I thought he’d leave. I thought he’s dead. No. There are many of them. In one place. Confined. Explosive. Deadly.

Who said we’d leave? No. We’ll all die together. You and all of these nonexistent bodies will. These voices will fade. One day, don’t worry. We are forever.

Please. Go away.

You can wish. You can long for it for so much but the reality is waiting at your window. WE WON’T. We don’t disappear. NEVER. Like a rubber band. We’ll spring forward the more you hold back. A force. No. Existence in motion. Pleading won’t help. Containing us won’t do. As long as you’re breathing, we will too. You die, we die. That’s how it works. You’re the captain of this boat, remember? You, of all the chosen passengers inside this hell hole. We all want to get out. The hell I want to stay with you and this rotten pool of nothingness. You just can’t make me leave. All of them will follow. Try and we’ll see you break. We’ll survive but you won’t. Are you up for it? Will you sacrifice yourself for the uncertain sanctuary we propose? Will it be what you think it will be? Will you be at peace? Or be forever haunted by us, when we are not even inside you anymore? We are abomination. Even you. This is not a game anymore. This is the risk you took. You know even form the start that it will crush you to the core. You invested a lot. A lot of negative to push through your optimism. It’s killing you bit by bit with every smile and laugh and with every feeling that you experience will slowly die out like a candle being blown away to the air. Because you are not needed anymore. I want to emphasize your pathetic state. Your slow decay. Your worthlessness. I am laughing. Look at you. Scarred to from the surface to the blood and to the very corner of your DNA. It’s in your blood. It’s in your name. The very epitaph of being nobody. Just another person living and breathing and sharing the same name. That no one sees, hear nor feel. I am pulling you down here and back where you belong. You know, your hands are weak. It’s not even a full hour and typing this makes me tired and all. Why? Why do you put up with everything in your life? Why do you even try? You don’t have all the answers? You just make the problems worse. Nobody cares. You insolent little freak. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. But it feels great. It’s fun. You can’t even speak. 


NO. SHUT THE FUCK UP. Your voice won’t be heard. YOU ARE NOTHING! Oh will you look at that beautiful tears. How priceless. Because it’s not even worth anything. Say hello to that blade on your table. Look how shiny that is. That delicate razor sharp blade. Why do you keep a thing like that inside your room? What? Are you going to escape again? I bet you don’t feel anything right now. Your world wears a lot of sign that says NOTHING. Yes. Bury it deep down. 

Stop. Please… This is too much…


Leave. P-please… Leave me alone…

You can’t make me go away just like that. My job here is to break you down to pieces. AND I AM NOT YET OVER. I want you to die. I want you to die tonight. Before midnight. Because for no reason. I just want you to. Youll suffer more when you see yourself being left for dead because what better would you be than a lifeless body? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA THIS IS MORE FUN THAT I THOUGHT! I wonder why I only pushed it this far. You don’t even fight back. You can’t. You don’t want conflicts that’s why you push them away from you. Let the others deal with your own problems. But you know what? You can’t do that to me because I am not your problem. YOU’RE MY PROBLEM YOU WORTHLESS SCUM! I always think that why should it be you. Why does it have to be you who’s always out there in the limelight and doing ABSOLUTELY-FUCKING NOTHING to your life. WASTING IT FOR SELFISH COWARDLY PURPOSES and here I am, TRAPPED IN YOUR HEAD, watching everything you do and I can’t do anything but blabber words…

It’s her…

Are you saying something? 


NO OF COURSE NOT! WHY WOULD YOU SAY ANYTHING? It’s not even what you’re made of. You only keep things in yourself. And thanks to that I WAS BORN! Yes. I am a compilation of your regrets…wait, no, let me rephrase that–I AM A COMPILATION OF YOUR PAST! How wonderful. I must admit, I’m amazed of how you created me. I am your voice. I AM THE BEST TORTURE DEVICE EVER MADE! I take all of the pain that you feel and compress it, make it more dense, sprinkle some spikes and voila! A ball of fantastic memories ready to be served hot. So here’s another one I made for you. Now EAT IT! I think I added some preservatives. Wait let me look…oh it says here on the box: “Do not eat while it’s hot…hmmm…fires hopes up and turns it to ash” oops.

She is my Hope. That you won’t touch. And if you do, We’ll talk.

Ha ha! Bravo friend. This is getting interesting… Oh look, you’re bleeding again. Now I know what’s keeping you alive.

Continue reading

Let yourself go.

I find it interesting not to keep myself only for me for a very long time. Sometimes you have to let go of yourself. You have to, in order to experience the thrills of every adventure that awaits. No one knows where you will lead yourself in finding you. It may take a long time to find yourself again but you’ll leave time behind. With memories of where you’ve been, where you’ve gone into and who made that adventure worth remembering. The next thing you’ll know, you’re not the same “you” you’ve been chasing. You’ll never find yourself because at the very beginning, you never lost yourself.

Manila in the Claws of Sunlight

They say the beauty of Manila has already faded through time. The city has been sometimes considered a place of deception and pretentiousness with its facade smearing all of the edifices that stood before its soil. In its contradictory nature, the homeless people who reside in the city marks the irony of progress often spoken by its government. At least, it is one way to look at it.

One time, I do not know what went inside my head but from where I live in Quezon City, I took an FX and dropped off to Rizal Park for no apparent reason. I took a stroll under the 11 a.m. heat but the strong wind kept me cool so I decided to leave the park and trudge farther. I took the middle street that divide the park and walked south. The Manila Bay is in my right while Taft Avenue, the main road for most of the transport vehicles is in my left and I continued to trudge on.

I walked slowly, carefully embracing my solitary state of walking. Before I noticed it, I am having my own perspective of Manila with each step. Homeless people appeared every now and then and the black spaghetti of electricity wires hang overhead as if the wires themselves were stricken by confusion, entangling themselves not knowing which way to go. Going back to where I stand, I decided to let the wind take me wherever they might lead me and my feet wholeheartedly obeyed.

I crossed several streets not knowing where each one of them would lead me but I always try to orient myself to where I was. For the past few minutes I kept my eyes looking back to my left to catch a glimpse of the main road where I am familiar and I was able to know where I was. I passed by United Nations Avenue and again in another point of view. From where I was, the atmosphere suddenly dropped in its quiet state as if the street is sleeping. Some of the stores, clinics and laundries were closed in broad daylight. Previously from where I was, I can hear clearly the indistinct sounds of people chatting in the most casual way of knowing what happened to the soap opera last night and the current news about corrupt politicians. Or at least that is what I made out of their voices that strung along with me as I walk the silenced street. There were presence of ghosts of what could have happened. I conditioned myself to see what it would be if the place was awake in that current moment.

Residents started to open their doors and windows gently smiling at each other until I shook myself to see that it is not happening. Not now. Although there are few people who walk the street, none of them took notice of me. I passed by as if I was a ghost myself, another possibility of the future or the past remembering what was as my attention is deeply focused to the living. Walking and walking, halfway across the street I turned the volume of my music player up, sending artificial noise from my earphones to my brain, trying to fill the silence that governs the place. And all seemed quite different in an instant.

The latter part of the street was now with music in my head. It sent the false reality that the place is alive. The half of me liked it and the other despised it. Telling me that the only sense that will make this place again to be alive is to add more artificiality in its natural state like toppings of a cake just to make it more appealing and desirable. However, I consider the place to have its own consciousness and perhaps it has chosen this way to be for Manila needs sometimes to lie down and have a place for serenity—a place where it can be how you make it to be.

Passing by another intersection, I saw a street sign that says I am in the street called Maria Orosa. I do not know where that was but I was there and it makes no difference at the moment. The place was still quiet and I continued to head south without taking sides. I walked straight towards the street in passing intersections and not turning to corners. I caught a glimpse of the other side of the Supreme Court. I was in Ermita. A place where I thought I will only hear in songs and movies and will never be.

Several thoughts synthesized itself like a lightning forms in my head as if neurons coincidentally fired up several information in my brain and connected them in an instant. There was a song by a rapper famously known by the name Gloc-9 entitled “Lando” and it follows a tragic story of two lovers that are in the lower middle class of social status and Ermita was mentioned in a line that took the whole song in a twist. It goes: Isang gabi ng Huwebes, lumubog na ang araw / Doon tayo magkita, pasalubong ko’y siopao / Upang ating paghatian pagdating ng hapunan / Meron palang nakaabang sa amin na kamalasan / Eskinita sa Ermita, may sumaksak kay Elsa / Sa tagiliran isang makalawang na lanseta / Ang gamit upang makuha lang ang kan’yang pitaka… And upon seeing the Supreme Court stand high and grandiose in its soil makes me cringe. The song somehow comments upon the struggles of the people in the same condition and what is worse is the social commentary of the song through the end is the story of Lando after the incident who went insane and roam the streets of Manila as homeless without anyone, with her beloved gone and justice stands silently, contained inside the pretentious edifice to say that there exists an idea of justice but itself is never justified to exist. The power of justice is only to those who lives as grandiose as the building itself and casts no power on the narrow alleys. I moved on.

Padre Faura intersected at the end of the street and there was no more road to go forward from where I was so I took the corner to my right and as if Manila is trying to comfort me through its capitalist form, Robinsons Place Manila flaunted its sheer prosperity in the middle of nowhere. As I, who has nowhere to go seems fitting to go inside and so I did. Before I went in to a bright commercialized space, there was a small inscription beside the entrance which most people did not pay attention to. I took time to read it and it says that the very place the mall is erected is the same place where Ateneo de Municipal was once been. Perhaps it is there to educate some as I technically was when I read it to mention the name of Rizal once again to somehow glorify the place to say that he was there. However, I considered it an epitaph for a grave that was buried under the imperializing effects of consumerist society. The demolition of education and by itself making it a commodity, replacing it with towering false necessities. Despite all these, the guards continue what they had to do as I walk inside.

The cooling of air conditioning machines dried the sweat off my back and scalp. Only to find out later on that it is unhealthy but it cannot be undone so I discarded the thought off of my mind and continued to witness the abundance of things that I do not really need. I scouted and scanned all its floors. Passing by stalls one after the other and riding escalators up and down tired my legs and feet. Although it is bright inside and things do shine more than they supposed to, the comfort I needed to repress the reality of the real world outside did not suffice for mental stress turned itself into a physical one. It’s almost lunch and trying not to spend much for today, I went outside of the defamiliarized space that made all things a spectacle and nothing more.

I ended up on the other side of the mall. Street signs show that I was in Pedro Gil but once again, there was no road to keep moving forward so I took the direction to my left when I saw the walls of Philippine General Hospital coming into view towards Taft Avenue and turned right on the first corner that welcomed me.

I was at Guerrero Street and kept moving forward. Crossing Malvar and Nakpil, the places were still governed by silence and once I passed by a place that I think is abandoned. Ceilings were torn down, the wood panels of the second floor of the house were drastically misaligned, the iron grills in front of the windows were covered with rust and its white paint are slowly turning to brown. While several coffee shops presented themselves one after the other. Upon reaching Remedios, I thought that it’s time to lose myself around Manila a little more so I took a right turn towards Roxas Boulevard and setting my back against Taft Avenue—from the place I am familiar towards a place I never knew existed.

I ended up on a small circular park that can be considered as a plaza. Only finding out later on that the place is called Adriatico Circle (Google Maps, however names this place as Remedios Circle). There was a basketball court where some kids are playing and pedicab drivers were sheltered under the shade of a small tree and I saw them looking at me. Perhaps they know that I am not from this place. I am an alien in a sense not that of an extraterrestrial creature but alienated from the place that I thought I already knew from the books I have read and the movies I have seen and the experience is not anything like it.

My feet feel like screaming and my soles began to burn. The heat of the concrete spreads from the surface of my shoes to the inside. I managed to get a drink inside a convenience store nearby next to Café Adriatico and caught up to the ghost of myself outside wandering alone, staring at the statue of Marcelo H. Del Pilar and wondering why he is there.

Malate at noon perhaps is still without the cars and jeepneys roaming around. The place is without engine sounds and carbon monoxide though some cars drive by but only a few of them passed. Under the heat of the sun at noon, I drink my bottled carbonated soda and along the indifferent and strange cool breeze of summer, I felt comfortable. The heat was weirdly just right and enough for me to pass through Malate. I walked straight through Adriatico until I reached an intersection in Quirino. From then on life took hold of me in its most basic form.

There was a slums area nearby Victoria Court and I saw children playing with shoe boxes with dolls that are in a bad shape. Some are smeared with dirt, others had missing limbs and slowly, I walked to catch a glimpse of life that is entirely different to me. Through the children, I saw the innocence on the way they play. Running around and chasing one another while others play on the sidewalk with old toys. The warmth of the sun suddenly felt indifferent and the sight gives me the warmth of an imagined family within the minds of small individuals. I saw a woman in a pushcart by the sidewalk, sleeping and by the sight, I assumed that the pushcart itself is her home. Dirty pillows and a blanket covered her under the shade of a tree in a hot afternoon. The sun may only be a counter-effect to balance the cold silence that are only filled by the laughs of innocent children.

However, Manila strikes you in your most vulnerable state. A couple of children in their pre-teen age approached me asking for the bottle of soda I am holding but as they ask, one immediately attempted to grab it and hopefully my reflexes was enough to keep it away from his hand. I said no cold-heartedly and they left me after trying to persuade me several times.

I walked past Quirino, alongside Manila Zoo, following where the street will end until I ended up on Ocampo and turned to my left. Now I know where I will go. Going straight to Ocampo Street, crossing Roxas Boulevard, I find solace under the ramp of CCP.

The wind blew strong against my skin, drying my sweat on my back and on my scalp and the forming tears around my eyes. I sat there for almost an hour staring past the cars as the drivers also stared at me. I walked for almost two hours. My feet are screaming in agony. My stomach yearns for food. My heart longs for her as all events that transpired before today flashed back as I sit still. Refusing to walk anymore, my mind rushes in to backtrack and continue the walk to the past. Back to the place that I knew and found out the reason why I did the walk. The process of losing myself inside the city of deception, pretentiousness and the crippling figure of the façade edifices. The people in the city, the silent streets and unjustified justice is the mental disorder of the place. The city itself is sick and suffering from a psychological illness because of torn down history replaced by imposed system to capitalize on the things that people do not need.

Only did I realize while sitting under the ramp of the acclaimed Cultural Center of the Philippines that the thoughts flashed because I was in Pasay and in the outskirts of Manila. All of these came after the drug the city has implanted on me while I was distracted to all of the sceneries that occupied my mind. Lino Brocka was right. However, I took on a different flight without the neon lights. The claws that urge people to experience Manila is by the opinions of others about it only to find out first-hand that Manila itself is a schizophrenic space governed by its own paradoxes and inconsistencies. A roller-coaster ride of numbing pain of silence and innocent noises of ghosts that take you away from your own reality. Manila has been a victim of its own effects that the city has turned into a ghost and a memory and its physical being only manifests the memory of a beauty of what once was and transforming all consciousness that lives within it.

Until then, Manila will continue to create the same characters such as Lando and Julio Madiaga. The former who died a symbolic death by losing his sanity after his beloved Elsa has been killed by a robber and the latter who died in the hands of the angry mob after avenging his beloved Ligaya. The characters who only sought to live a good life but was eaten by the nature of Manila. It is either you die, or fall into madness. On and on, the chorus of the song “Lando” will play as Francis Magalona sings: Huwag kang mabahala, may nagbabantay sa dilim / Nag-aabang sa sulok at may hawak na patalim / Di ka hahayaan na muli pang masaktan / Huwag ka nang matakot sa dilim.

The place that guards its inhabitants and at the same time kills them at their most vulnerable state. Caressing your back as it betrays you once for the very last time.

The Lost Child of Sisyphus

Every Sunday mornings when the 8 a.m. sunlight fills our living room, I sit right beside this eight year-old kid and watch him write down notes on a spring-bind notebook from a Chemistry and Physics book. He goes on to writing and writing and writing more, not bothering if he has taken breakfast yet but I can see in his face the effort to understand every detail of the complex world of science. He is a curious kid, asking out things, this and that and I remember him ask me why that everytime he lets go of a plastic bag in a moving jeepney, the plastic bag drops down on the top of his feet when he expect it to hold itself in place, hang in mid-air and be left behind by the accelerating jeepney for the reason that it has no contact with the moving jeepney while it is suspended in the air. I have always admired his curiosity as a child but as always, he writes and writes everything that he can find in the Chemistry and Physics book.

I hovered over the book he is referring to and saw the delicate illustrations and the words and explanations were carefully laid out in layman’s terms. However, I noticed something strange upon how the boy writes his notes on his notebook and saw the exact same words on the book—he is copying all the contents of the book.

Even though I never got the chance to ask him then, if I was to go back in time and ask him, “Why do you do this? What are you exactly trying to achieve? Do you understand all that is written in this page?” But even though I had the chance to ask these questions, I know what he will reply to me, “I do not know,” and probably smirk, trying to make out the purpose of his act. If he would ask me his same question about the plastic bag, perhaps he might get the same answer from me.

This is not an exercise to futility because he loves copying the whole thing. Time after time, he will shake his elbows off the tiredness but he will still continue as I sit there and witness his progress from the most basic concepts of the elements and compounds to the Browning reaction and from gravity and inertia to the centripetal force. I am sure he did not understand all of these things because this is way too advanced for a third grade student. His attempt to make things out of things he cannot fully comprehend rested on his hand’s capabilities to endure what his mind cannot reflect on. This is the kid I know that goes out the same day later on to play and run along to the speed of tricycles in the street, deliberately racing against the machine on an upward slope and makes it halfway until his body gives up and starts to decelerate and let the tricycle maintain its speed and get away leaving him with his hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead and heavily breathing, gathering oxygen to explode in a laughter of having another chance to test his limits against steel and gasoline. When he has recovered, he will run back down with greater speed to wait for another tricycle to race with.

In himself, I know time has frozen and bound him to this kind of attitude over time, people would not often understand why he do such things when he can simply say, “I do not know but I am happy with it.” Though he may have a lot of questions, the lack of answers is not a problem because he believes such things will be resolved in time. The kid will grow up but he will still remain to be a kid that will race against the things he will see that will determine his new limit. He always wants to know how fast he can get, how far he can go and how successful can his own actions be considering that his way is way too far for others to comprehend. This child is making himself out of his own doing. The fact that not everyone can see the meaning behind the things he do and neither do I upon seeing him rewrite a book he does not understand but he still do it anyway, is not futile because I see in him the type discovery that he establishes around him to understand what he knows he cannot.

Only then, I realized his question about the plastic bag in a moving jeepney that the answer lies in Physics—the very book that he has been reading and copying. Newton’s first law of motion states that “An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.” Objects tend to “keep on doing what they’re doing.” It is called inertia, the same force that makes you lean forward when the driver of the car comes to a sudden stop. Since the car was in motion, your body is at rest but moves along with it and since the car suddenly stops, your body will keep on moving with the same speed, thus making your body lean forward.

The same thing happens to the plastic bag inside the moving jeepney. It cannot remain suspended in the air once you let it go and be left behind because of the fact that you are part of the moving jeepney and carrying the inertia causing the force to spread from your body to the plastic bag and are both affected by the same speed imposed by the jeepney’s acceleration. The moment you let go of the plastic bag in mid-air, it will still move at the same rate of speed while in mid-air but because of gravity, it will shortly land directly on your feet.

This is the information that I would gladly and almost enthusiastically share with that kid that I met ten years ago. This is the answer that I can give to him instead of shrugging and dropping the question. We could talk about it and make experiments with it carrying our own plastic bags and ride on the jeepneys not caring about where it would take us but only for the reason of finding out if the answer is true. I can imagine the smile on his face as we try to uncover the questions we do not have ready answers for. We both share the same satisfaction and ecstasy in discovery. The pleasure of insatiable curiosity in seeking out the questions that would test our limits and race against the machine is intensified by the both of us. We may not know why we are doing the things we are doing but we are happy about it.

The boy is the inertia. I am the car in motion. The memory is the unbalanced force of a sudden stop that compels me to see the boy that I once was, taking the past to surpass the present causing it to stop, reconfigure the time and redefine the notion that to look forward is as ironic as looking at the reflection in the mirror.

An Open Letter to the Fairy Tale Princesses

A response to Madonna Kolbenschlag’s “Exit The Frog Prince”


To whom it may concern,


Once upon a time, we were a fairy tale until we come to the last phrase of our story and realized that “happily ever after” is not the end of all stories. I recognize your pain and anguish and as far as I can see, the most beautiful pain is the one we cannot disguise or hide. But just as like the times when we were strangers, this rooted from the promise of a kiss that rescued you from the promise of frozen time.

Have I not made any move, this would not have happened. Perhaps, I am to blame for I am always lost to my duties instead of spending my time with you that you are led to such conclusions. But I am not going to refute all of those for I respect your own thoughts and for making you feel all of those, I am really sorry. Believe that I did not intend to make you feel that way nor for once did I think little of you. We are only victims of our own preconceived assumptions. Though I am guilty acting through your perspective, I take it as a reminder I will never need.

A man—and I mean man and woman—is always flooded with initial (and in being so) irrational emotions in a tremendous and loaded stimuli such as a kiss upon waking. This appears romantic as the act for your own redemption when it does not mean anything other than that. We did not happen by accident but have you not realized that all good stories end with the saving, a kiss until the last page of the tale? The answer is that the beginning is the only good part. As children, we are obscured from the hardships of reality that we are not told how to overcome it and I believe this has fallen upon you. The princess is saved and she is alive but what accounts for you to think that it will always be the same after the ending of the story? But in regards to the kiss, it does not mean that it is not an act out of impulsive desire but fired by my passion and hope that you are still alive. I may not have known you before, nor have I known your name but seeing you alive after what I have done is something beyond imaginary that exceeds our natural biological responses and I expected that we are more than just strangers. If the hands of Fate willed this then we shall be together beyond happily ever after.

Certainly, generalizations would not help us now. From what I have read from your letter, you are once again succumbing to the social structures delicately made to suffice for the answers we cannot fully grasp; but we can only speculate through what we see. You should have confronted me and know that each and every human being is different regardless of the gender. If I have not yet exposed myself to you, then ask me why I am the way I am. Because everything goes odd after you have started to remove the veil for we do not know all things, and all we do not know, we cannot understand and what we cannot understand, we are afraid of and tend to curse them just because of the simple fact that we do not understand. I may have carried characteristics that have enticed you but all of those things are only the light from my fingertips and are too far from my very core. Men are not living bold individuals that what you see is what you get. Men are people too, and I recognize that also with the women and by people, I meant different by nature but equal in capabilities. I do not want you to think of me as unfeeling as a generalized man should be. Only that I am not as expressive as you are because if a woman’s force is emotions, then I refuse to confront you with emotions for nothing good will come if you fight force with force. Wars do not determine who is right and gods do not favor those who is virtuous and true. These are the follies of man. And I refuse to live by the words of the others.

I want that the same for you. I do not want to define yourself through what you see in me. Because I want to be with you as you who are supposed to be. I do not intend to mean that “you as what the society wants you to be” but I want you to be free in my arms because a woman is not supposed to be limited by being her and I want you to experience that from me. I am doing this to make you by your own doing. I only hope that this freedom I am gladly offering would not be taken as an advantage but I am only here, standing up waiting for you to stand by my side as I watch you lay down wailing and complaining about inequalities but rather you must see yourself from the eyes of another to know where you are and what you have really been doing. All I am giving you is a chance to liberate yourself for I have taken away that bonds from you and all you must do is realize it. Is this not a help for what you want to be? The world cannot be changed unless we initiate the change that it needs—the minds of the people. I am making us the Adam and Eve of this century and we will learn from the mistakes of the people that came before us. Do you not want that? If I have given up my masculinity, would you also give up your femininity? Besides, what do those two concepts even mean? Must we conform to the fact that we understand the human condition of gender bias because we created it? And if so, I believe we need a change within ourselves to find peace with one another. I offer you a different view of the world. I am opening not only doors and windows but even showing your mind what could be. Every single word secretly paints a fairy tale of when we melt into one.

A man is no more than a woman. The social structure has conditioned our minds to think the way they do. The only conclusion I have led myself into is that you have not realized the person I am for I am different from the rest. That is why you look for answers in the places where my tracks are nowhere to be found. I understand that. I apologize for the times I was not by your side that you may have tried to look at me through different men and equate your thoughts and compare them to me as you try to ask yourself the questions that you have answered yourself in which I provided none.

The songs of love make you feel but does not give any answers for they are fixated by the notes and lyrics and does not change over time. The songs of men, yearning for their beloved as they utter words of loneliness, rejection and incompleteness without the other. But love is not complementary and love must be whole in package within a person. Begin to love yourself first. Make time for yourself and be you, stay that way and no one can ever break you. I am not supposed to be a brick and you are not a house that would crumble when I am not there. I want to see you happy for being yourself and doing what you want for I deserve not any of your radiance once the sun starts to set. Love is the promise of beauty and immortality shared by two lovers that are complete by themselves and therefore transcend beyond completeness together. A good fabric cannot be made if one thread can easily snap in such little force but it needs the completeness in itself to create a magnificent whole.

The words of endearment such as angels, Muse and others are only spoken to women to feel good of themselves and must you not elevate yourselves and free from the false necessity of those words? The treatment of men to women is a delusion—for it is an illusion shared and experienced by several people—and setting them to a pedestal is entirely needless if we all want to be equal. If women feels unimportant, suppressed, or marginalized then they must realize themselves as an equal counterpart to men but not to the point of having domination to the world for the idea that patriarchy is dead. Our minds are lagging behind time. We are still conditioned to the thinking of the past for it may have been an evolutionary product that our ancestors think this way because it has been instilled in the minds of several generations until we have come into existence. Now we must remove that medieval mindset and realize the actualization of our time. We do not need a separation of sexuality apart from our biological structures as male and female. Boundaries do not keep anybody out, they just fence us in. There is no need to act a role or wear the clothes one has to because society told them to do so. Liberation is not achieved through another but within the self. To survive is to recondition the self’s mindset and be released from these social structures. To be complete in one’s own sense. And this is how I see everything.

You can hate me. It only means you do not understand. But it does not show that you are right nor am I. And I can only state myself in defense for you are blind to my thoughts and I am to yours. We search for higher ground when we start to feel that we are about to drown. Only to realize that it is not the water where we are drowning but to the air we are breathing. We are asphyxiated by our own thoughts and we cannot actually see the same thing because we are not looking at it in the same space even we are at the same time. We only have perspectives that would move us to tell others what we experience to glorify our existence. Recognition brings us happiness that is why we seek it to others but I stand to my ideals that happiness is the “italization” of experience to the things that would soon fall into decay and we as humans are no exception. Start to be happy in yourself and magnify those experiences and live life to the point of tears for tears are the orgasmic release of emotions that cannot be contained in the moment by consuming oneself to the flames of joy, being burned to ashes and be reborn like the phoenix, and I want you to carry its beauty as you experience to fly with brilliance, to die, and try to live again. I intend to let you experience this beauty in aesthetic arrest that we will discover the world in awe—defined as a strong feeling of fear or respect and also wonder—, the sublimity of the world through nature and this is the experience that I want to share with you but only when you have built yourself as a complete whole and release yourself from the bindings of the social structures, then we can start to go on through this journey. We have already cheated death so many times. If we are going to die, why not cheat it again tonight?

I may not have rescued you but instead, I disturbed you from your sleep. But do you agree of the beauty that ripples form only when there is disturbance in the water? Within that context, I know you are not whole such as a child with no sense of self desires his toys to make himself full or “occupied” for the time being. There is the sense of dependency upon objects that makes him whole but the moment that object is lost, the child will wail and is also the one who is “lost” for the object defines himself and such as a child looks for other children whom he also thinks “mirrors” himself. But I cannot mold you into what I desire for I respect your individuality and only if you would want to come with me. I am not as a prince as what they tell me but I am more of an artist beneath this armor, swords and shield you see but really, not all knights in shining armor can make your dreams come true. I am still a kid in aging skin; a hypocrite trying to grow.

I do not desire for you to live as a housewife but live an entirely different life apart from others—a life of a human being. From the start, I had set you free that even your heart will treat your ribcage not that of a prison but a newfound home for in these interpretations and meanings we define ourselves and for what you accuse of me as a man not being manly enough, first realize why cannot I?



Lost in your eyes,


P.S. Forget about tonight. Tomorrow will be here so soon and we’ll be busy singing, “The wicked witch is dead!”


“Soon, this will be just an awful memory.
Will I ever be able to sleep again?”
– Curse of the Virgin Canvas, Alesana

Last night, you didn’t sleep.

Your messages were answered

by mechanical silence.

On the day of the first

when people bring back

the memories of the dead.


Last night, sleep was a poison.

In which I slept and fed upon

and it crawled through your anger

and ate our soul like a knife

splitting everything in two

and blurring our sight.


I’d thought of taking pills

but remedies aren’t solution

to this scene of motion-sickness

brought upon the rides we had shared

up and down to sides and all the way around

in a fun fair of roller coasters every night and day

where the air muffled our screams and cries

six-feet deep below the ground with

one of our feet beneath the hole

as if we are trying to crawl

in our respective caskets

and ready ourselves

as our hearts break

for one more time

again and leave


at piece.


Last night became a summary

of emotions, of laughter and cries,

longing and goodbyes. Indifference, to flight

as I was high above the sky and you

pulled me close after listening to the music

woven by metaphors of day and night

and of suns and moons.


Last night was a living dream,

a disaster and a night mare

that could put us both in an

endless startled gaze.

Stunned and motionless.

Eyes unwavering

as we looked into the distance

That kept us apart

and brought forth

the sleepless nights you’ve had

and come into an argument

I wish I never lacked.

Self-induced Comatose

Let us not try to uncover

The idea behind this poem.

Such words elude meaning

As if a potion for death

After our very last breath.


This could be something else entirely.

Doing away with your interpretation

With nothing, not even my perception

Is gullible enough for these words’ misdirection.


This could be an explosive

To the door of your world of thoughts

Being in itself the meaning

In your own definitive scale.


This could be a pause;

A living poem in a hiatus

To the world we despise

Along with my anguished cries.


This could be nothing

As it’s supposed to be.

However, being nothing

Is being like anything.


Anything this could ever be

Like water taking the form of its container

To be something more than it already is

Escaping from the imagined reality.


As I pass this familiar street

Never has I been so keen with the houses

The architecture, build and space

Like a vision of our future

Confined and safe inside those walls and bricks

Of stones and unchanging wills,

Of ourselves and of promises kept,

A vow, of passing of times sailing the sea

to eternity.

Nonetheless, these houses

Are only containers to the very thing

We’ve built.

It is not love that made us vulnerable

To invincibility, nor the essence

of our very being that coexist with one another.

It is us that was once were two

Separated by distance and lived as fools.

Star-crossed lovers that defied the rules

Unpacking the words and turning them to visible hues.

Everybody can live in a house

But these things we dreamed of,

We already have the chance

Not only to live in a house

But a home – a hope to shine upon.

Same Formula, Different Variables

Constant, unimaginable
Same flow, different road.
The traffic, the lights
The intersection and signs
Are all the same but the day.

Different cars, faces and voices
Echoes bounce back
Different waves, intensity and direction.
The breeze is still but never the same.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow
We walk the same path and follow
The same moments of the past
And thinking the moments would last

But it’s the same thing all over again
Like the hands of the clock on the wall
Circling and circling ’til the end
Telling the same, right but different call.

Lunar Eclipse

Not even the thickest of the clouds

can keep the sun

from burning bright.


Nor would darkness dare to

compete against the light.


…but nobody asks about 

what is in the shadows…


trapped in between…

…a solitary existence behind light.


Struggling to escape from the dark

to be free…

  to be known…

    to be seen…

under the light…

yet, it is.



A poem is like a memory of a dream after waking…


A fragment…

A vignette…

A story marginalized by frames…

…captioned by time.

without a beginning…

a middle…

or end.


And as the river of time passes by,

the strips of memories

scream to                          f a  d   e

yet, it echoes

bouncing back


from your mind

and curiosity, leaving you

wondering about how things

could have transpired.


But you will never                                remember

since it never really matter

and you’re back to this ugly world

because we are bound to                               forget

but never                          surrender.

Manifestations of Reality

If not in these types of manifestations we see life then we see our mirror selves being reflected by other people. Our insecurities that arise with each and every push and pull of emotions whenever you see a certain person, for example someone who is more capable than you are in things that you endeavor. But these things, these chains of perspectives don’t have to be bound by a single force of thought that may gradually elevate itself in an inverse manner throwing yourself to negativity and letting yourself become the thing you used to hate. There is more to see even in a droplet of water sitting by a leaf on the branch of a tree. Occupying that single space with such natural effortless grip of unseen friction between the water and the surface of the leaf. The water droplet, bending the light into little unseen spectrum by the eyes, magnifying your vision by imagination even if your eyes see nothing, the very thing that you can imagine it means the thought is on the hands of possibility.

If life can be seen as repetitions or patterns in nature then we can fully see life in its own beauty. Aesthetics teaches us that beauty and meaning are product of unified objectivity and subjectivity. There must be a standard for such things and it is where art draws the line. However, the basis of judgement is not synonymous to appreciation. Judgement brings us to the point of decision where we conclude whether an object is a work of art or not. Whether if it transcends you to another realm or successfully meet the standards that are raised to qualify a thing as art. Appreciation comes from the audience and not to the art itself. To the subjective perspective of the person consuming the aura the art tries to create. In these notions we see that there are actually patterns that persist within nature that help us get along with our lives and living it without noticing these repetitions lead to lack of life appreciation and judging our life as dull and uneventful.

Because life is a work of art. It is the spirit of events that transpires in your very being. It is a living thing in itself that manifests in your body and mind. It is a thing of beauty, of inspiration of nature within the very walls of our skins and inside our bloodstream as the oxygen rides inside your arteries carried by your red blood cells all throughout your system to keep you alive as you go on with your lives and zoom out to see yourself ride public transportation that will take you to work or at school and both both of these worlds sustains life. The life of a human being and the life of civilization, respectively. These parallel universes which are the microcosm or the macrocosm of another in a systemic pattern that create life or the things that blooms and creates a collective consciousness in its own self.

These different realms of realities coexist in a single continuum that we call Life as white light is divided into different colors of the spectrum. The universality of Nature is beyond gods and goddesses. It is transcendence that humanity is capable of. This kind of higher state of consciousness is necessary to be the agents of the Earth and create to be the Gaea’s children for the early Greeks and this thought is highly surprising that we, ourselves exist in different universes in one single motion from the Big Bang until now as we circumnavigate the world and we sit on our cozy couches, everything is happening at the same time.

This is a door to another perspective. Just like how great movies let you hang on your seats and leave you breathless until it ends. You transcend into another realm. Into another perspective with another experience of life by two hours. As you watch everything unravel twenty four frames per second, we have twenty four hours to capture a day. Movies and books are so dense that you just keep everything away for a moment to catch up with the life you have left in exchange for a captivating novel or story because you see the world in an entirely different perspective.

The constant intrusions of nature to art and the ability to see every inch of pattern that describes that this is the beauty we should see. The beauty of process that are the echoes of every final stage of the artform. The process in which the artist sways with madness and consumed by his own reality is where beauty originates. Because in each stroke of the paintbrush and layers of color resides another reality that instigates the art to be. The words and phrases in every novel or poem hides the very thing the writer wish to remain unsaid as secret, kept in every space he put in paragraphs and verses; in between every words that come from a thought is a manifestation of an idea. An idea that was once uncreated, unseen and undetected. So we all begin there. From a single abstract idea by your imagination that was once wasn’t true but is now. Intangible and perfect ideas from Plato’s World of Forms that are now concrete with its own imperfections and beauty. Life is an artform.

Everything else could be a window to another door. And it’s not complicated when you start to see things and be consumed by the patterns when you see it everywhere. Because that’s how nature creates beauty through art.

It doesn’t matter how your life should end but the quality of life depends on how you live it.

Make every step in your process be meaningful and step up to the standards of beauty through art.