a suicidal act actually. But who cares? No one will know because no one really knew me. So after I lived, I laughed. I laughed so hard that it made me cry. That moment, I finally felt the feelings that were once hidden underneath my flesh. And then I loved. I confessed. He confessed back. I became happy. I was smiling. I was on the third floor of my house’s balcony, feeling the air for i can finally feel everything. But then, I fell asleep followed by falling on the ground from the third story of my house. One moment, I was dead, then I lived. After, I fell asleep, and then now, I am dead.

NARCOLEPSY (preview)

run run run. sleep is chasing you. run run run. you’ll get nowhere but in blue. one pain, two people, three stories, four letters – LOVE, five for a barrier – SLEEP.

My Valentine <3

i thought that hearing music in media has no difference from hearing it live. but NO. there is a big difference. golly, can’t get over.

DOPPELGANGERS (requested by Kathy)

You live a life differently everyday. You wake up and sleep on different times. You wear different clothes. You eat different food. You meet different people. And most of all, you wear different masks.

We sometimes think that we are the persons we thought we were. We sometimes believe that the things we do are the products of our thinking and own personality. We assume that we know how to discern.  And we proclaim that we are who we are. But NO. We become the opposite. As time passes, we over-contain our brains with thoughts that make us believe what we have to believe. We start to question everything that we do. We exceed to what is supposed to be reflected and make it to a delusion. The more we come to think things over, the more we come up with answers that were never expected beforehand. And by this, slowly and smoothly, we unconsciously empty a space of our total being for another personality to come in. And this personality will do the same and born new. Thus, new personalities will invade. And these are our doppelgangers.

One. Two. Three. Or even more. We learn to develop them, make them our everyday neighbors, our conscience, our angel and devil, and our dictator. We rely on them so much that our real brain can no longer argue with the others. We  carry them in escape from our reality and let them do the work.  As a result, the real us will more probably become paralyzed and unable to function. With this, we are totally invaded.

Reality is a thing that only a reality also can  flow with.  And this other reality is the real us. We have to face the truth that no matter how numerous the doppelgangers we make, in the end, it will only be us, and us alone who can make use of everything. Our doppelgangers are just there to make life harder. And when life becomes harder, we should strive to make it better. By this, we will know that we’re actually living. Doppelgangers are us but nothing more than products of imagination and delusion. Or maybe over-thinking or stress. They are not scientifically present but emotionally. We make them and we can discharge them. They are merely our state of mind. Nothing factual, and there’s no evidence.

So  when we come to decide or think of a better option, we make excuses that it’s hard for we have different perspectives inside us. We blame our doubles for indeed we are just afraid of what our decision’s outcome is. We are afraid to choose between the options. We don’t know what to do. And sometimes, we forget who we are. This should not be. We may have different personalities but there is only one us. Despite all our opposite sides,  what will  matter in the end is what’s done. Not the side who chose it,  or the side who dictated it. But the side who owns the other more sides. And that will always be us. Nothing more, nothing less. #

 

Color Strands

COLOR STRANDS

for what a woman hides inside

is not a thing but a kaleidoscope ride.

though colors she might possess,

 she gets tired and she needs some rest.

for a woman wears what only eyes can see,

but never the tears behind her beauty.

(sketch by Arleisha and colors by yours truly)

election article in tagalog – coming soon.

miracles article in english – coming soon.