Tag Archives: Prose

31 – thirty-one.

so. i somehow made it through january. big surprise.

i’ve never really been one for counting off days, but times like these, i couldn’t help it. after all the bullshit i’ve put my head through, it comes so naturally by now that it’s basically instinctual. and life to me is like a giant neon billboard sign falling straight on my head that proclaims “welcome to adulthood, loser. prepare to die soon and be thankful for it.”

anyway, the weather’s finely cold today. football practice was strangely interesting and motivating, and this one other coach (who wasn’t really my coach but was just there practicing) struck up a conversation with me for some reason. it was mostly him asking me about trivial things before completely launching into a discussion about his 33-year journey into said sport, and the man was so passionate about it, bless his soul. i also found the place to get my science 10 papers (fuckin’ finally) and bought a trench-coloured (*cries in josh dun*) dartboard for some “this-is-gonna-make-my-dorm-room-look-aesthetic-asf” reason. so, this day has been an okay day…i think. i don’t have many of those so fast and often, so it’s quite nice to end the month on this relatively lighter note, at least.

looking back on it, i can barely believe that only the first month has passed so far—a lot has happened since and it already feels like such a long year for me. i honestly don’t even know why i signed up for this, because going through college is basically like trying to wade past thick molasses. it doesn’t make any sense, takes up a hell of a long time, i’m most likely gonna get all messed up, and was it worth the damn trouble in the end? nope. not at all. not even a little.

truth be told, i’m just doing this so that my family could ultimately have a lame degree and a graduation photo to proudly plaster on the wall, which would claim me as not totally a complete waste of money and effort and oxygen. but besides that, i’ve already long accepted my fate of becoming a future college dropout way before i even entered said phase of my life, and so far i’m still waiting out on it, knowing my tendency to fuck things up badly. any second now…

i just also realised that at least 97% of the things i’ve written (well, the ones on this personal daily series that i’m about to burn out on—whatever the hell this is, anyway) and posted are basically just about my sad, moping, miserable existence, which i didn’t even realise but i’m not all too entirely surprised about. i mean, that’s just my usual content anyway. but man, this year is pretty much peak bleakness for me. stick around and tune in next time to see just how worse this sad dumbarse could get before they finally give up, promptly walk out into oncoming traffic, and throw themselves under a giant red bus heading to calamba!!! *joyful game show music plays*

well. here’s to you, january 2019, you problematic old bastard. may i never go through you or ever see you again for as long (or as short?) as i live. it’s also currently 3:02 a.m. as i write this and i have an 8 a.m. class, and several more that takes up literally my entire afternoon, without any pauses or intervals in between. my, my, aren’t i off to a great start.

february, here we go.

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27 – musings on gil puyat station

oh, she’s like this cardboard city, with the subtle way she’s barely holding herself together.

she’s an anachronism, of late-night guilt and freshly-brewed coffee; no sugar, no cream, barely sipped. she intertwines her deepest confessions inside my vulnerable chest cavity and suddenly constricts without warning, completely sucking me dry of resentful consciences and clever second thoughts.

though i talk with corroded shackles beneath my tongue, i care not for the sharp tang of rust. while she solemnly weeps for fictional infinities on the other side of the country, i impatiently await that impending reply as i absently gaze outside the window of a clattering train, basking at this city, built upon centuries of dusty grey smog and busy promises—of fragile bodies barely touching, barely stopping to breathe, barely existing.

she has an irrational need, that insensible girl, to save what can no longer be saved, to control what is far beyond her means, to create as it destroys her. the pleading words on the dull glow of my screen are a tangible whisper, tasting of colliding tears and bitter shame. “i want to help you, like they always did for me, but—i fear…i fear i cannot.”

can you not, indeed? my ulterior rejection is swift and bordering on impolite; but i still listen, and descry for mutual understanding. for though i shall never admit it out loud, your blithe persistence undoubtedly plagues me; to the very throes of my lavender dreams—resting beneath the stars as i turn my back upon that flimsy conversation and that paper metropolis, and allow myself to think clearly again.

to her, i am the eternal glue that holds her together. to me, i am the stranger who mercilessly ripped her apart in an attempt to reconstruct her to my own selfish beliefs.

who is right? what is the relative concept; of wrongness, of forgiveness, of sudden change and reconciliation, of the flismy trust that you broke, and the tested faith that broke you?

and who am i to tell?

the verdant landscape of laguna finally greets my wandering eyes and thankfully pulls me away from the echoing cries of that city, that poster past of a coalescing city that fills up my thoughts with a charcoal haze and renders everything else an unfamiliar slate of grey. my sighs are comforting once again, and she no longer appears to be just another one of the million impostors i came across today.

she means well. she meant well.

though—call it nihilism if you may—at the very least, she should be tolerable to her qualms and fear not the fortunate reality of losing me; arms unfolding, heart reaching, mind forgetting.

and fade away, i will. a plastic boy like me has no place in a cardboard world like this.

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25 – revelations

my schizophrenic shadow wistfully overlooks the edge of the world, and i despair; and i despair.

my vulnerable screams are plangent and writhing, yet no hands clamber for salvation, only mine; only mine. the blood from my scars clot and turn into vicious rubies, scratching under my skin, entangled arteries blocked with the sound of desperate confessions and faithless escape. soporific gazes puncture my eyes like clever sin, injecting doses of pity and false concern, and my diseases lie; and they lie.

against commas and halos, only the propane in my dry mouth tastes of sleep. though the sourest hints of fire is nothing but another bad affinity, another chaotic weather, another apologetic insomnia last night; was it last night? i find myself distraught with overwhelming furore, pervaded senses intruding the compromised chambers of my chest and colliding against my ribs, my painfully-starved ribs. my taut insides churn and hunger against me angrily. i deserve nothing less.

my bruised fingers are mere cowards for not pushing the rusted knife in deeper now, and deeper still. my tender flesh is weak for buckling and shivering against my final prayer for remedy, one last suffering goodbye, an unwritten note belied in self-sabotage. my crass willpower is a fledgling deceiver, for somehow fully convincing my desensitised mind that it can leave no warmth, no life, no breath inside my poorly-shattered spine, by the time she finally arrives too late to wonder why the hell i did such unspeakable actions; oh, she must wonder why.

failure, again; and again. i can do no harm—god, why can’t i?

as cascading chains of sunlight eventually incarcerate my catatonic body in an overwhelming apoplexy of pain, i simply sit in the suffocating confines of that final concluding silence, and morning awaits. mourning awaits.

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20.5 – arrow (pt. 2)

ii.) shaft

dear friend on the other side of the planet,

you make me laugh a lot, you know? it’s rather silly, but i just love your little shenanigans. the way our elated screams always intertwine together in a dissonant enthusiasm, the way we never hesitate to send our artworks and writings; trusting each other with quiet glimpses of our whimsical souls, the way you send the crazy pictures of you without any second thought—even though i’m too insecure and afraid to do the same—and the stupid way we try to bascially hurt each other with the most adorable band photos we could possibly find, relentlessly warring it out with no surrender to the end.

all of this probably wouldn’t make sense to any sane person. but that doesn’t matter, just as long as it doesn’t make sense to us either. it’s funny and i don’t think it’s ever going to get old. mostly, we just sling our constant admirations and strange motivations about and try to volleyball-pass them back straight to each other’s faces; as if trying to outdo the other one in a compliment contest—which, again, no one really wins anyway. thankfully for us.

it’s about 3 a.m. as i write this, while i’m simultaneously sending another dumb gif that’s sure to blow your fragile heart out, and my exhausted body is on the verge of imminent collapse; yet i can’t help but hang around for just a tad while longer to retaliate with another cute face one more time. i sure as hell won’t be running short of those anytime soon, and believe me, i won’t rest until i get the last word—quite literally. so be afraid, be very a f r a i d…

i know you’ll most likely never read this, but hey, all the same, thanks for those quiet moments of fun and insanity, and for unintentionally kicking me back up whenever i’m at my lowest depths. yeah, thank you for being the patty to my aws, you dumb emo dork. i’ll get you back for making me this weirdly sentimental and also for all those weird hair photos someday, i swear to ali’s eyeliner.

best regards, a sleep-deprived pasty-faced lonely swamp kid.

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17 – urge

today, he woke up after four hours of a very restless sleep, his cold bones craving madly with the overpowering desire to simply cease existing.

it wasn’t his usual run-of-the-mill panic attack or anything he could handle. it felt…different, somehow. more threatening. more accessible. more tangible.

it felt strange as hell to him, and considering that his main thoughts consisted of daily morbid jokes about demise, that was already saying a lot. all he wanted to do then was to go back to sleep, but every time he shut his eyes, he could vividly envision his own warm blood liberally pouring out of his arms and spilling all over his bedsheets, dripping from the edges of his stained white pillows, and finally pooling all over the floor, where it patiently awaited for someone else to stumble and get hurt on it.

it felt real. it was almost too real. he wanted it to be real. this time, this time, this time

he was so tired and confused; still muddled by the coalescing haze of heavy medication and sleep deprivation. he didn’t know what to do anymore. he wanted to physically call out for help, to chat up a casual friend and tell them about everything that’s running on his mind, or perhaps to dial his estranged parent’s number and finally confess that he couldn’t take it anymore; anything but keeping it to himself again. this was dangerous. he’s in danger. he should save himself.

but he didn’t do any of those. he couldn’t. after all this time, he still could fucking not.

so instead, he gave way to asinine distractions and a different kind of pain to bide him by, hoping that what he was doing is going to be enough; waiting, waiting, waiting.

it’s been eight hours since he first woke up. he’s still all alone and staring dully at the darkened walls of his bedroom, and the immense hunger is carving his protesting flesh into a sculpted gauntness, but he doesn’t dare move. he barely even dares to breathe.

now, he’s calmed down considerably—but not in the way he should have been. he’s too calm. he shouldn’t be this calm.

and it scares him.

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14 – error404: title not found

awful days like these, my brain simply stops working.

it’s a lacklustre string of poetry, an unfinished verse here and there, a crudely-constructed metaphor that even i can’t begin to understand. it’s desperately needing to write, but also not wanting to, somehow. it’s like liquid frustration in a glass bottle.

(see what i mean?)

usually, my creativity is in perfect synchrony with my depression. it’s almost as if every part of my system is also very much willing to expel whatever repressed bullshit is running through my head, and within good reason. i find morbid inspiration in mourning, and writing becomes a whole lot easier for me.

but when it starts going against me like this, fighting hard and fighting long until it gets exhausted and ultimately walks away—and now i feel as if there’s a stopper lodged between my hand and the pen—that’s when everything else in my overthinking subconscious completely goes to hell.

it’s basically being sad without benefits.

such a disgusting thought, isn’t it?

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The Division

Let me count the ways you kill me;

1.) You carved promises at the notches of my brittle bones, mercilessly enthralling and hypnotising me under the anaesthetic assurance that everything was fine, that I was fine, and that I wouldn’t ever have to destroy myself again; but all the while, you crushed the very foundations beneath my suspended feet and made heaven shatter all around me like an ethereal motion sickness. And as if that wasn’t enough, you set everything on fire and watched this wretched phoenix turn to listless ashes, never to rise again; a demented conflagration.

2.) You promised me for better or for worse, but as I tried to find new names for the shade of red in my lips, you forgot about the obscene sickness that’s violently heaving inside my compromised chest and without so much as a twinge of second chances or point-blank hesitation, you injected every indistinct symptom known and unknown to man, turning my shaky breaths to crystalline lilacs and my selfish ribs to impure glass. I asked for a cure, and instead I received a despicable panacea, a myriad riot of plagues that irreparably devastated my system, ripping me to irreversible shreds. “You can’t get hurt if all you feel is hurt, right?”

3.) I’ve got hands like houses, and you rejected my severed hospitality as you broke down every locked door and deceptive boundary like it was nothing; like I was nothing. I constantly find myself lost in complicated syncopes, as I’m trapped spiraling and crawling back to the same self-sustaining cycles of parabolic grief and hypertensive schizophrenia, predicting premonitions that never came true. This eternal winter freezing over my bloodline is stitched together by a million blizzards and snowstorms conspiring exquisitely at once, but this difficult tantrum of a weather is not a tribulation to you, is it? Your cold temper is intolerable, a thousand suns melding together and detonating convulsively in the empty vacuum of space, and there’s no one else around to hear me scream one last time. I wanted to burn. You took it too far.

4.) Were you even sorry? Did you even feel a single taste of contrition when you watched my starving, pathetic soul grapple for life at the very nave of that decimated altar, asking for the silhouetted universe to fall on my back so that it wouldn’t be my fault, nor yours, that everything got screwed over? Did you see what I’ve done, just so I wouldn’t be what you’ve become? I couldn’t find my way back on the ground, so I swallowed my pride like pried coffin nails for the sake of a more poignant memory to remember; retribution heals what time cannot. Yet now I close my reckless eyes and softly coalesce in sadistic plumes of the miserable discourse you call an intravenous love, and I beg, and I beg. Were you even sorry at all?

5.) You are me, and I am you. I have no one. You are no one. When you lived, I died; and when you died, I along with you. I called it genocide. They called it desperation. For I am me, and you are you. There was no one else. They called it suicide. I call it salvation.

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Colourblind Memory

And when I see you
I really see you upside-down
But my brain knows better
It picks you up and turns you around
Turns you around, turns you around
If you feel discouraged
That there’s a lack of color here…

~*~

It was an easy kind of self-destruction; the one I never had to beg for.

After a few nights of staying awake and listening to cheaply-constructed songs on the static radio, I was already haunted. Copper chain links that stabbed at the fictional horizon and left unstitched scars on the exposed wind. Shy vespertine flowers that bloomed in the most coruscant spectrums, but only when no weeping eye was there to witness their exquisite grandeur and compose concerto symphonies about it. An infinite, arrogant, wakeless kind of blue that rivaled every transatlantic and pacific direction that I chased; but, unlike the oceans of this planet so drenched and cold and jaded to the bone, no one is ever able to cross it, and no one ever will.

And violet. A damnable shade, akin to roses-not-reds and forget-me-nots, that violet. A bleeding, dirty kind of violet that left filthy, undecipherable Roschach stains everywhere. Splattering the bruises of my halted tongue, shading the asphyxiation of my untouched lips, violently overtaking the rock-steady sorry secret that was divulged and diluted all too late. It painted a tragedy that only the most damaged and paranoid artists could understand, and rending shreds of the purest agony down my colliding ribs that not even the most genius maestros and starving dilettantes could begin to dissect; for it was a foreign anatomy. A different unknown. A beyond the beyond. It was brutally twisted inside my veins and gauchely discarded somewhere in between sense and sanctuary, photographed and arrested in another postcard vintage lie. I could write graphite letters at the back all I want, but I’ll never swim away from the indigo waves in front. It was our holiday memory, drowning me again and again and again.

Absolutely useless. It couldn’t aid my breathing. It couldn’t save my sleeping. It was a disease that was highly susceptible only to my atrophied words and comatosed syllogisms—the same unfortunate ones that are now leaving my chafed fingers but never my wornout mind, like you, like you, like you.

Unrelenting. Unsuspending. Unending.

All my colours were inverted. And no one can turn it back the right way.

If there even was one.

~*~

Please don’t worry, lover
It’s really bursting at the seams
For absorbing everything
The spectrum’s A to Z
This is fact, not fiction
For the first time in years…

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The Last Victim

We are the walking dead
Swallow the lies we’re fed
Uncover your eyes, uncover your eyes
Uncover the truth and you’ll realize
We’re hanging by a thread
We are the walking dead…

~*~

I was convinced of myself, at first.

Before mercy turned to failure and hell begged over to madness, everything seemed to be quite rational. Perfectly-planned. Dare I even say, elegantly beautiful. The conceived scenario played out in my head like an unraveling film spiel, woven into a viscid, intricate web and ensnaring naive hearts, and the sharp, unexpected twist and blunted violent stab of that final ending made the jagged suspense, the heart-wrenching thrill, the never-ending mystery and uncertainty, every slighted emotion thrown out and ravaged by the starving sharks, all of it…made everything worth it.

But now all I have is murder in my tongue, lies over my eyes, and your blood on my hands.

How did it all come to this?

Everything looks so red, even after I thoroughly scrubbed myself clean of the transgression. I made sure to meticulously tidy everything up. White walls, white floor, white bleached palms, white light pouring over the windows, a whiteness so pure and bright it’s fucking blinding, but the red obstinately stays. And it stains. On the white walls, on the white floor, on my chafed shaky hands, all over the room’s white-blanched windows like a sinner’s stained glass art, that redness so dark and demented that I can’t even clearly discern anymore where the colour ends and the shadows begin.

I have no excuse. I have no absolution from the crime I’ve committed. I cannot be pardoned, cannot be forgiven, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done. I know I deserve a punishment of nothing less than death. But I didn’t know it would come to this. I didn’t know what I was doing.

But I’m not sorry. And if I had to do it again, I would. Without any hesitations. Without thinking twice.

Without thinking about it all.

God forgive me.

~*~

Can anything bring us back to life?
Will anything make us right?
Can anything bring us back to life?
I’m willing to make us right?
‘Cause the further that we’re falling apart
The more that it breaks my heart…

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Hey World, Why Don’t You Spin A Little Faster For Me?

‘Cause he gets up in the morning
And he goes to work at nine
And he comes back home at five-thirty
Gets the same train every time
‘Cause his world is built around punctuality
It never fails…

~*~

I feel so fucking useless.

The world is running at a breakneck speed and everyone around me is already growing up and moving at a steady pace, getting jobs, meeting new people, going to college, telling wild (well, for me at least, but I’m sure it’s as normal an experience as any person gets) stories that still invariably shock the living breathing manchild in me, and basically acting like an adult, very well on their way to becoming a mature and a fine-class clockwork citizen of this society, and I’m still sitting here, practically catatonic and stuck at home, jadedly counting the crimson hairs on my head before I rip them all off out of sheer frustration, and then repeating the cycle for hours at a time, for days at a time, for weeks at…well, you get the idea.

Hell, all of my friends are doing something decent with their lives, some of whom I haven’t talked to in a rather lengthier amount of time due to their busier affairs, and all I’ve ever done is waste oxygen and continue bitching about my inane sadness like it’s such a fucking choice. Of course, people do tend to worry sometimes and ask way too many questions that I don’t have any answers to (in one situation, I found myself wracked with the conundrum of whether I should blatantly lie to my pressure-ridden grandmother or not), but really, it’s not their job to worry about me. It’s their job to worry about themselves and do good and be productive and get somewhere ahead in this stupid planet, and I’ll be there behind them every step of the way, cheering them on and assuring them and feeling proud for them and all that TED Talk crap, because it’s all I could do for now, and what they can’t ever do for me.

But sometimes, it also feels really lonely, and even lonelier when you know you couldn’t tell anyone about it, because it’s solely yours and no one else’s problem. Yes, I know, I know, I brought this solely upon myself, and I took the riskier choice when everyone pleaded for me to reconsider my decision and take the otherwise solution, and I didn’t even stop to set up any alternate plan-b’s or cheap setbacks to fall on, in the event that my original plan fails. Why? Simply because I wanted a fresh start for myself. Simply because I felt suffocated by this shrinking cul-de-sac of a place and wanted to get away from the same tiring things that I’ve been seeing for 18 years of my life ad nauseam. And simply because I want to force myself to actually believe in my capabilities, and fucking hope that for once in my life, I’ll be enough, maybe just enough, to make at least one implausible triviality into a reality.

Do I not want anyone to be disappointed in me? No. It doesn’t matter if anyone is anyway, I’m pretty much used to that already. I just don’t want to disappoint myself anymore, that’s all. I’ve always been falling behind my entire life, and I don’t think I could ever catch up.

I just wish time would go by just a little bit faster so I can finally stop holding my breath for nothing.

~*~

And he’s oh, so good, and he’s oh, so fine
And he’s oh, so healthy in his body and his mind
He’s a well respected man about town
Doing the best things so conservatively…

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