i really don’t know what this is

the long and short of it:

i can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. this has never been about what i wanted. truth be told, i gave you the short end of the stick. you wanted your choice? here it is, the matchbox, the gun. i left some change in the drawers. i got the easy way out. but this was never about me. the ball has, is and will always be on your court. staying, leaving, running away– this has always been your call. and call it what you want: the wishbone, the fork in the road, the bus fare for a one way ticket to somewhere. the payphone is ringing and it’s for you. spare me the melodrama, just answer it, just pull the fucking trigger. the lump in your throat, heavy. the bullet crossing my eyes, the glint of the gold too bright for second guesses. we are all moving forward. none of us are (looking) back.

well. y’all know i’m siken trash anyway. this was supposed to be something with some smidgen of honesty but i can’t deal with that shit right now. goodnight.


apocalypse, now

the end started when you kvetched your way back to bed, back to this panic room. the night began, but the moon disappeared when you started digging crescents unto my back. outside the wind howled when you breathed out bullets, so i wanted to weigh our chances of escape–i counted the times that came, and ways i could pick you up and pick you out. my hands trembling over your mouth like a mask. us in motion, just in placation, seeing stars, and watching each one fall parallel to the space between our bodies; quaking, our fault lines forcing the crush, the extinction. the whole planet flattened and you are still on me. i buried sighs into your neck, and i blamed decay for the marks under your jaw, on the spot right below your ear, and on the corner. the nook i would tuck myself into for shelter. i blamed inertia for the seven, eight rounds and revolutions for every hour up to the eleventh; i blamed combustion for the right shade of red under the skin of your lower lip, your cheeks, under stomach under matches, under the waxy pads of my fingers. if i could trace my steps back three hundred days and fifty eight seconds i’d still end up in the same spot on the small of your back, and i’d call it gravitation. the pull of the universe towards the center. you lying down, supine, restless. you on all fours, you on crumpled sheets, arms bent and hands behind your head as in victory, as in surrender. seven years could pass and the records would play the same, broken cry for help. our SOS on the sand, the one you drew on the back of my hand. the sun could pass and we’d still be here. bombs of light billowing to cloud nine. i’m not looking to be rescued anyway.

aaaaaaand this shit will remain shitty and unfinished. i tried, guys. i really tried. holy shit what is this even.

but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable

It’s 2:45am and I’m scared shitless. I can’t fucking sleep. I can’t sleep. I’m so tired but I can’t sleep. I am already regretting things I shouldn’t regret, like taking a nap because I was sick or making the weekend mine, but now I can’t sleep and this is scaring the life out of me. I’m asking and screaming for answers but nothing’s coming out, my brain is mush and the universe is silent and nothing is working and dear god, I just want to sleep. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to take pills. Oh self. Is this your subconscious punishing yourself? Is this how you deal with your guilt, with your failure? Living has slowly grown into building my case against not living, but not anything else. Is there anything worse than silence? Than having to deal with this blank uncertainty? Of not knowing who you are, of not knowing what you’re feeling, of not knowing what you’re doing? Oh I plead for understanding. I feel myself getting more neurotic, like I live by detaching myself from my own consciousness like I’m a third person living outside myself, I can’t do this because a part of me contradicts it and I can’t do that because another part of me can’t deal with that either. And dear lord, the psychosomatic pain in my gut. It never leaves. Like the holes are growing ever larger, deeper, digging its way out to the other side. Oh what must you take from me. What must you want from me. I just want to close my eyes and sink into the pitch black, succumb to the tar, the sludge of sleep, no matter how messy, how uncomfortable, how it leaves me more tired to live. Even if sleep and my dreams are growing more sinister each time. I am running out of words to describe the divorce that is ripping me away from what I want to be. God, I just want to sleep. Let me have a break, no matter how undeserving I am. I don’t like having insomnia. I hate it. I want to sleep. I want to sleep. If I say it enough will I be able to do it? Can I stop chewing myself inside out? I beg you. I don’t care if I crash or if I am cradled. I just want to close my eyes and not be in control. To not be worthy, to not be undeserving, to be free. Throw me in the chasm, I do not care. Just let me sleep. Ang sakit. Ang sakit. Ang sakit.


There are holes growing in my body. I can’t feel anything but this ripping numbness, this pronounced emptiness. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can feel the holes converging, replacing my skin with nothing as it creeps its way all over my body, slow but unwavering. I can’t tell if it is unpleasant. My doctor says it is normal, the sensation like frostbite, but he says it’s ordinary and tells me to let it pass. He says they don’t usually take anything anyway. But I feel it. It crawls in my gut and it takes and takes and I’m not sure if it leaves anything behind. If it does I don’t feel it. If it does I can’t feel it. It’s not odd, I’m not sick, I know, but there’s gotta be something different with me now, because not feeling anything is different from feeling nothing, right? The worry and smoke dissipates now, that’s how I know they’re still there. They’re still there.

I googled it and it says that if you dream about holes in your body it means you’re feeling empty and weak. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean but in any case I don’t think emptiness is weakness. It just means there’s nothing there. If less is more, then nothing is everything. I’m letting it pass. The holes are growing but I’m letting them pass. They’re still there but they’ll be gone soon. They’ll pass through the holes they made; they’ll jump in and go to where everything else goes. I wish it could be sooner.

a belated new year’s post

Well hello there, 2015. You’ve been a sly little bitch so far.

  1. This holiday season was spent eating my heart out with my immediate family. And a sidetrip to the boondocks with stunning views while we all tried to pretend we could stand one another.
  2. My grades were surprisingly superb given the hell I went through last sem. Excluding EL50 since my professor refuses to post our grades yet (much to my chagrin). I have no idea how he’ll grade us– the wait will either lead to (1) a beautiful ending to that hell sem or (2) me shitting on his face. There is no in-between.
  3. Love is sharing your last cigarette with a friend.
  4. Well. I should quit cold turkey anyway– but you know, fuck it.
  5. I have reached the low point of pathetic and desperate by listening to nature wave sounds on Spotify. I really, really, really miss the beach. I went to El Nido, Palawan (my favorite place on this planet, legit) with my best friends and I have a terrible case of separation anxiety. That trip convinced me that I am meant to live on a beach forever. The withdrawal symptoms are making me antsy. Reminding self to post photos soon.
  6. Not to mention depressed as fuck. This recent wave has been keeping me drowning in misery. To the point that I’m really connecting with Dostoevsky.
  7. Survival is masking your depression with kitten photos and vodka sprites.
  8. As for resolutions. I’d like to (1) exercise regularly, (2) learn something that people wouldn’t normally associate me with (ex. “wow! you can fix a car?”), (3) become that cool yoga lady who wakes up at 5 am to look at the sunrise and greets people with namaste, (4) read more books, (5) improve my make-up game and (6) afford my lifestyle. Not bad.
  9. Diving and driving license. iPhone 6. Faster laptop. #goals
  10. Turns out people really do get fed up with themselves as they grow older. I only like myself because I have new pillows.

Here’s a sneak peek to my post-processed El Nido photos. Also. I hope to upload my backlog of travel photos soon (Cambodia, Vietnam, Korea). Taken during the breathtaking sunset of our last night. I miss the trifecta (sun, sea, sand).


what i talk about when i talk about talking

This is a post about language.
Or better yet, my lack of ‘one’.

In my country (the Philippines), we have two official languages– Filipino and English. There is a moat of dirty politics surrounding this issue (ex. is Filipino just a disguised Tagalog (a dialect); does fluency dictate identity; is there misplaced nationalism in language; etc.) but I’m not writing about any of this in particular. For one, I love both languages I was born into. Filipino is for the tongue, English is for the pen and Taglish for everything in between. I was born into two systems of thinking; I grew up in three. This was and is normal. In fact, I took my bilingualism and fluency in the international tongue as an advantage– I could talk to foreigners without breaking a sweat, but I could still converse comfortably in secrecy in Filipino. My thought process was somewhere in between both. 

But as my love for literature (specifically poetry) deepened, I began questioning myself. Poetry lives in the spaces between words, in the borders of speech and memory. Our most profound truths lie supine in metaphors with half-lives, and the collapse of the “like” illusion is what makes it poetically inaccessible. Suffice to say that language carries its own truth (mental note to read more Derrida) and beyond being a method of survival and communication, our mother tongues, if alive and evolving, carry whole identities in their own lexicons. Translations, no matter how modern or updated, will never be enough– we can only hear murmurs of Neruda’s pulse, only distillations of Homer’s epics, and vignettes of Schopenhauer’s misery. We can come close, but as long as we are aliens to their native language we cannot be completely privy to the soul each work cradles. (Side note: Rimbaud is the main reason why I’m still struggling to learn French.) I firmly believe that every writer (and reader) has to have a certain relationship with language in order to express humanity in its purest and most unadulterated form (also in what I think is its most artful) because for some writing or speaking is the only way. Some people can dance or write music, but for me it is speech and as a dancer uses the body, I choose words.

I find this incredibly difficult. I think I have already embraced my bilingualism but I cannot exist in either or both. I live in both but it still feels inadequate. There is a point of unintelligibility that is no longer in reach of poor vocabulary or structural linguistic ignorance. After all, language expresses thought and feeling. Do you think in words? (I have yet to read more on this.) I have always wondered if thoughts unexpressed are still ‘valid’. The answers I get are far– mostly because people think I refer to thoughts not expressed /out loud/ due to /inability to express during a certain time/. What I wonder is this: what about the thoughts we cannot express because of linguistic limitations? We cannot make up a word for every sensation or phenomenon. And this is where my problem lies– can a mother tongue suffice? Most seem to think so. Can multilingualism suffice? They say it’s practical. I still wouldn’t know. 

All I know is this– there can be languages for the mind, the heart– but not the soul, not the being. Just as truths are hidden just beneath text, we only truly exist in spaces. Do not mistake speech for connection. Language can only take us so far in our relationship with the universe.

Mersault’s Sun

There is a certain kind of fatigue caused by the sun.
This pushes me to desperation. I inhabit the air around you
for a split second, waves of heat cascading down my back.
Finger on the trigger. The wind shifts direction, wavering,
wavering; I compel you to listen. This is heat, this is day,
my will slipping through my fingers like sand. Red in
warmth, yellow in fire. All alight, all raised to death.
I am burning, I am aflame: the Sun is high above.

It’s history. It’s poetry.

Memory is such a strange thing. It breathes, it changes, it forgets. The most vivid ones are those captured by the lens of an undisturbed moment: when the air is static, subjects all suspended in negatives. But overtime they lose their luster, they blur in the edges and then you start to forget. You forget small details: the colour of his shirt, the face of the man who sold you that burger, the tune you were humming. So you remember pockets. You remember in dreams, in filtered films you can pause and rewind. Zoom out and you see you’re there with him, two specks in a crowd, the crowd a sea. Zoom in, tilt a little to the side and you’re in the back in the moment, except now he’s missing a wrinkle or two, or somehow the lighting is just a bit off on his teeth. It’s a photo you leave in between pages of a book by your bedside, just a little something to stumble upon when you decide to read before sleeping. A voice in the back of your head wishes for a chance to remember the moment again. A little wish for a dream.

It almost feels like a dream.

It was noon. It was Times Square in the summer heat. We had three hours before the buses came so we walked. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the city we kept silent, reveling in each other’s presence. Applebee’s. The little girl with the yellow balloon. Your sunglasses perched on my head. Our feet moved to the pulse of the city, all forward, fast. Around my neck slung a heavy camera but not once did I reach for it– my hands were tied– one clinging to my bag and the other clasped around yours. Your thumb rubbed circles on back of my hand, as if in writing, as if invisible circles could whisper your thoughts up my hand, my spine, to my ear and heart, sweet poetry in nothing, memory in everything. To my left, it was B.B. King serenading from decades away. We rounded a corner and you guffawed when some suit glared daggers at me for stepping on his foot. I threw those daggers at you. Your eyes crinkled at the corners, your lips pulled to the sides rather than up, like the promise of a hug, like arms I could bury myself in, soft and warm. You called me a bitch and I threw a fry at you, your fry. I bought a Yankees cap for $30, and you attempted to steal it but it couldn’t fit your head. We walked some more, palms sweaty but you tightened your grip. More silence in the noise. I looked up, looking for the sky and found concrete instead, but beams of sunlight escaped on the back of birds. You cracked a horrible joke so I stopped in my tracks and stared. This time you threw a fry at me. I cursed and we both cackled at pathetic tourists, like we weren’t ones as well. Your arm on my shoulder. I said stop it with the fucking accent; you said fuck you, I can’t help it. We continued walking. Sweat trickling down my back and forehead, blood rushing to my cheeks. Extra large cokes in capitalist capital. You didn’t get it so I laughed by myself. More walking, more naked Americans and more comfortable silences. We kept walking forward, one foot in front of the other, hand in hand. Electrical impulses shooting up our fingertips to spark the nerve endings, to light up my face. Your pulse the rhythm I followed. The bass of the city streets below our feet. Green eyes, emerald in New York lights. Time pushing us out of the dream, out of the memory. Forward, forward, forward.

I left a bit of that moment in New York.
You took some with you. I don’t mind.

Although sometimes I like to write about it, not because I’d like it back, but just to keep it safe. I try at it again but in different voices. My voice, the bird’s voice, the hotdog’s voice. Anything of the dream but never yours– yours would remain untouched, untarnished, locked in stars to keep it from fleeing. The beauty in stasis, away from touch, like constellations.
But sometimes I like to pick it up just to remember what it felt like in my fingers. The electric blue, the sweet abeyance of ticking time.
I search for it, in fragments.
I search for you.
(I still do.)


I wrote this on a whim a few weeks back for a performance thing, but it never really solidified nor did it ever feel finished and ready. (Even the title is meh!) This has been rotting in my drafts for quite some time so it just feels right to post it now (for some reason that eludes me). The stupidity of it all just hit me so I guess that this is a way for me to laugh at the past while moving on from it– along with some new elements aka my friend’s current hullabaloo with a certain mister. Expect sushi (raw) writing because this is le shitty first draft!

cheesy ass new year’s post, as per usual

It is 3:47 am on January 2, 2014. I have nothing else to do except brainfart my way into my first blog post for the new year (besides trying not to vomit because of fanfiction-induced feelings and pre-Sherlock season 3 anticipation). So out of my current state of boredom, here is my attempt at a ~nostalgic~ trip down the shithole that was 2013.