Friday, August 12, 2011

What A Delightful Friday

What a Delightful Friday.

Within the only context that i am familiar with, or used to, this day, so far, has been delightful. Delightful is delightful.

A handful of delightful.

A delight to the sight.

Obviously, the sun is shining and i am liking it.

How I Write

How i write.

Normally -or times when i feel normal, i bleed then use the blood to write. Or i cry then use tears to make my pen work.


Now when i bleed or cry, i use a keyboard to write.

Nonsense. So here i shall describe the many useless things i do before i finally publish a post, which i always like to read and go over again.

On my ipod, using the notes app, i write the blurbs, words, things that keep me awake at night. It is practically like scraping sediments off the bottom and sides of a very old, rusty watering can with a spoon, then thinking about what to do with the gunk afterwards. These bits of words, these ideas that make sense only to me (of course), this pile of muddy, sandy, blackish ick, usually end up getting pushed in between paragraphs and, indirectly, help me settle my mind. The paragraphs i don't need to be consistent with each other, nor helpful to anyone else' well-being but my own, since Im the worst insomniac that i know and I have problems i need to resolve.

And i don't mind having an online showcase for a diary. I cannot explain why nor how i want to be read and yet not be spontaneously relating scandalous engagements -because i could, but i just cant.

So i scramble the tidbits into a mush, and form paragraphs out of it. However crudely I've made the paragraphs, it doesn't matter -spellcheck irons them out.

Then click+hold; choose copy; press Home button; open Productivity folder; open Pages app; click+hold; choose paste. Then all the misspelled words are underlined red; i edit the spelling a.k.a. change 'im' to 'I'm', etc.

Why i don't write directly with the Pages app is a ritual. I just need to use the Notes app first. Im now boring you, unwary reader.

Then i open a blogging app, paste what I've done on Pages, then i publish it.

Then i read it after publishing it.

Again, i cant just go directly to the blogger app, in spite of it being made for writing, editing and publishing. I have to have my useless process.

I have the same ritual when using the PC to post: Notepad, Word then Chrome (to go to

Absolute nonsense.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

3, Almost 4.

3, almost 4.


Still good for an insomniac, i guess. I slept late, and got little, and cant go back. Because i don't feel like getting more. From the moment i awoke, dozing off is the last thing i would want to do.

I think my writing is suffering. My fingers are lazier, heavier. And my head cant be any cloudier. This post is bad, but i don't want to waste the mood i got off the lack of sleep. Also, my brain needs some jumping, i feel its jammed. All things considered, i feel terrible.

I feel terrible that even sunshine -gilded sheets of glorious silk, made me feel like bitching early in the morning. I have gotten worse. Maybe sleep is that important.

And no one is helping me get over my angst. People are either busy or not talking to me. This small paper I'm writing is all i have right now. But I'm not about to pat myself on the back or kiss myself.

I feel bad, like a piston seeded with gravel and mud; like cogs stuck with chicken heads. Like nothing is going to be worth a smile.

Im going to retire for a bit now.

Fuck i am not even hungry nor horny.


Tuesday, August 9, 2011

It is 6 in the Morning.

It is 6 in the morning.

I shouldnt have taken alcohol hours ago -approximately 5. I was alone then, and bored and restless. I thought being dizzy helps with sleep. Apparently, i am not that familiar with alcohol.

So here is a problem, which i might have told you before, and im stating it again, and im going to garble it again so you wont get it clearly -think Windtalkers: i feel like ive just been pulled off a fishing hook. Imagine a fish, just caught by a line, with its lips hanging onto a set of acutely curved hooks. Several holes punched onto both lips, apart and almost bent outward, the fish struggles to pull away with every bodily flail.

But it dies anyway.

I, on the other hand -or hook, survive. But i wanted to get hooked and "die". I prefer death over freedom, or at least i did for a brief time.

I was hooked but was pulled away. The hooks gave away. The line split. The rod broke in half. The fisherman died. The fishing boat sank. A tsunami occured. Lightning struck rocks and caused a boulder to roll down a cliff and ricocheted off the rough terrain and hit the fisherman on the heaf. The gods went crazy. Berserk. They misfired lightning bolts. The planet reversed its rotation then went back again.

The bottomline is that no one knows how i got off the hook. Being just a fish, i do not know why the hell that happened happened.

And that question keeps me awake

It brings anguish, actually. Sporadic bouts of helpless, unreasonable anger. No one is at fault And no one is willing to take blame.

I am but a fish. I am unaware.

Monday, August 8, 2011

So what if im really insomnia-stricken?

So what if im really insomnia-stricken? What is up with being an insomniac, anyway? Except, of course, for my eyelids, nothing is up -i am still a socially dysfunctional, partially intellectual, half-adult who is unemployed, willing to get his hands onto something just to have something to do.

Im not going to die from it, directly, at least. Indirectly, of course, insomnia is fatal. Smelling flowers could kill you, indirectly.

So past blog entries considered and revisited, im having problems. Life sucks, most aspects of it included. And those unaffected parts of my life are not safe. My weight has been good -it's not like i'm watching it, but i am eating less. Smoking has been regular, controlled, but starting to get out of hand. Hygiene has always been so-so, but im starting to forget to remove my contact lenses. Big, relevant problems, i know; the slum parts of the metro experience these with too. We might have the same problems. That is nice to know.

But what could a boy do? What should i do? Problems are supposed to be hard, and i just need to be smart enough to survive. But i am not, so i shall find a compromise.

Here, im writing, having a small discourse inside my head, trying to organize thoughts as they are put to print, waiting for the thinking cogs to shut off before 5AM.

Is this productive?
I have no idea, but i am sure that this is safe.

I just need a safe form of escape from the storm-ridden minefield that is my head -i need to get out of my head before, well, i start to pull my hair out and roll my eyes way up into my skull. And probably scratch my ears off.

Insanity is frightening, isnt it?

Life needs dealing with, and i am waiting for the sleep to help me get on with the dealing. Life minus sleep is a bitch and a bitch aka an easily irritable gentleman doesnt need a bitch of a life unless he wants hell, which would be unthinkable.

So i have started to pass a few yawns throughout this piece. Sleep might come now. And life, as i know it, might be fended off to be dealt with in another day, or week.

Good night.

Friday, August 5, 2011

And again, life is not being fair.

And again, life is not being fair.

But I didn’t expect it to be -it had already given me a situation I can’t see the fairness of.

And it hurled me another. It’s like trying to catch a boomerang after you've caught a Frisbee -you think you've done it, turned it all around, and the ground you've stood is safe. But the unexpected has just turned a corner, a painful turn, and like lightning, hit you at the back of the head with a crisp WHAP.

And suddenly you have the bloodiest back of the head of all the park population. And dizziest.


So silly how that last paragraph went. I’m not even sporty.


If only I could state the matters going on inside my head in plain words, I would. That would be lengthier, raw, and boring.

It's either blogging or praying.

It's either blogging or praying.

And since I get more responses when I write, I don’t have to put my hands together and silently bow and possibly weep the hell out of my heart.

Kidding. I don’t cry.


So while waiting for my own life to blow up and leave me to pieces, across the floor, bloody and messy, let me tell you how it is doing. And later, how I think it would look like after the awaited catastrophe.

First, let me tell you how my place is rat-infested. by infested, I mean I see a small mouse or two at times, running the corners, picking on bits of food that I may have accidentally forgotten to clean up. It’s not really a problem, it being unsanitary -I just hate it when they turn up, and run surprisingly fast, with their thin black tails crooked in slight angles that make me wonder how they got to be that way. Obviously, evolution has made them unattractive with a purpose: to make pilfering food so much easier. People just hate ugly things.


And here's my real dilemma:

I am out of work, since having just graduated from a good university with a degree for a not-so-simple medical practice. I haven’t yet acquired a license to practice. I am set to leave for the states, get licensed there, and then work, as how my parents have planned out my life since I was born.

Parents do not take my life choices seriously, seriously.

I had wanted to take up journalism, or a fine arts course, both a whole million yards away from the medical field. I had wanted to live my life smelling the flowers I wanted to smell, and not examine the stench of somebody else who I possibly hate.

And on with the dream-slaying propagated by parents, and my dreams were left to rot. Now I wouldn’t even try to take a short course under any arts program. My parents told me that arts would give me no money, and it was possible that they didn’t even believe that I could do something to be called art -so supportive, these parents.

Parents never understand.

Now, I'm fighting with my entire good boy [well, I still am] rebellious angst [bad writing, but I had to use these words] to keep them from abducting me to live in the states. My decision could either make them leave me be, and let me try out how life's going to be on my own; or disown me. The latter I expect them to do, so now I can’t ask them for money.

I don’t even know what to tell them to make my decision be worth their respect or support. Honestly, I have never felt genuine support from them, but it could be because I always have ideas that are more or less crazy and/or fatal to me. But still, I might have had some good decisions that they didn't let me explore. so I keep telling them that I won’t be leaving til I have exhausted all my choices here [verbatim; this is what I tell my friends too]; and when I face the dead-end of my life here, I’m flying to them without even thinking twice. So my choices are: to work as a writer, sell some awesome cookies [free of marijuana, if you're going to ask], or whatever. I plan to become a yuppie, with the mandatory question in mind, "where will life take me?"

I have neither work experience nor ethics. A good work ethic is easy to gain, of course. I just need to smile a lot and compliment their shoes, which I learned in my medical internship. And never be late, but I have yet to find the loudest alarm clock I could find.

In short, I have to work. And earn. And ultimately prove myself worthy of something.

And until I exhaust all of my chances in here, I am staying.

Friday, July 29, 2011

I don't get drunkenness. I don't get the drunk behavior. I don't get the crowd mindset.

[Events described took place 2days ago. disregard all spelling and grammatical mishaps.]

I am antisocial, and I am not among people wherever.

On the other hand, I get smoking; I get that it soothes the nerves, relieves stress, and ultimately kills the tension. Also, it effectively livens the sad boring moments, while waiting for something to peg the day.

Smoking could bring people together. I might be wrong.


I am now inside a bar, had just downed a shot of tequila, and smiling. I am desperate to show people how high my cheekbones are placed. The socializing has begun. I am no social animal, not even a plankton at basic socializing. I am primitive in that sense and I prefer intimacy with a lot fewer people over multiple crowds. And loud music is not enough to fill in the empty silences.

Tequila is coming back up my mouth right now. Later.


Writing this after my nth shot. The dexterities of both my fingers are royally suffering. Still not getting why tequila is thought to espouse socializing. Happy socializing. It is good though that I'm still awake enough to make corrections.

Later. Just got another effing shot of tequila. Why not just give it intravenously? It would make more sense. It doesn't taste too good; it tastes like the most evil thing. It is the devil's blood.

Anyhow I’m still coherent enough to blog, but I have to think a little, hence I keep correcting spelling mistakes.


Thankfully a good friend has let me sleep at her place. I've slept for an hour (I think), and I think I still can handle thinking, at least. I am good enough to blog, but my fingers are still not as compliant compared to when I'm sober. The feeling isn't lovely; it is not the best feeling.

Alcohol is a frenemy.


It is 3PM. The sleep wasn't smooth. I kept waking up and going back to doze off; I felt hot and I felt cold. Clearly, sleeping drunk is not the best way to fall sleep.

I am now figuring out how to get on with my day. Movies with friends at 8PM? Sure. Maybe. I'd gladly do anything else than drink. And maybe read a book when I get home. JD Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye's Holden Caulfield is waiting. Or not. He doesn't care.



ovie has been cancelled. It is now almost 6PM. There goes my master-level planning for the day. This sucks, not having to go through the plans. But then they are my friends, and they are busy, and I am not. The void I try to fill whenever I plan my day is time they want for themselves. What I mostly hate, they would love to have. Rest is a painfully long, monotonous feeling. Activity is what I want, for now.

Now I sweat for nothing. I read for nothing. And I am practically strapped onto a plane seat, waiting to fly off and drag what's remaining of my life somewhere else far.

Have I mentioned I'm leaving soon? Of course.

Monday, July 25, 2011

I am not an insomniac.

My sleep cycle's been reversed. You might say that i am nocturnal, like an owl, and i might glare at you, but that is normal, just like how my abnormal, lopsided sleeping habit is normal to me.

Don't get me wrong: i like the nighttime. My problem with it is that nobody's up for fun usually on weeknights -or weekmidnights. My social compass is malfunctioning at best, but i still want someone to share ideas with, if what i offer is socially acceptable enough not to be dismissed at mid-introduction; or when the other guy's ideas aren't too weird or stupid in my opinion. I hate wasting my midnight. Midnights are when juice flows so eagerly, and at the most pulpy. What a bad comparison. Anyhow, most people would get me. I hope they also get the irony.

Midnight makes for a quiet writing sit-down.

Anyway, in my head, in all honesty (and i really am being honest), i write well -good, even. I like how i sound spontaneous and talkative, but don't we all feel the same, when the words are inside our heads? To some, this post might be something they'd wash off their minds right after, but i could care less. As i have stated before, but not here, i am an emotional writer (should there be another meaning that states otherwise than what follows, tell me) -prior to writing, i have something to either praise or rant about. Maybe i could be just waiting for sleep (now, for instance). Post-typing, i take a read, then publish, then that's the end of it. What i could have been feeling before writing may or may not have been dealt with properly (because i tend to figuratively drift off topic), but that's for me to sleep over. After publishing, i forget about the entry. I have done my venting (read: bitching), and whomsoever dislikes the blog, hurl as much flak as you could (no one yet has), but albert wouldn't mind. I don't write to reach out; what i say, these petty words put together, could not possibly bring about change in you, unless your life sucks as much as mine.

So back to not being an insomniac. To invite sleep, i write, or watch something not pornographic. Usually i rerun a 30Rock season (yes, a whole season); sometimes a movie (that would be Doubt); or an episode or three of Modern Family (almost done with the second season!) or House (i am shameless: i skipped S04-05, methinks; torrents take too long, see, and what i have are S06 episodes). I get sleepy mainly because of the laughing, which i do quite loudly because i am alone; or the seriousness of the plot, which drives me overanalyzing the situation, and eventually sleepy. I could not figure out exactly how tv renders me sleepy; how I analyze the world seems strange to me. Obviously, i am clueless about my own sleeping rituals.

Now i have turned to reading (JD Salinger). I have stopped forcing my way through Tuesdays With Morrie; it is cheesy, slow and could make me crazy. And so I have picked up JD Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye, and I cant seem to put it down. The informality of the text is wonderful. Read it and you will see how much of a brazen boy i am to love the book. Anyhow, i haven't finished it yet -not even half of it. I shall start the eleventh chapter when i wake up after this sleep that is coming. I hope to cherish it, the book; and i hope it brings some change in me, although the bookshelf i picked it up from is miles away from the self-help variety. This could be my self-help book, and not Mitch Albom's cheese-fest crapola. Gosh that book sucks so much.

Okay. I probably should get dreaming now. Next entry, i might tell you how weird my dreams are of late.

Drama awaits! Joking. Good morning.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me – The Smiths

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me – The Smiths

" hope, no harm;

Just another false alarm."

I get something, smile, and verbally feign delight and gratefulness, then go. Stories end like this most of the time.

When a particularly perfect situation presents itself, of course a prospect is born, and a normal person would want to grab it. he would want it -he's want to feel it against his own skin, while gripping it with every bone, muscle and strength of his two hands; if it breathed, he'd share a lung with it by breathing its brerath; if it had eyes, he'd look at it deeply and as if it could be devoured. and he'd whisper to it -promises, pledges and the longing for moments to last longer.

but response is variable. Things have a will.

I could have been describing Gollum of lord of the rings. I was not, but I am waiting for the prequel to LOTR.


Desire is underrated. Love is overrated. In between the two I could not distinctly see -it is a shade of unreadable gray. Anywhere but the gray, I could be hovering somewhere: desire or love. Hopefully, I am closer to desire. I have never understood love, while desire I am fully aware of; I desire for a lot of things. Desiring is one thing I am fully capable of, and with any signal I could instantly give myself to wanting something. But how would I come to be acquainted with love?

Never mind. Being in love is technically being in a state of foolishness. Testimonial evidence describes it to be something close to being warm and happy, at the same time. Sweat could be an issue, but then one could be too happy with feeling loved that it doesn’t matter anymore if armpits get wet. How is this not foolish? Giving up one's own comfort in pursuit of love?

Words have been put together to describe the greatness of love: 'the loveliest feeling on earth'; 'keeps you warm, gives you joy'; 'shields you from certain spells'. And some just put in a word: 'beautiful', 'magnificent', 'enduring', 'tough'. And as the days go by, the dictionary keeps giving out new words to put label on how love feels.

I just wish to fully comprehend how, with all words combined; it all would be felt as warm and a bit "ticklish".

I am bad at this. I mean blogging. But I still do not care if you read this or not.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


You think, from time to time, that you might have finally broken free from the bonds that kept you deeply sad and feeling lonely whenever you truly are -relieved, is how I might feel of this; maybe you are then finally ready to face the forthcoming with at least a beat of the heart.

But none of us is ready for the truth: the chains that bind are too strong to break, too heavy to drag -so well-made by us, the blacksmiths, because we trusted the world that we never would have to undo it, that never will come a time when even the lightning wont make us falter nor think twice.

But of course, however strongly we dissuade fate from taking place, no one is meant to direct the floods that drown. We might have stressed that we are the captains of our own vessels, adamant as we are to steer clear of the eye of the storm; but we cannot hold ground, for if we stayed, we'd forever be deluded; inundated, with every second, with darker, saltier brine.

The sun might shine on us, from time to time. And when it shines the longest, a familiar feeling is invoked: that relief has finally come. But with every cloud that passes, relief is torn to small pieces of hopeless mass, useless and forced to be forgotten. The cycle is ongoing, and i feel that it is going to take so long; with much empty breaths to blend with the empty spaces; so much convulsing shivers from the cold nights that seem like winter; such profound weakness, less looking-forward to the days.

And with such denial of the sadness.

I have come to hate the sadness myself -to its very bones, to its rotten flesh. I have accepted its existence, grown familiar with it, that i have full capacity to abhor even its shadow. With every opportunity, i slay a part of it, praying it never grows back. And with every part of it i bury, i extract from myself a memory to rest with it, something it so loves to haunt me with. In the future, maybe the memory will come again, but invoking not sadness but a peace, ready to find itself somewhat useful.

Nostalgia is said to be beautiful -that i cannot yet accept, but i look forward to it.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011


It is, of course, not easy to get back to writing after such a long hiatus. But that is how it is with every activity that we used to love doing. The more time we spent on it pre-hiatus, the sillier it feels getting back to owning it again. Like riding a bike, or falling off of it and laughing at yourself even when no one is watching.

I've never mastered the art of riding a bike. The science of it is simple: keep your balance, and keep pedaling. Everytime I alit the contraption, the two step process keeps reeling, until take my lone foot off the ground. The same foot almost always breaks the fall.

Maybe I think too much, and do less. Maybe next time I should pedal right away.

There is a situation that recently befell me and I am left with such great, profound sadness. The sadness is important, and it is mandatory to the situation. The sadness is romantic, as I feel that is strips away the color off the walls of my sanity and turns them into nails that it then drives so deep into my heart. It haunts me in every shadow and shade I cross; with every deep sigh I take, it goes with it, boiling on my innards and singes the airways as it goes out with every silent breath; and as the day grows dark, it haunts me wide-awake.

The ghost is quick and cunning like a snake: when silence is abundant it would strike, and it coils so cruelly.

It had been raining –storming with clouds of gloom hurled at the direction of my dark, already chilled room. The ghost would ride atop the clouds, bypass my windowpane, and whisper sweetly into my ear words that turn to blasts of cold, dry air; and he would tug strongly at my blanket –I am then naked with only my will to shut out its mutterings by sleeping. And then it continues its song of cold, dark memories, keeping my mind at an unrest worthy only of the strong-willed to overcome.

The ghost of sadness is different from Death: it is remorseless, in that it keeps on hurting me without yet killing and the agony results to more sincere wishes for death that it may come soonest, to rid me of the unbearable visceral pain.