Wednesday, May 25, 2016

White Flag

Being at war with yourself is an absurd thought and yet it is very real. The factions, the bullets, the wounds, the scars, the casualties, the truce, the ending of peace talks, the firefights, the meaninglessness of it all.
I have been at war with myself for quite a long time. It was and still is a fiasco in my head. Why did this happen? How did it begin? When will it end? Will it ever end? Maybe it has to do with the fact that I couldn’t and wouldn’t want to surrender for the longest time. Always thinking about how tough I am. A man’s man. You never see a man crying - he never shows it because it’s none of your business. That bullshit kept replaying in my head whenever I relive the moments of my despair and deception.
Blaming everyone but myself was counterproductive. It is a vicious cycle. Even Sid would agree with me here. Always someone else was to be blamed for my misfortunes, never me. Never me who is great, talented, skillful, lovable, admirable, smart, liked and loved by most people.
Also, the fact that you have to mean something in this world didn’t help with the continuous beatings. At 26, you should be this. At 27, you should be earning this much. At 30, you should be ready to settle down. At 35, happy with your own family. At 40, probably retire early and pursue your passions or maybe put up a profitable business to live comfortably the rest of your life. The immense pressure is cracking me up. Seeing friends succeed, seeing them get married, seeing them happy with traveling, seeing them seeing other people - places, opportunities while I rot away in limbo. Wasting away talent and doing away with a mediocre skill set. Trying to find meaning and relevance in a world of measures and standards by which we are judged. Driving the newest car, having the most expensive watch, living the lifestyle that you could have only dreamed of, wearing the most in-the-new trends in fashion, riding the lightest time trial bike... All of those things just whirring in your head even in your sleep is dragging, I tell you.
All of this self defeating self talk will one day be a page in a diary. The troubles of a young mind crippled by debilitating anxiety, trust issues, family quarrels that sometimes turn into violent confrontations, humblebrags from contemporaries, the wanting of a better life and so on. So it goes said Vonnegut. And it will go. I tell you. Everything will go. As for now, I come to understand that without struggle, there is no triumph. Without hardship, nothing is ever worth celebrating. And that wars can come to a complete standstill, they can rage on for as long as you want, and that the fighting never stops until one side drops the guns and the contempt for the other and become the man - if not the BIGGER man. Only I can stop the cycle and the first way that I can do it is to wave my white flag over my head and only pray that the other side stops shooting. Drop everything and surrender. Sometimes it is the only way to win.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Doon sa malayo
Umaabot ang bulong ng mga alon
Gaano man kaliit at kahina
Darating at babangga sa kabilang dulo ng kongkretong dalampasigan
Makinang sa liwanag ng araw
Tahimik sa paghiwa ng de-makinang mga bangka
Aalis at babalik sa pantalan lulan ang pangangailangan at pagtupad sa pangako ng isa na namang araw
Salamat, umaga.

Sunday, November 1, 2015


Disposable
A crumpled piece of letter
Put out cigarette
Lone crown cap
Empty bottle
Used tissue
Each tells a story
Begging an audience
A story laying in wait
Broken in memories
Past and used
Replaceable
In transit, in the moment
Utility in the simplest and most underrated form
Waiting in silence
Picked up until none is left
Much like this instance
A fleeting reminder
Of a past written in present tense
Designed to last a lifetime in idle
We sit and wait
It comes. It goes.
Falling words become ashes that form beds
Straightened, clean, stained by coincidence.
Whatever happens in the morn of this man-made holiday, we are spent.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Go to noisy places to block out the voices in your head.

Move along with the crowd to be truly alone.

Listen intently if you want to speak.

Drink to drown something you want dead inside of you.

To shout all alone in the wild is to whisper your thoughts just so someone may hear you.

...


Friday, October 30, 2015

Writing is a lot like masturbation. You get an itch to do it. Inspiration and musing are your porn. You browse the archives in your head and sift through the infinite thoughts that are rushing in and around your head. Pick one – the perfect clip, the most appetizing idea. And then you go over it in your mind. You have to stroke it to make something happen. It’s not the prettiest thing to say but it’s the truth and the truth usually doesn’t look gorgeous. It is raw, naked, and most likely tastes bad. Writing is something you do to yourself to see if you’re even capable of creating. It’s a practice and only by doing it as many times as you can, only can you become acceptable if not good at it. After the flurry of ideas, the falling of letters onto paper, you look at what you came up. Read it. Read it again. Read it some more. Did you like what you created? Don’t feel bad. Do it again. You only feel two things after you do the deed. Ecstasy – seeing what you created, being happy with the outcome, savouring the direction of it all. Or you feel guilty after. You loathe. You regret you even made the decision to do it in the first place. You feel disgust but that’s okay. No one is without sin just as no single piece of poetry or prose is infallible and the all-time great. Just remember - it’s all in the wrist.