blah.

i guess it's time to write again.

this will be free writing. unrestrained and untempered. because i'm tired of writing about things that i don't want to write about. i'm exhausted from always trying to be a version of myself that is not me. i've had it with all the feigned pleasantries and willed optimism.

i am just so tired.

it's been a while since my last post and, looking at how i spun my words back then, i think it's both interesting and tragic that a person can change so drastically in such a short span of time.

for the preliminaries.

i've achieved my dream of becoming a lawyer.

all my life, i've held on to this dream - from a little boy whose interest was piqued by the enigma of the universe to a grown adult who has been broken to the world. probably, i am at fault for expecting too much from life and my childhood dream. probably, it's my escapism and naivete that is to blame because i thought that becoming a lawyer will be the emancipation of all my evils. that after i hurdle the bar exams and triumph, i will automatically become the best version of myself.

i could not be any more wrong.

i could have probably tempered my naivete and realized earlier on that self-polishing is constant and always tedious. that one doesn't simply become a better version of himself by hurdling through self-imagined limitations and barriers. that the bar exams and me becoming a lawyer aren't ends that would automatically translate to a happier, much more fulfilled me.

because, if truth be told, i've never been more miserable. i feel depression creeping in, but i know that i can do nothing to keep it bay or prevent the imminent explosion of the proverbial dam.

for almost two years now, i've been trying my best to be the best version of myself. i got hired in one of the more prestigious law firms here in makati and i know that, from the outside, i seem to be living the life that i've always been destined to live. but i'm sad. i'm constantly sad. there are days when i just lie in bed and stare into nothingness as i convince myself to get up, change for work, and pretend to be happy with what i'm doing. and then there are days when i just cry. i randomly cry. because i know that, deep within the recesses of my soul, i am nowhere near my end goal of being happy. my heart feels empty, and when my nights are especially long and i am by my lonesome trying to stitch together a decent pleading that is due the next day, i feel so exhausted and spent that i just want to go somewhere where no one knows me, be with a stranger who will see me weep, but will just let me be.

being a good, or even just a decent, lawyer can drain your entirety. you regularly deal with problems of other people, and you constantly pretend that you know your shit, even when in reality, your brain screams from the inside and it tells you: i don't fucking care because i have my own shit to deal with. but you just have to smile. and blurt out a legal opinion from scratch. because that's what people expect to hear from you. and, of course, since you're a people pleaser, you want to tell them what they need to hear, and wait for their thanks and affirmation.

probably i'm not a good lawyer. or i'm not good enough. or i will never be good enough. this has been a constant source of discomfort for the entire time that i've been with my firm. at first, and as expected, this greatly unsettled me, because no one wants to embrace mediocrity and brandish it for all the world to see. but through time, and as my self-loathing and self-inflicted torment became much more frequent and eventually swallowed me whole, i just don't fucking care. call me mediocre. i don't give a tiny rat's ass. call me below par. that's your fucking problem. call out my grammar and my propensity for muddling clarity. that's your business not mine. call me inferior. i don't give a fuck.

i've never been sadder.

and my depression has never been this debilitating.

i think i need rescuing.

the unsent letter.

07/21/13

dear lover,

you might think it bizarre that i need to write you this letter, but consider this as part of my eccentricities; eccentricities that you are now a part of since you decided to become part of who i am.

first of all, i need to be candid with you and tell you about my heart.

you see, my heart used to be the focal point of my existence. whereas most people think it to be a mechanical organ which only pumps blood to sustain one's existence, mine directs everything about me: my perceptions, my impulses, my totality. it used to be the reason why my breathing was sustained, and i am certain that at one point in my life, the entirety of my existence depended on it.

do notice that i used the word 'used', because as what i've told you from our past exchanges, my heart has metamorphosed from a delicate bud into a box; so much so that after successive heartbreaks, it has managed to cope with the viscittitudes of promises that have since been broken, i love yous that do not emanate from the soul, and assurances that easily break like a flimsy twig.

if you must know, and this is something that i share with utmost reservation, it has become adept at opening and closing when it feels the need to. it has become adaptable at being receptive at will, yet at the same time, it can manage to shut the world out in a heartbeat. i guess this is what happens after the world has broken you, and you have no other recourse but to pretend to be complete again. because later on in life, you realize that people and hearts get by by pretending to know happiness, even when in reality, they no longer realize the difference between happiness that is effortless and happiness that is merely feigned and constructed.

why is why it baffles me why, even with what little time i have spent with you, right now, it has chosen to open itself up for longer than usual. i tell you that it's not only disconcerting; it petrifies the soul, because not only is it unfamiliar, but it seems too good to be true. it's especially unsettling because i know myself too well, and i am fairly familiar with how my heart works: it does not sustain -- so you need to be forewarned of its predispositions.

but lest you scamper away at my mentioning this, please hear me out first.

because even when i know that i have become comfortable with this self-imposed seclusion through time, deep inside, i still know that my heart yearns for crimson sunsets, the allure of poetry, and the promise of love unrequited. for even when it has retreated into despair in order to guard itself from succumbing to death, it still secretly wishes to be in love, and it still knows that to be in love is the most exhilirating feeling of all.

i do not promise to be the best partner there is, because admittedly, i also have my flaws and I too am broken. but i guess, what sets you apart from the rest of the transient souls who have fleetingly passed by me is that with you, i aspire to become better. with you, i wish to have my old heart back, and discard this mechanical object which is a flimsy substitute for a beating and feeling human heart.

we both know that the budding of our romance is not that ideal. we both know that just as the stars are uncertain, so is the possibility of us slaying whatever monsters that may come our way. the geography of distance may inevitably imperil what beautiful thing we share right now, but do know that if you constantly tell me to sustain, i will and i shall. very seldom do i temper my resolve to battle the odds and challenge the cosmos when the challenges they send my way seem incapable of defeat -- but when i know that i have someone to anchor my resolve on, i know, i just do, that i will sustain.

so far, it has been a beautiful journey together, despite the distance and inspite of myself. and even when the odds seem to be against us, do know that if you will let me hold your hand, i shall constantly hold you. and with each kiss that i give you, my promise to give you that beautiful sunrise becomes all the more possible.

i love you, and i promise to take care of your heart.

lover, take your pick/fuck.

dear lover,

it's only been two weeks, but if i have to tell you, my mind has become too unbearable because of the influx of thoughts; too much thoughts.

i guess it has not yet become apparent to you that i tend to overthink. yes, i do.

like when we exchange text messages and you do not reply back within the next few minutes, i always review my sent messages and check if i may have said something that would've turned you off. like appearing too eager or attached, or perhaps saying things which would give me away.

you see, i've always been inept with sexual politics, because even when i know that the first one who succumbs to the proddings of the heart loses, i always forget that when i'm smitten with someone. i'm not too proud to admit that i am always at the losing end when it comes to these mind games, which is why, again, my penchant for overthinking has become magnified, because i know that sooner or later, i would need to know the intricacies of this game.

you see, lover, i have been with a lot of souls before, and believe me when i tell you that i can be any lover that you want me to be. if you wish for me to be clingy and appear overly attached, i can be that. trust me. i know how to bombard your phone with text messages like 'good morning', 'have you eaten already?', 'why aren't you replying?', 'good night', 'i love you', 'i love you', and 'i love you' some more. i know how to feign affection with you when we're in a public place and you wish to hold my hand for everyone to see. i can cook for you, wash your dishes, or even move in with you if you like.

or if you want me to be superficial and pretend to like gadgets, talk about foreign celebrities, and become obsessed with giorgio armani watches, i can do that for you. if you feel threatened because you think i'm smarter, i can always nod in agreement with you even when you mispronounce caveat, or you do not know what subservience means. i can laugh at your jokes, even if they're on the verge of being offensive, and i can pretend not to care that you know nothing about faux pas and the need to be politically correct. but if you wish that i be smart, then i can indulge you with my eccentricies and we can talk about the lord of the rings, richard dawkins, and neoliberalization. i can be that for you and more. if you want me to.

or perhaps, lover, if you prefer that we be discreet with our affair, i can also do that. trust me again. i can act nonchalant with you in public, act like we're total strangers in a sea of unnamed faces, and detach at will if you want me to. i can restrain myself from sending you text messages regularly, and if you find it bothersome to constantly have me on the phone, i can pretend to be okay with that. we can have casual sex, puff cigarettes after, pillow talk like a whore and his client do, and i will not expect you to call me after that.

or, at the very least, lover, i can be your fuck buddy; your source of comfort when the world fucks you and you wish to fuck someone in return. i can be your booty call when you feel the need to make love and not mean it, and i promise you that i can restrain myself from calling you afterwards, because i very well know that i am just one of the many bodies that you have chosen to dehumanize, objectify, desecrate.

i've worn the masks of different lovers, all in the past, and all in the hopes of finding someone who'd stay. it has not been pleasant, and to a certain extent, i may have lost a huge part of who i used to be. but i guess we all do hideous things in order to get by. in order to get by, lover.

well pardon me for rambling. so lover, what's your pick?

with all that i am.

maybe, just maybe, you are beautiful because you are not, and can never be, mine.

when i am with you, my heart genuinely smiles; but even when it does, my mind does

not yield, because it is aware of the sad truth that you are only fleeting,

incapable of constancy.

when our fingers are interlocked, i feel the serenity of how it is to be loved,

but when we part ways, my soul is strained with thoughts of you drifting away.

i need you to be mine, even when we're apart -- because i cannot sustain the

onslaught of paranoia when only your scent lingers, and i have nothing to cling

on to but only the memory of you.

if i have to tell you, everytime we are together, the world around me 
is suspended and fades into obscurity; 
an irony really, because it is only in this momentary blur 

when the truth becomes pristinely clear and simple. 

i used to think the heart is incapable of skipping a beat, because this

was only a ploy to make viewers weep in tragic love stories, but when i'm with

you, the thin line that separates reality from fantasy can no longer be delineated,

and i cannot help but smile and be thankful for having loved someone so deeply

and so passionately.

i hate that i know i have to let you go, because you have stirred something so

beautiful in me, albeit for just a fleeting, transient moment. but i also do know

that if i yield to impulse and love you now, the world that i have painstakingly

created through the years will start to crumble down. 

because i have the gift of

clairvoyance, i know that you will not sustain, and even if you've assured me

time and again that you are no longer the person that you used to be, i know

better -- because once upon a time, you have broken my heart and made me question

the genuinity of emotions.

i love you, believe me i do, but we can never be the we that we have always

wanted ourselves to be. the flurry of kisses, hushed affection, momentary

goodbyes, and occassional hellos will always be that and nothing more. my heart

weeps as i bid you goodbye, but we both know that this is the right thing to do.

i love you passionately, yes; but with all that i am and all that i have, 

i need to bid you goodbye. 

escape.

let me tell you about the night that i just had. i spent it in the midst of dancing fireflies, with my feet buried in sand, and my heart kept calm by the crashing of the waves. although darkness cradles brooding and dark things, this time, it soothes my soul. being enveloped by it, with nothing but the wind to caress me, and the stars to give me hope, i start to understand that although i am by my lonesome, i am not alone.

the rhythm of the crashing waves speaks of beauty, and Robert Frost was right when he said that in the hierarchy of beauty, nature is the most beautiful of all: for one just inhales its beauty and understands that it is beautiful, without any need for asking why. as my right foot twitches from being buried underneath the warm sand, i begin to understand that the universe talks to you in the simplest, and yet most beautiful, of things.

i close my eyes. and bask in the comfort of knowing that this, here, now, is one of life's greatest gifts, and as i try to purge my soul of all things obligatory and routinary, i revisit my penchant for beautiful and heartwarming things. and as i own up to my minuteness in the grand configuration of the universe, i feel loved: by the waves, the wind, the stars, the trees, the sand.

and in an instant, i forget that the world has broken me, because i am reattached into one coherent whole again. this is why my heart breathes, and from now on, i shall continue to consummate my yearning for anything and everything ethereal.

universe, thank you.

for ria.

as early as now, i think i need to apologize to you if it seems like, from your vantage point, i am an insensitive, cold-blooded bitch. it's just that, through time, i've learned, and in the hard way mind you, that it is always better to put up walls than to make my heart susceptible to being bludgeoned to death again and again and again.

what do i mean?

each time you send me text messages that speak of beautiful and forlorn things (in my mind, there's really not much distinction) and i reply back with a few terse lines, it does not mean that I don't appreciate your efforts. believe me, i die a little each time i receive these sporadic emotional manifestations from you -- it's just that i need to make myself appear nonchalant, detached, and disinterested. i've learned from experience that too much enthusiasm over these little things can sometimes scare people off, because they think i've become too attached. so for now, let me be cold and lethargic to you, but do know that this will not last long.

every time we talk about us, and i keep my messages short and crisp, and punctuated by smileys, it's because i cannot contain the happiness that i feel inside. i guess you know by now my propensity to be an idiot at the most unexpected situations, so my mechanical responses are just mechanisms so i can keep these idiotic episodes at bay. if you must know, i smile like a fool each time i send those messages to you, but again, i must guard myself from appearing too eager and desperate for your endearments. i do these things primarily for you, and secondarily for myself; so do know that i appear cold not because i want you to go away, but because i want you to continue persisting, and not be turned off by my sporadic outbursts of euphoria.

which is why, as a matter of courtesy, i need to also apologize to you each time i am consumed by intoxication, and i send all these messages laced with undying affection and imbued with emotional innuendos. those are the moments when i can no longer temper the romantic that lurks in my system, and during those unguarded moments, i become the person that I was before all the hurt, pain, and resentment changed me. i regress into the hopeless romantic that i am as i once again believe in the folly of unrequited and unadulterated romance.

i guess what I'm saying is, i build walls, yes, but i want you to be persistent and not be discouraged by these self-constructed impressions of disinterest -- because deep in my heart, i also want you to break down these walls for me, for you -- for us.

road trips.

the night sky was sparsely illuminated with stars that seemed too shy to shine that night, but i could not care any less. i twitched in my seat as he told me to fasten my seatbelt, because, he added, i always need to be cautious when travelling. that made me smile -- because after long-ish years of being away from home, i was once again in a road trip with my dad.

'how's law school?'

'it's dehumanizing and demanding, but i'm learning to live with the voluminous readings. yun nga lang, nakakabawas pogi points because of the stress', i smiled.

'are you pushing through with that exchange program?'

'i'm actually rethinking that, because i don't want to extend for another year in school. i'm 28 already dad, and i've framed my short- and long-term plans, just like you told me to.'

'but your mom and i will support you, whatever your decision will be. habang kaya pa naming kumayod.'

'yes, i understand that, but i want to finish as soon as i can, because i also want you to stop spending for me.' i smiled, as though to punctuate our conversation.

he smiled.

i looked at my dad, and noticed that his hair now had more white than black, and in my heart, i felt sad. i have not been oblivious to the reality that my dad has aged, but despite that, i still cling on to my memory of him in the early 90's.

back in the day, it was part of our family tradition to go on long-ish road trips, and as we headed to nearby bacolod, ilo-ilo or cebu, my dad and mom would reminisce about the early days of their romance. the sappy anecdotes never failed to trigger snickers from my siblings and myself, but just the same, i always looked forward to these road trips year after year.

as i looked at how his face had changed, albeit slightly, from those earlier days, i closed my eyes as i recalled how, a couple of years ago, i had a fall out with my parents. fresh from graduating from college, i was too bullish to listen to what they had to say, and i spent numerous nights in drunken stupor, disregarding their stern warnings, and wanting to push their limits -- all because i wanted to assert my misplaced independence.

then i remembered the endless nights of anguish, the hurtful words hurled against each other, the brokenness and broken hearts, and the wounds that, back then, seemed incapable of healing.

'so, what are your plans for this summer?' he broke the silence.

'i plan to apply as legal intern, but i'm not sure where to apply.'

silence again.

the night seemed to be darker than when we left, and as i surveyed the vastness of darkness that seemed to envelope our conversation that night, i felt a sudden pinch of sadness, but i did not know why.

'dad, do you remember when we would travel to bacolod when we were younger, and you and mom would constantly talk about your love story back in college?'

he smiled.

i realized, in the middle of that poignant moment, that most of my pleasant childhood memories were spent with my siblings and parents, in road trips, not caring where we were headed to, but relishing the company of each other.

as i looked at my father that night, i realized that i may have drifted several times from home before, and that i may have brought heartbreak to the both of them as i tried to emerge as my own person, but i was, and i will always be, their child. that even when my siblings and i will inevitably take flight and leave, all of us still belong to those poignant road trips.

happy 34th anniversary dad and mom, and thank you for the beautiful road trips.

foreboding.

*an exhumed random draft

you smoke your cigarette, and dust off the ashes.

a small wrinkle forms on your forehead, and you try to reposition yourself as you sit in your worn out sofa chair. it used to be leather, but the cracks and dust have made it a shameful shadow of its once impeccable texture. you try to watch the TV, but you're not kidding anyone -- you know you are just randomly surfing channels, just looking for sounds that can keep you away from your thoughts.

you look around, and you see garbage strewn everywhere. pizza boxes, takeout softdrink cups, cockroaches that seem impervious to your presence. the room reeks of dead and dying things. you look at your reflection from the TV, and you see an old and wrinkly man. stomach bloated, face inelegantly wrinkled.  you are balding, your hair, or what's left of them, an unruly mixture of white and ashen streaks.

you look further, and you see that the kitchen counter tiles are covered with fungus. there are dishes that are unwashed, some of them covered in molds. the room, again, has the stench of death, and it seems like you are the only piece of living thing in that desolate place.

you puff your cigarette again, and as you watch it disappear into thin air, you see the last remnant of happiness hanging by your cracked living room wall. it's a picture of your childhood. with your brothers and one sister, and your parents looking like the respectable people that they've always been during their lifetime. you stare more intently at the picture, and you recognize that smile. the smile is familiar and for a moment, it becomes your only source of comfort.

but just as easily, your happiness transmutes into an inexplicable conflation of dread, bitterness, sadness. you suddenly think of your once beautiful house that was adorned with orchids, lady antebellums and lilies in the fishpond. you think of the five rooms that used to be familiar. the cross-stitched 'home sweet home' frame that hangs by your entrance door. you think of the numerous pictures that decorated your living room walls, and how their beauty almost had the scent of summer -- serious, wacky, gray, sepia and colored. you remember the endless april nights spent barbequing under the mango tree. the love birds, karla, the doberman, kobe, the german shepherd, choi, the daschund.

you close your eyes to remember, even for just a moment. when you open your eyes, they start to swell. you just let the tears drop. you let out a muffled cry of desperation, but in your mind, you can only ask yourself:

how has it come to this?    

drunk writing.

growing up, i've always known i was different.

in school, in family reunions, in family gatherings, i've always felt like the odd one out -- always somewhere, but never really anywhere. for years on end, the reason for this self-perceived peculiarity has always eluded me, but lately, i think i know what my problem is.

while most people are hardwired to always think of the future, of what's the next adventure, tryst or happening, i prefer to live in my past. when i was in college, i did not care about what was to come later on in my life. sure, i always convinced myself that i will become a lawyer someday, but i did not frame my short- and long-term plans. i refused to yield to the demands of growing up, because being in the university was more than enough for me.

i had my friends, my beer, my cigarettes and my bliss. i shuddered at the prospect of leaving what was familiar because i did not know what jungle waited for me outside the university.

but i later on realized that this penchant for idealizing the was proved fatal in the end. for while it is true that life is fleeting and it passes us by without us even noticing it sometimes, the pain of departure is so much more magnified for someone who tries to cling on to it despite its transient realness. my friends left me, the university outgrew me, and i was left alone with my beer and my cigarettes -- solitary and pensive as i tried to revisit the fond memories of my younger days.

  

as a human being, i should have known that to live is to constantly be in flux and that it should always accede to the next logical episode. but i am more arrogant than this, and even when it proved to be destructive in the end, i still chose to cling on to those hollow remnants of the past -- so much so that sometimes, i suspended the now to revisit the psychedelic days of my younger self.

this partly explains why it took me more than 4 years to finish college, because instead of being prospective in my direction, i chose to digress and constantly look back.

  

prior to entering law school, i crafted a pact with myself to discard this destructive habit. i vowed to be prospective and conjure a semblance of order in the big mess that has become my life. in theory, that made perfect sense, but life does not operate that way, and i had to be reminded of this reality the hard way.

  

a close friend once told me that he lives by the wisdom of al pacino, especially when the man said, in a movie, that the now is an accumulation of what-has-beens, and any act that we've done in the past, whether life-changing or insignficant, affects our future. in my mind, i related this to karma and the fact that this universe never lets you get away with anything. you do something bad now, it will haunt you in a year or two years' time. you try to improve your lot now, no matter how difficult, and the universe will reward you not long from that moment.

i admit that i'm not proud of what i've done in my past. there was a turbulent episode in my life when all hope seemed to be lost, and my existence was hanging by a flimsy and fragile thread that was constantly at the risk of breaking. during my lost days, i've kissed numerous lips, ripped hearts out, and broke the souls of others. i lived with abandon, and i did not care what other people thought because caring was pointless when nothing seemed to matter anymore. when you feel as though you've lost your cause, you start to think that life exists just because it does, it is bereft of purpose and it does not deserve introspection.

  

now that i'm in law school, i've experienced my friend's karmic life philosophy firsthand. even when i know that deep inside i am not a bad person, the past continues to chain me down and remind me that once upon a time, i was a horrible person. and when i try to convince people that i've since outgrown that directionless person, at the back of their minds, they continue to be doubtful.

in retrospect, all these seem ironic. back when i used to hold on to the shadows of my past, i felt like i was neither here nor there. i did not exist, for i just opted to live. but now that i wish to move on from my past monsters, it perennially comes to life to haunt me and humiliate my efforts to becoming a better person. it's taxing to say the least, but i won't give up trying. besides, if i go by my friend's life principle, everything would turn out better in my next life episode. 

  

i just have to wait to find out.

random love.

his story.

he sits quietly still at 3 am in an inconspicuous burger joint that was bathed by the sodium light's yellow. for an observer, he seemed to be deep in his thoughts, pensive even, his stillness disturbed only by his occasional cigarette puffs. he was a marlboro lights guy, and the ashes have accumulated because he was too busy to even dust off the gray remnants of his death stick.

he thinks about what happened earlier that night. the loud music. matronas. parloristas. the suffocating smell of semen, saliva and cigarette smoke. the red light. his naked and oiled body. his gyrating. his skimpy underwear. the glaring light bouncing off of his chest. his glistening moment.

he gives it a thought and he realizes that he's been in the circuit for 3 years already. he takes a long drag from his cigarette one last time before he throws it away. his thoughts drift further into the repository of his memories.

her story.

she arrives at the burger joint for her regular cheeseburger fix. holding a cigarette on one hand while clasping her pointy heels with her other hand, she asks him if the seat beside him was taken. upon his motioning that it was not, she got comfortable in the empty chair. she fished for her philipp morris pack from her bag, and upon tearing the pack open, she lit her 11th cigarette for the night, puffing the smoke away with abandon.

she thinks of the night that she just had. loud music. tacky dj. her red heels. her boots. dirty old men. the stench of puke, beer and pussy filling the dark room that was sparsely illuminated by the red light that permeated through all corners. her performance. her fondling her breast as she looked at herself in the mirror while she gyrates. the captivated stares of the regulars. her staged biting of her lip as she fondles her pussy beneath her silk underwear.

their story.

he asks her for a cigarette, to which she motions for him to wait. he lights the cigarette, slowly inhaling the smoke that would hasten his mortality. he looks up to her as she drifts away in her thoughts, brooding and unperturbed. he dusts the ashes for the first time as he feels her head on his shoulder. he looks at her, deep into her eyes, as he strokes her dark hair that reeked of cigarette and beer.

he puffs his cigarette again, so does she, as they felt, for the first time in a long time, the comfort of how it is to be loved. in a night that was as random as the stars, they both stared into nothingness, puffing their cigarettes incessantly, as the smoke hovered above the heads of two souls who longed for affection all their life.

at 3:14 am in an inconspicuous burger joint that was bathed by the sodium light's illumine.

why i love UP.

it is not uncommon for me to be asked by friends why i adore UP so much. some of them even say that i interject my UP musings even when i talk about the most obscure things. and each time i am asked this, i always clam up. i do not answer right away not because i do not know what to tell them, but it is because i know what the answer is, and this certainty is what makes me think hard before i speak, for i do not wish to give them a few undiscerned sentences which do not really give justice to the love that i have for UP.

it has almost been 8 years since i was in one of Palma Hall's classrooms, listening attentively to Atty. Jamon as he tells us yet again that we are the future molders of this country. this is what i miss most about UP education: for with every new learning that i acquire in class, i am constantly reminded that i am part of a larger configuration. that intelligence does not just exist for its own sake, for to do so would be to betray the numerous souls who look up to the iskolars ng bayan for the improvement of their own lot. learning is inextricably linked with a transcendental ideal, because a mere narcissistic absorption of the discourses that happen in class translates to an abandonment of what the taxpayers -- the farmers, the lower class workers, the OFWs -- expect of us.

in UP, one breathes the interconnectedness of all knowledge, so much so that the delineation between theory and praxis is virtually not there anymore. the four walls of the classroom fail to contain the burning idealism that iskos and iskas have, because every UP student knows that the acquisition of knowledge is only the beginning -- for what is more important is the application of these newfound ideas to better the situation of our underprivileged countrymen. a UP-educated friend once quipped that the accumulation of knowledge is essentially a narcissistic venture: that people thirst for knowledge because it is a response to the self's insatiable need to enhance itself, and that the positive consequences of this yearning is merely consequential and thus unintended.

in my mind, I can only ask him: if it is through the blood and sweat of taxpayers that we are able to obtain our education, is it then apt for us to tell them that any good deed that we do after we graduate is out of charity?

in UP, one is taught to always hold on to the ideal. in a country that is afflicted with paralyzing hopelessness, UP provides that beacon of hope to students as it reminds them that yes, darkness may exist, but if we extinguish what little flicker of idealism that we have left, then who will fend off the darkness? it is this assurance of potential and promise which makes UP students strive for perfection, because they know that with collective idealism, the promise of achieving the great filipino destiny is always an ideal that is capable of realization.

UP has made me realize how minute i am in this universe, but that it is this very smallness which makes me capable of clinging on to something that is incapable of extinguishment. yes, i may be small, but i am part of a collective endeavor that will soon see the emancipation of this country from the shackles of hopelessness and desperation. if only for this alone, i will forever be indebted to UP, and constantly promise her that in God's time, i shall help her achieve what this country rightfully deserves.

in a fit of melancholia.

you know this alley very well. you grew up here, as a matter of fact. it reeks of the all too familiar smell of tanduay rhum that you first downed along with your childhood friends. it reminds you of the exhilarating scent of cigarette smoke, philip morris to be exact, because this was where you first tried to smoke as you huddled alongside first-time smokers like yourself. this place soaks you with melancholia, because under numerous majestic moonlights, you held the hand of a girl as you walked her home, talking about sweet nonsense, and believing in the promise of unrequited love.

you know their faces very well. you know those smiles and smirks as though they were your very own. you know these souls because they were with you when you first puked from having too much alcohol, or when you first became paranoid because of having too much weed. you know how they eased into adolescence, because you were with them when they serenaded their first girlfriend, or you helped them make their first love letter. you were once brothers, and that fraternal affinity, a long time ago, seemed all too natural it was almost trivial.

but now, the alley has been obscured by the passage of time. you no longer recognize the scents and sounds of familiarity. you stare into what was once an inherent part of you, but only a melancholic abstraction of ambiguity stares back at you. and the faces that used to be as constant as the stars have faded into a blur that have ceased to be part of you who used to be. they say that time has an uncanny ability of deconstructing what used to be familiar, and in your mind, you can only ask:

is it because they have changed, or is it because you have?

absurdity.

so who am i kidding?

i know my thoughts will not let me sleep tonight, so any effort at sleeping will just be for naught. i know that when i close my eyes and feign exhaustion, my mind will be pestered with all things dark and forlorn. and before i know it, the sun is in its imposing state, my head throbs because of fatigue, and my day is over even before it has started.

my thoughts torment me -- and what is more bothersome is the absurdity of most of them. these days, i often think of the infinite permutations of parallel universes. i muse, for example, that in a parallel universe, i may no longer exist. or that in another, i am happy and my smiles are genuine and warm. i often think about the deceptive allure of time, and how i can exist even if i do not subscribe to the linear concept of time: that sometimes, the space time continuum ceases to exist, and in some instances even, my past, present, and future selves converge until i no longer have my own conception of self.

sometimes, i drift into my ideations that a great tragedy is in the offing, so i need to prepare for my demise. earlier today, i was out studying with friends, and even when our conversations were punctuated by laughter and endless banter, deep inside, i was slowly and silently suffocating. amid the smiles and the heartfelt chuckles, i secretly and desperately tried to suppress the heart palpitations that were making me nauseous and weary. for, in my mind, how can sadness thrive in the midst of happiness?

perhaps this is the product of law school agony. or maybe i am just trying to rationalize my sadness by dragging my current state into the larger picture. i am tired, no, i feel spent, in always feeling hopeless and helpless -- and during agonizing nights when the darkness is especially pitch black, my sadness is magnified and i ask myself:

why is there always something wrong with me even when all things seem to be right?

the good and the bad.

i read something recently that struck a nerve, and of all places, i had to read it in facebook. it was a status message of a cousin who is smitten, bluntly put, by alcohol and momentary euphoria.

she declared for all the netizens to read: i just don't know what's right and what's wrong anymore.

instinctively, i left a comment: you probably need to rest for a while so you can have your sense of perspective back. because through time, and once you've become numb to making the wrong decisions over and over and over again, the line that separates what's right from what's wrong becomes so thin, it's virtually not there anymore. you just need to recoup and rest for a while, and in no time, you will find your center again. it's quite helpful, trust me.

this got me thinking:

why is it that sometimes, nothing seems to be 'wrong' anymore, and everything that we do can be rationalized as the 'right' thing to do? for in the absence of a dualizing standard for our actions, and with the normalization of what we used to think of as 'bad', everything can pass off as good -- for as long as it makes us happy.

happiness, after all, is the ultimate pursuit of man, or at least, according to my standard of what constitutes a happy life. (yes, i am both epicurean and an escapist -- a fatal mix, i know.)

but it has not always been like this.

when i was still a sheltered and pampered young boy who was spoonfed with religion classes and catechism seminars, i knew that premarital sex was bad, smoking was taboo, beer was a form of enslavement, and cursing was the habit of uneducated people.

but as i got broken to the world, i realized that the very concept of morality is fluid, and for as long as you are capable of dealing with the consequences of your actions, then you can do whatever you want to do. you are your own master, and for so long as you do not hurt anyone, and you are in the company of people who share the same worldview as yourself, then society has no right to intrude into your affairs.

naturally and in no time, i discarded my erstwhile notions about the dichotomy of good and bad.

i smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, and cursed like a maniac. at first, i have to admit, i felt liberated, because for once in my life, i was no longer constrained to be 'conventionally' good. but of course, i would later on learn that that was a false sense of empowerment, because in just a matter of months, i would be weighed down by the repercussions to my overindulgences.

i lost my center, my sense of self, and to a certain extent, even my self-respect. for in the blur of intoxicated nights and days of abandon and mayhem, i've learned to cut classes, kiss total strangers when intoxicated, and perennially use the blanket excuse of drunkenness when my actions would no longer be acceptable even to my friends.

sometimes, and at the expense of being cliche, i shudder at the person i see in the mirror. i no longer recognize the boy who stares back at me during mornings when my head splits from a nasty hangover, or during nights when i am certain i will be possessed by drunken stupor.

someone once told me that in case we lose our sense of self, we need to go back to what's familiar. he made perfect sense, but then again, i thought, with the fluidity of life, even the familiar can be deconstructed -- and sometimes, when you are in a place that is unfamiliar even to you, your sense of familiarity dissipates into something that once was, but has ceased to be.

although i am grateful that my sense of perspective has taken flight from once being so rigidly dichotomized, there are times when i wish i am back to my old self: certain of the divide, and even more certain that the good can be separated from the bad.

resolute.

on honesty.

for this year, i will try to speak my truth silently.

the world, after all, affords us a plethora of words, and we are given the liberty to play with the permutations of which words to use and imbue them with our emotions.

for this year, i vow to think and think hard before i speak, and i will discern before i let out my words, because last year, my obsessive propensity to please others, even at the expense of myself, was what got me into petty skirmishes with friends and foes alike.

i will speak only of good things, and when i find myself in the company of people whose words are laced with poison, i will just smile and not be sucked in by their darkness.

for it is very easy to spew out words of condemnation and lash out at people with our verbal poisons, but it takes courage to temper one's words, lest they become ammunitions that will scathe, sometimes irrevocably, those around us.

on the present.

for this year, i will try to be content with the present.

for the past year, i have realized that i was usually weighed down by the ghosts of my past, and the uncertainty of my future.

when melancholia soaks me wet, i often think of things that have long been relegated to memory --and i pine for them. i drift into the realm of what has already been, and i cling on to these shadows until my heart can no longer breathe from exhaustion.

but during pensive moments, i fret about the future and cringe at the prospect of failure. failure, you see, has been a recurring theme in my life, and even when i have made that first step towards fulfilling my childhood dream, i still become wary of the randomness of the stars.

for this year, i vow to be content with what is, and do away with what has been and what could be. i will be content with watching the stars shimmer on a beautiful night, or bask in the beautiful prose of talented story weavers, or be enthralled by the beauty of love as it unfolds.

on my year.

this year will be my year, and yes, as early as now, i am already claiming it.

happy new year, friends.

the moon child.

i.

there was once a beautiful girl named martha.

she had the curliest locks, the most delicate fingers, and the most beautiful eyes that some people say she was a child of the moon, and that when she closed her eyes, the moon's radiance died with her.

i first saw her with a beer bottle in one hand, the other clasping a marlboro lights stick. she was only 17 when i first met her, but that did not matter.

we talked about unicorns and sun tzu's the art of war, love and middle earth, psychology and nirvana. we talked about how stars can be deceiving, and how beer is the only semblance of constancy there is. we talked about how fucked up britney spears is, and how emotions can disappear without a trace.

but during nights when the darkness was especially pitch black, i would see snippets of who she was without the facade. once, when sobriety was spirited away from her body, i learned that her father is a priest. and although she tried to make it sound nonchalant, i knew that that had scathed her.

i also learned that her mother never wanted her in the first place, and until now, they still have sporadic skirmishes, because apparently, she is the personification of her mother's one great tragedy. she always chuckled after she shared these disconcerting truths, but of course, i knew better.

during these unguarded moments, i think: the moon child's eyes can also be dead, even when they are wide open. and when they die, the moon dies with them. and then the night is veiled by an intangible mist of solitude that is so disquieting, everything becomes dark and dreary.

ii.

i can still recall that beautiful october night when alcohol warped us into a parallel universe. we were beside the beach, just the two of us, mat laid out, and our stories of truth and fiction sprawled before us.

it was 11:52 when i kissed her. i have always wondered how she tasted -- not in the carnal sense, but in the more profound sense. i wanted to understand how complicated she truly was.

the first brush, the first kiss, was a moment i could not forget.

her motions were mechanical, and even when she had the most beautiful lips, i am certain that i tasted sorrow when i kissed her. her lips looked invitingly red, but they tasted like gray.

i had tasted all the men that she had kissed before, in the hopes of finding that elusive sense of belongingness. i tasted her bitterness; her submission to despair. i tasted her brokenness; her spirit that was in shambles.

i tasted her life, and our kiss made me taste the depth and breadth of her sadness.

it's been four years since that kiss happened, and still, i wonder how she is doing right now. the last thing i heard about her is that she dropped out from college and, i hope what they say is untrue, she has become prostituted in the place where she's from.

there was once a beautiful girl named martha.

and each time i look at the moon, i remember the moon child. and each time i remember the moon child, i am reminded that the moon lives and dies with her.

leaving.

because i know that soon, one day, someday, you will just be a memory, i will devote all of my senses to look at you from afar, to detach from the world that i thought we created together, albeit for just a moment, and just look at you with the fondness that i still have for you.

you see, the tragedy of detachment lies in its suspended sadness: in the poignant but painful memory of recalling how once, in a place that used to be familiar, you and i shared something that was beautiful, however brief it was, and no matter how fleeting, or impossible, it seemed to be.

you are beautiful, you will always be that in my mind -- but sometimes, the world does not operate by the parameters of the ideal, because most times, the paradox of attachment lies in being broken to the truth that not all beautiful things are made to happen, and even when they do, they do not last for long.

i shall devote all of my senses into observing intently, with all the attention that a child can muster, how everything is starting to be forgotten, and how, even with a resolution that seems to defy the intrusion of the extraneous, our tragedy is in the offing, and nothing, not even our fondness for each other, can stop the inevitable from happening.

stranger, thank you and i wish you the best in everything.

yosi.

i hold on to my cigarette, clasping it in place, securely fastening it between my middle finger and my index finger, shortening its life with my every puff, unmindfully tapping it from time to time, dusting off the ashes.

as i inhale the smoke, i can trace its every movement inside my body, i can taste its trail: from my mouth, to my throat, and then finally, to wherever the trail ends -- perhaps, and i can only surmise, it meets its finality in that desolate place, somewhere between my heart and my head, where all my unpleasant memories lay buried.

as i puff out the smoke, i marvel at how, sometimes, time becomes suspended, and in that moment of clarity, i reach my hands out to hold its fleeting realness, but even before my arms are outstretched, the smoke ascends, dissipates into thin air, and its evasiveness is both beautiful and tragic.

as i puff my cigarette, stare into nothingness, and indulge in the pulsating euphoria of the inexplicable, i am comforted by my knowledge that with each emotional reprieve that i derive from my death sticks, i also silently emancipate myself from the ordeal of perpetually trying to be what others wish me to be.

and as i allow myself to get lost in its hazy glory, i can clearly see the irony embedded in its beauty: for with each puff that brings with it resuscitation, i know that i also wish to be extinguished and be freed from the madness of the world.

courage.

because i need to take a breather from the madness of it all, i will momentarily sever my ties with monotony and revisit my penchant for emotional clutter.

how are you?

it's heart-warming to know that you are okay.

me? well, i really can't tell.

what is being okay really? is it being subdued by your knowledge that life is perfect, the sky is blue, the birds are chirping, and your mug is brimming with beer froth?

if that is the standard for adequate happiness, then i clearly digress from the mold: so i must be truthful to you and own up to my misery.

i find perfect sense, nowadays, in the regularity of being submerged underneath the suffocating cloud of law books and jurisprudence, but during days when the monotony becomes unbearable and my brain bleeds from constantly being beaten to the pulp, i look at the scars on my hands, and i think:

are these hands capable of the greater task that lies ahead? are they capable of sustaining more wounds and shedding more blood for the dream that is incapable of death?

or am i merely duping myself into believing that this is the path that i am destined to tread?

law school, thus far, has sifted out from my soul the duality of my innate frailty and my long-forgotten capacity for optimism. for during dark days when my own humanity incapacitates me to continue trudging forward, i am reminded of why my life, for countless times before, had silently imploded right before my eyes.

but during days when my spirit is indefatigable and i see light in even the darkest of nights, i am buoyed by my knowledge that even when i think it to be impossible, i am, after all, still capable of optimism.

at this point, i am uncertain as to whether the stars will align for me, or if the universe has laid down a path that is unknown to me yet. and i know i do not have the most persevering spirit, but when my heart tells me to keep moving forward, i am in no position to argue against what it wills me to do.

for when death devours my soul and there is nothing left to cling on to for redemption but hope, i know my heart will reattach my broken pieces back and whisper to me the words that will give me courage.

floating.

clyde, i feel lost.

it is 3:23 a.m. and her text message dusts off my sleepiness.

why?

i try to make sense of her message.

i dunn

she doesn't even finish her sentence. but it doesn't matter -- for where her words were lacking, her emotions were more than complete.

i mused:

these days, we are defined by words, no matter if complete, disemboweled, or inchoate. for we have become mere snippets of words and emotions --

but it is that same incompleteness that defines our whole.

it's the little flickers of light which illuminate the being, or the sporadic confessions of grief that betray the perennial sadness.

and i am certain, that when i am submerged in a sea of strangers, the random faces are also snippets of stories --

that i am not alone in thriving in my own incompleteness.