I'm IT!!

I was tagged by sandra alena.

Once you have been tagged, you have to write a blog entry with 10 weird, random things, facts, habits or goals about yourself. At the end, choose 10 people to be tagged, listing their names and why you chose them. Don't forget to leave them a comment ("You're It") and ask them to read your blog. You can't tag the person who tagged you. Since you can't tag me back, let me know when you've posted your blog so I can see your answers!

Here we go!!

1. I was born on a Monday at 3:20 a.m. Thanks to my mom for putting this on my baby album. The "downside" of being the firstborn child.hehehehehehe!!
2. I was so fascinated with the Egyptian history when I was 8 years old that there was a point when I thought I was the reincarnation of Cleopatra. Now that I look back, I couldn't help but think of slugging myself for giving such disservice to Cleopatra[me as Cleopatra? I am definitely not worthy!].
3. I am a closet pyromaniac. I have always been fascinated with fire. I love it when I see a paper, a pile of dead leaves, a match or cigarette stick...or a bunch of fleas soaked in a kerosene burning. I most especially love it when I am burning a scented candle and a matchstick both at the same time in the bathroom. :)
4. I am a bibliophile. I buy books...and won't read them for the longest time...or sometimes, not read them, at all.
5. I have a penchant...and fear for chains...in whatever forms that may be. Whether in a form of a smoke[especially coming from the mouth], or a person in shiny red trunks whipping me with his emotional whiplash [tama naaaaaaa!!!!waaah!!].
6. I was once told by a good friend that I am a sadomasochist in the making. I am beginning to agree with her, but more on the latter than the former, I think...
7. I am fascinated...and tormented by dead ringers and doppelgangers. Only god knows where all these connections and what-nots would lead to...
8. I would have to say that I wrote my muse to life[whatever that means]. Which led me to my emotional pitfall.. With this happening, I am now beggining to think that I had acquired a talent of writing myself to doom. Now that's what we call a poetic tragedy.
9. I am emo-driven, audibly stoned and definitely aurally committed! I let music take control of me and just spin with it!! That's just the way it is!!\m/

I am now tagging the following people to answer this:

Puryang, Janine, Gladys, Greta, Lalalalalalala, John Bengan, Richmond, Pyk, Lyn, Stip.

a lightbulb kinda moment

Nothing indeed beats life's simple pleasures. I now feel wholeheartedly blessed with what I have at the moment. I am thankful for my Mom and Dad, who I should say are the coolest parents on earth. For my incorrigibly adorable brothers and sister. For my cousin who forever emphatizes with me. For friends who always made sure that they are there for me especially when I need them the most. For mischievous pitbulls. For kind, generous, wise, humble, intelligent colleagues. For challenging, yet fulfilling paperworks. For involuntary services. For Distance Learning Education. For sudden backpack trips and drinking buddies. For pop and rock music. For cigarettes and alcohol. For the tormentingly, traumatically beautiful past. For the highs and lows. For shrines on the top of the hill. For the inevitably shrinking social network [I am getting scared of my own space now, man!]. For love and pain. For humanities and the arts. For passion and dream. For life. As what I recently told someone, despite us seeing life as gray and bleak, it will still remain beautiful anyway because that's what it really is. I am not trying to say here that I am finally happy and will say goodbye to depression and sorrow, but I know I am getting there. By seeing what I have in a different light, I know that the light, the sunrise that I have long been waiting for is about to appear in the horizon soon. All I just have to do is wait with baited breath for it. There is just simply no other way.

Let go and let God. This, by far, is the most difficult lesson I learned. With head bowed down, tears rolling down freely on my cheeks, I humbly offered the heavy rocks on my pockets to God, allowing Him this time to carry them and move my plot forward. I don't know how to continue my life story anymore. I wanted to live--and end it with a powerful bang. Or at least end it meaningfully. But I am now at the point already that I exhausted my outline for it, thus ending up suffering from the so-called "writer's block." There were moments that I wanted these rocks to bring me down and not let me resurface. But I realized that these rocks, though heavy, would be useful in the interim. I can get to use them as a weapon against my demons. I can also use them to break this heavy chain wrapped around me. I can use them in proving to everyone, especially those who didn't believe in me, that these heavy rocks made me a better person. They made me stand firmly on my values, beliefs and principles. They molded me to be strong, heavy and firm, too, like them. Therefore, I am indeed a person to be reckoned with. It wasn't difficult to swallow my pride and accept my human frailty, but here I am acknowledging my limits and unburdening myself of this heavy chip on my shoulder. It's high time to seek for back-up. A strong and reliable one, at that. I have never been a spiritual person. I am not even proud of that either, but I wanted to treat my spirituality, or relationship with God in a more intimate manner. If I am going to go back or finally commit to a church, I wanted to make sure that that's what I wanted. That I am fully ready for it. Maybe what I am going through now is God's way of giving me a dose of my own medicine. Allow me to say that I am humbly and willingly drinking it, no matter how unpalatable it is in my tongue. But I am now taking one step at a time on this. One step at a time.

There is indeed time for everything. I pretty much considered myself to be a late bloomer. After seeing a couple of high school batchmates recently, they pointed out that I was the last one to come out of my thick shell and enjoyed my youth. I guess the same thing goes for me now. I am well aware of the fact that first, I am suffering from this burden for a long time already. That it's indeed way long over. I should be living a new life now. But unfortunately, that wasn't the case. I was also at fault why I prolonged my agony in the first place. But there are just wounds that take long to heal. This is one of them. Setting up deadline has never been a good idea because no matter how we plotted our goals and plans in life, somewhere along the way, something and/or someone will suddenly block your path and lead you to another direction. That's life. In other words, if I aimed/wanted to settle down with the one I love and have children by the time I turn 27 [my age now], it will definitely NOT happen if it's still not the right time. I know I have to feel the pressure. And yes, I have this fear that I will not be able to attain this goal. But everytime I think of those moments--great moments in life, some of them may have arrived late, but they came anyway...and I've never felt happier and contented. Enjoying life's simple pleasures indeed! At its right time, of course!

I wanted to make a difference. With this new disposition and new responsibility assigned to me, I am suddenly flooded on what I wanted to do. On how to make life worth living and living it to the fullest, at that. I realized how much I treasured the memories of my youth. I have to admit it wasn't grand, but my adolescent years were responsible in bringing me to the things I love the most at the moment: love, angel, music, baby [allow me to quote Gwen Stefani's clothing line here...hehehehe]. I noticed that I inevitably connect with people younger than me, most especially to teenagers. I worried at first because maybe I haven't matured much at all because I love being with them. But on the other hand, I thought, maybe it's the other way around. My heart aches for those teenage underdogs. For emo-driven kids, for misunderstood young people. One reason why I love rock music is that these rock stars speak for these "losers," assuring them that there is nothing wrong with them. That there is nothing wrong if we crash and burn. That things will be better in the end. Just listen to music and things will be better. I wanted to have that similar ministry. However, time didn't hone me to become a musician. Time brought me to writing and literature. I am not sure how I'd be able to do my ministry with my line of work, but so far, being around with these bagets, helping them to at least do well with a part of their studies pretty much heeded my desire to make a difference. Maybe if I will be given a chance to teach literature to them, I would welcome that idea. Life can't be all logic and numbers, we also have to appreciate its beauty by studying art and literature to balance things out.

As far as adversities and unseen enemies are concerned, I wanted to deal with them in a different manner. I don't want to use the common ways of dealing with them because I observed, as well as experienced it myself, that it always turn out bad. That it backfires and makes you miserable in the end. Counting 1 to 100 is a very tedious thing to do. But I believe that by doing so, I was able to think of other ways of venting out my anger. The outcome, or the end product is also another long wait, but what the heck? The bottomline is, calculated moves rarely go wrong. Apart from that, more people will admire you for your courage and creativity in dealing with "ugly" stuff. If I am going to be the anti-hero in the story, I don't want to be the type that people hate, instead, I wanted them to witness that there are other ways of getting back without me looking like a heartless bitch. Well, I think I am never one, in the first place.

And that's what we call karma.

Freedom. Allow me to rephrase a quote from Anne Morrow Lindbergh. You that I love, I wish to be free--even from me. As much as I wanted to beg you to stay, I know that I will just make your life miserable. And you are going to inevitably put the blame on me in the process. I fully enjoyed this privilege from Mom and Dad and I realize that gripping someone from the arm too tight is never a good idea. I know that they also hurt seeing me do things that they know are bad for me, but they just let me be because they want me to become a better person. They want to see me happy. I am also doing the same for you, too, because I want you to be a better person and I want you to be happy. However, the only difference is, if my Mom and Dad always welcome me with open arms everytime I come home, you will not see me doing the same thing for you anymore. Everything that we want always come with a price. And it definitely doesn't come cheap. I don't want to give you the pleasure anymore of getting the best of both worlds. I also longed to be happy. And since you are not here at my side to help me seek my nirvana, consider this as my last act of selflessness. I hope and pray that this decision you made wasn't made out of impulse or didn't originate from the groins or from the mouth.

And with that, I raise my white flag and close my doors and windows tightly shut.

When Words No Longer Cut Me Like A Knife

…something for the faithless in me.
-Words. Darren Hayes



Don’t get me wrong. I am still not unafraid to tread on the dreadfully beautiful path writers set foot on. I still haven’t gotten over the fear of putting—or ending my life in tragedy if I pursue this craft that has been bothering me for over a decade, which happens to be my bread and butter at the moment. It’s been barely two months since I publicly exposed online my worst fears and at the same time, announced my intention to go on an indefinite leave from this thing I eventually love doing. Despite not being able to convince myself fully on my capability/ies to immortalize a certain idea, musings, ramblings or whatever, here I am still being filled up with the desire to put these word plays, ideas, fragmented sentences and paragraphs, and even inspiration on paper that if only I have ample time to sit and stare at the computer monitor, I would be able to release them like a constipated fool finally running his/her way to the john for that much-awaited outburst. To be quite honest, most of them are still about this blue funk I have been harboring since like, forever. Apparently, I am talking about my long time muse here. For the longest time, I have to say that I am quite thankful for this person for introducing me to this excruciating emotion [better known as pain], thinking that it would, in the interim, make me a better and stronger person and perhaps, even a better writer. I reckoned that by filling up my journals stories or what-nots of imageries, adjectives, verbs and adverbs of loneliness and aloneness [solely inspired by my muse, thank you very much], it would someway or somehow change my fate and thus lead me to my happy ending. Or better yet, it would lead me back to the person behind all of these either for a happy ending—or for that much deserved sweet revenge, and my tender triumph. The cyberspace is my main stage, as it is the easiest and the most convenient, and the most accessible avenue for me to publish whatever I have written. Of course, since I am just an ordinary, amateur blogger, I only have good friends, and some friends of friends as readers/spectators. Because I have a particular audience in mind whenever I try to write something, there is this thing deep inside me that I could someway, somehow directly transmit the message. Yes, it may sound pathetic, but that particular thought is the one strongly pushing me to keep on writing. What it has done to me, however, is that my writings transform into a virtual boomerang that no matter how far I throw it, it still goes back and hits me hard—real hard, leaving me black and blue all over. It slices, in fact, my skin and leaves me bleeding even. That no matter how hard and how direct the words are, all I get in return is nothing, not even a single word of retaliation, acceptance, acknowledgement or apology [which won’t be accepted, anyway]. I think that is one of the reasons that made me feel tired. The reason why I wanted to let it go for a while. I feel that my efforts are futile, that I expended my entire energy over nothing, like a mad scientist creating a gigantic contraption which ended up being a worthless piece of junk. And just like what happened to Frankenstein’s creator, the words I conjured up is slowly paving the way for my self-destruction and self-flagellation [imagine whips with a thousand fine, sharp edges]. They are beginning to feel like a hundred rocks in my pockets that if I add more, I would eventually drown and not resurface alive.
=*=*=*=*=*=
I suddenly made an impulsive decision to leave town for a while before I eventually sink deeper into this dark, vacuous abyss, or voluntary push myself to a cliff and disappear forever. I went somewhere far, somewhere that I can at least feel the distance from everybody, somewhere that I can hold accountable to nobody but myself. Somewhere that I can be in contact with my soul and perhaps even ask God on the side about these things that I am going through and have to go through to reach heaven on earth—or, to put it bluntly, finally say to everyone, most especially to myself, that I am finally happy. Unfortunately, my short vacation didn’t turn out that way. I wasn’t able to say hi to God or even to my soul. I reckon God deliberately disrupted my plans, or I should say He thought that it’s not the right time yet for me and my soul to have an intimate chat, as it might eventually drive me to madness. Instead, He paved the way for me to spend my short break by healing my f’d up being. And the best part here is, He made sure I didn’t do it alone.
=*=*=*=*=*=
There is this one person I met during one of my low moments who virtually pushes me up whenever I feel down and lonely. I didn’t know how it exactly began. All I remember is that he came near me, mimicked a funny Indian accent he heard somewhere, and I laughed like hell. I think that pretty much created the “spark.” Then we started drinking out which led to constantly exchanging text messages after that, until there was this one night, in the midst of our virtual bantering that I requested him [tearfully] to say something funny after I was interrupted by a heartbreaking message from my long time tormentor—I mean, muse. In response, he told me about imagining himself being a gigolo in shiny hot pink trunks dancing to the tune of Macarena. It made me forget what brought tears in my eyes in the first place.

The rest, they say, is history. I say, it’s another long story to tell. Anyway, he eventually made sure that we still keep in touch despite distance, changes and circumstances. I am forever grateful over his effort not to lose contact with me. Despite what we’ve been through, I consider this person a treasured friend, a respected confidante, and most of all, an ultimate drinking buddy. A total sanity saver. He actually carries an intellectually cynical disposition over life and love. But despite his bleak outlook in life, his childish smile and his bubbly disposition never wear off, and he constantly gives out a contagious laughter over wacky and silly conversations. He’s one of those people I know who’s incorrigibly addicted to alcohol. I wouldn’t wonder if most friends and acquaintances would assume SMB as his middle initials. Ironically, I find it as one of his endearing traits. Because he always wears this dazzling smile even on his most drunken state, I no longer care if drinking is bad for my liver, or my stomach—especially if drinking also means having his bubbly company around.
=*=*=*=*=*=
Anyway, back to my short vacation. I impulsively mentioned to this guy of my plans of soul searching in a faraway place. He enthusiastically suggested the place where he was taking a vacation that time. I thought it was a good idea. I see buses going to their province often, so I reckon I can handle going there alone. When he started telling me about this place that serves the best burger, I was hypnotized after he connected it with our favorite drink—beer. To cut the story short, I overhauled my itinerary and went by to his suggestion. I figured that having a drinking spree with a drinking buddy is tantamount to finding one’s soul in a faraway province.

And it indeed was. Two nights of intoxication with my drinking buddy flushed away my close-to-lifelessness disposition. His unchanging wit and sense of humor made me forget to find my soul back, being the main purpose of my short, unplanned vacation. The alcohol, instead of putting me to deeper depression, made me take off the rocks I keep in my pockets, making me see that it is more fun to swim in a turbulent ocean without them. That it is fun to be rocked by the ocean waves every now and then, especially if I have people [like him] who care about me around to swim with me. I am glad that my drinking buddy helped me have that kind of insight. He said that no matter what happens to us, whether we’re left alone or defenseless, we are left with no other choice but to continue living anyway. Life is indeed beautiful (especially with alcohol in it, he added). It is just up to us on how we are going to live it to the fullest.

His company, as well as his disposition, made me more restless—in a positive way, of course. I was longing to sit down, either open a new document on Microsoft Word, or just grab a pen and paper, and pour out all the happy memories we made over burgers, beaches and beer. Few days after my trip, I found myself writing again. When I tried to reread it, I couldn’t help but be surprised over what I wrote. I felt overwhelmed to discover that I was able to write something that does not evolve around lost souls or misguided feelings—or to be more exact, I was able to write something without the help—rather, the “inspiration” of my long time muse. I used to think then that this person is the sole reason why I continue to write. I was afraid that if I would finally let go, I would also do the same thing with my literary passion. Or, if I would continue writing, I would enchain myself to writing sad, gloomy, depressing pieces, which might eventually lead me to the tragic, sorry path that most writers tread on. Good thing that is not the case for me anymore—at least at the moment. By writing something upbeat, initiated by that short vacation of mine, I am now more eager to explore this craft even more. I feel that by doing so, I would be able to create something that may serve as an emollient to the scars that my words—and my muse inflicted upon me.

I am still uncertain on where this passion will lead to—or how long I’ll have this kind of disposition. I still think that the wounds I have, though slowly healing, might reopen and create a deeper cut. But then I was told by my mom one time to think positive. Just as long as I would be able to handle enemies and adversities maturely by fully letting go and moving on, nothing would definitely go wrong. So, even though there is a high possibility for my wounds to bleed again soon, I’m willing to set that sad thought aside not because my mom said so, but I believe that’s the strongest weapon I’ve got for now to win this never ending battle [if I may call it one].

And as long as this disposition is with me—is still in me, I won’t stop writing about these things that are making me smile and look forward to another day. Who knows? Maybe this time, I would not only transmit my message to its direct recipient, but I can also get to sympathize to others out there who are also struggling to crawl out of the dark. When that time comes, I would be able to look back and take a look at my scars with a smile because I was finally able to do what I really have to do.

And maybe make my own path leading to my very own happy ending.