Inkblots

You will want a cookie.

You will want a cookie.

You might have a debate with the cookie on whether or not you need it. Know that regardless of the length or level of difficulty of this debate, you will lose to the cookie.

You will sinfully succumb to it. You will look at it, and it will welcome you. Cookies have never been unfriendly.

You will pick it up, and it will yield to your touch; Its scent will fill your nostrils with the sweet memory of childhood, and warm sunshine, and happiness.

Yes, all those things smell of cookies.

You will take your first bite. Your insides will start to sing. This is the beginning of apromising experience — a romance between you and this cookie. It will excite you and consume you, and you will let it. You will look at the rest of the cookie and take comfort in the fact that you have a bite or two more to go.

But alas, at that same moment, you realize that this is the start of the end. You have taken your happiness and you have started to consume it. You’ve been here before; You know what this means. There is only a bite or two more to go. You will think this thought and will look at the rest of the cookie with a tinge of sadness. The romance is nearly over.

Now anyone who has ever had a romance with a cookie can tell you that putting off finishing the cookie is bad for you. More so for the cookie. Cookies have never found it fashionable to prance around in crescent shapes.

So you will finish your cookie. You will settle down from this rush, and you will compose yourself.

Then will want another. You will still lose, but you will love it.

The Symphony of Consistent Choas

I never understood it. Never knew what was needed to sustain it. 

It was a ridiculous phenomenon, bathed in soap opera twists, perfumed by high expectations, and dressed up in fancy nonsense. 

Perhaps all I needed was a muse. 

A trigger for me to tap into recesses filled and overflowing with this symphony of consistent chaos. 

Too big to fail; Too predictable not to. 

Until all that’s left are recurring, visceral, faded out scars that I will always know were there. 

I never understood it. Now I don’t care to.

That This Is The Last

That this was the first.

That you were chubby and smart and had a good laugh.

That I made you a little conscious.

That you looked at me and thought I didn’t know.

That you called me even though you already knew the answer.

Your neat notebooks.

That you pout when things don’t go your way.

How you looked at people with your small eyes when they pissed you off.

That your notebooks were neater than mine.

That you were great at math and even better in english.

That you were a mesmerizing dancer.

How  you glow when you have wet hair.

That you loved the chili sauce that came with siomai rice.

That you burp like a dude. Still do. And I still hold you responsible for that magic card you tore in two.

That  you praised me in front of some people to whom you were teaching a dance because I got the dance right away even if I got there way later than they did.

That you let me try to get you drunk with snapple and vodka.

That you could pick up on things fast.

That you let me tear that card in two and TOTALLY wasn’t bitter about it.

That you tried to get me drunk with snapple and vodka.

How  you knew you were good looking but pretended not to care about it.

Your smile. It made it easy to forget my worries.

Your eyes. They made me feel naked a few more times than I care to admit.

That  you let me trace your side.

That you jerk violently when I poke your side.

That you think I’m good looking.

That you think I can do more than I can.

That you know a lot about a lot. How you make me try to know a lot about a lot.

That you know how to dress up. That you know what I look good in.

That you’re enthusiastic about things you’re interested in.

That we’re here again.

That you have to grow up from this.

That I have to outgrow you.

That this is the last.

Lost you.

Lost you. 

Lost you somewhere in the deep crimson that flowed through and out. 

 Through and out my veins and this vessel I knew so well. 

I knew you, but couldn’t hear. 

 Couldn’t hear you over the maddening silence.

Couldn’t speak to you over the monotonal noise. 

Tell you that you that this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

No one was ready. 

I was lost in you.

 For a moment that lasted years and saw us age into people we will never become. 

Maybe I’ll finally meet you someday. 

 But not too soon. 

Living In The Surreal

The first moments of it came when I closed the door shut. I stood there for a while, staring at my hand still gripping the doorknob, so afraid of what letting go of it might mean.

I pulled away and almost instantly, everything fell into the surreal.

4.29

4:29am. I wake up to the sound of a hundred cars zooming by. Being so close to the boulevard has its down sides. I stare at the ceiling for a good ten seconds, which seems more like a thousand years. Something about the early morning hours makes everything move in slow motion. A few more thousand years pass, and I still can’t shake the thought of you. 4:30am.

In The Event I Leave

In the event I leave..I want you to understand that it is not because of the lack of love I have for this place.

It is because I cannot take the deafening silence of what is not said, nor the twisted undertones of what is.

I have become complaisant and uninspired.

The suffocating pressure in these halls both pulls me from and towards you. It is the only reason I stay. And the only reason I must leave.

The 375.

A couple of entries ago, I tearfully wrote about home. Unfortunately, I write about it again in the same state.

Baguio City. On its official website, you will see Baguio described as a 49-square kilometer city approximately 250 kilometers north of Manila (to you out there who define distance by the time it takes to get from point A to B, Baguio is 6- 8 hours away from Manila if you take the daytime, 2-stopover bus ride). The Summer Capital of the Philippines is landlocked and bound by La Trinidad, Itogon, and Tuba, and is accessible by land through three national roads: Quirino Highway (aka Naguilian Road), Kennon Road, and Marcos Highway. Due to the elevation and the thickly forested mountain ranges, Baguio receives the most amount of rainfall in the country; twice the amount received by Manila.

Forecasted to exceed the 300,000 population mark by 2010, Baguio is famous for four major things: the climate, the tourist attractions, the educational institutions, and the culture.

There it is, an espresso shot of Baguio according to the references. A hand-woven bag of coordinates, statistics, and other impressive numerical values bound by a ribbon-like list of sensory delights that I know I took for granted for all those years.

This year the City of Pines turned a hundred, and on this year, it temporarily measured less than 49 square kilometers of visible land. Still at 250 kilometers north of Manila, travel time took at least half a day. Those stranded in neighboring towns and provinces waited for days to get home. With a huge gap in one of the national roads and landslide-affected sections on the other two, the city became virtually inaccessible.

Isolated, paralyzed, and on the brink of chaos. In one week, a storm thrice wreaked havoc on this saturated dot on the map, this small piece of land that I (and hundreds of thousands) call home.

I want to desperately tell you how heartbroken I was watching Baguio suffer; how angry I was at how impersonal the news about the north aired; how bullied I felt that this random act of nature had to destroy the place I grew up in and am protective of; how crushed I was each time I saw a picture of a lifeless body being unearthed.

Bruised, barely recognizable, and wrapped in body bags. They could have been someone’s family or friend; they could have been mine.

By 2010, Baguio will be home to more than 300,000. For this year, however, let us not forget the 375 lost.

the aftertaste.

a yesterday buried.

left behind.

a today alone.

without you.

a tomorrow that could have been.

that should have been.

capital sleep.

six whole hours of killing time.

could have done better things if today was not today.

midnight. silently, stealthily.

i came home to the sound of you not caring.

should have done better things. even if today was today.