Tuesday, November 12, 2013


In the tradition of socially acceptable human behavior, or of a more highly regarded lifeform‘s, one does not own his life. Arguably, there is the question ‘why do I get to lead it then?’, and then you are stupid for asking. I agree that I do not own my own life: I live it, I control it, but it is not mine. Nor is it another person’s, or a group’s; nor is it belonging to society. Shouldn’t be. Should never ever be.

Maybe our lives belong to the circumstances of a great event. We owe responsibility to the way the world moves, how it secretly connects a part of ourselves, however little, to spur a bit more change in the next person, and I think maybe that is how we ‘touch’ other people. We do not know, and might not never know how we really touch another person, how we truly do, but maybe, well, there is a truth in how we have felt touched in ways we have not foreseen. So if it happened to us, it may well have happened to another, courtesy of us.

This might be a load of bull, but keep in mind that I don’t care because mainly I am the one writing.
So this thought just came on while I was deep into playing Injustice and cost me lives of some dearly beloved superheroes. Superheroes I cannot bear to even imagine getting pummeled, and it all being my fault made it more painful. Sad face here.

Recently I have made the decision to live the game. I want to live it as much as I want to, and therefore I have been playing it whenever I can. I can’t play it nonstop, because, well I have a job and I have a life and I have known games to consume lives and herald a void. Something new to fill, because it takes out some previously rooted thing and tries to…what am I saying? This game is a pastime and this is the end of it.

So basically, I am kind of feeling lonely, again, and being single is not the reason why. Please, it feels good being single: no responsibilities, no feelings, no movement, and no effort to try to understand another human being. I am a block of ice in human form, and whatever social occupations I have in my life right now, I treasure: family, friends, acquaintances, workmates, online anonymous people randomly bugging me, enemies and people I want to wring to death. I have my own source of money, I have my laptop and in here are movies that I love and have yet to see, my phone is beautiful and I have food with me. This is just something seasonal. Seasonal sadness, depression, the cold seeping into my bones, making me feel less human and more like a lump of, uhmm, something round(?).

I don’t know how I feel. If you’ve read something I wrote over six months ago, when I was still not single, I have had this trouble: I cannot map out clearly how I feel, or how I should feel about anything. Is this sadness? Hmmmaybe. On second thought, no it isn’t sadness. This is closer to being tired, and yet it is almost 3 in the morning and I have never been more alert. I’m not hungry; I just had a whole porterhouse steak, grilled pork and two cups of rice, all for dinner. With Sprite. So what is this, specifically? I am not frustrated, specifically, sexually frustrated because duh it is just not one of my things to worry about. Also because I just had sex.

Why? Why am I rambling about my life, I don’t even know why. Why am I writing, also I don’t know. It feels comforting to be able to just talk and at the same time, be perfectly quiet.

This is one of those long posts that I reveal so much with so little to conclude. Honestly I haven’t concluded anything. I can’t conclude anything tonight.

I am watching Star Wars. I am smoking. I am drinking tea. I am charging my phone. Days ago, things seemed clear and very well-connected. Now it all feels so, uhm, vague. Do I need alcohol?


What is it?

Friday, November 1, 2013

Not my loss.

This is for you, you who are celebrating your own life without regret. You have gone, but you have not died, and for this I find the reason not to mourn your loss of presence. Physical presence. Not that you’re always present, but as my friend and a person who has touched me figuratively, no time has been really lost. In a way you were always there, and even when you weren’t, you still were; and now that feeling is vindicated by your absence. Physical absence. I really cannot explain how this is not making me feel any sadness, because your absence has always been your presence. In the events where our friendship has grown ground, it was online where we communicated, and honestly, as sociopathic as myself, it was the best way we could have done it. So it should keep on. Share me some more music.

More music, more films, more bottles of wine, the occasional drop. I have felt your presence with the introduction of every vice. Every single one I have tried, respected, and loved, even after you said you’ve stopped. In a way this is culture, and with all these I have learned, and it is nice how you’ve taught me, unconventionally but so convincingly, without goading me on, without leading me to ruin. I do not know if you are fully aware of this thing you’ve done but I want to thank you anyway. You have lead me to open my own life, for my own sake, with so much independence.

Shocking that you have managed to elude most gatherings but never really escaped the circles. You included yourself in the matters of our lives while not totally being present: absent but still remembered, like a seedling in the soil one manages to miss and never really uproot. No one has ever tried uprooting you, and it is ironic how you seemed like you wanted to be. Towards the day of your departure, we have suspected your tactic, that tactic of yours to burn the bridges, parts of your life here, while on your course towards the next, to the next country. We suspected and, well, while it was obvious, we fuckin persevered to reach you. And then there we all were, together on your last night here, discussing your life, your future, and the fact that you haven’t packed your bags yet.

I think, to the measures that I have learned, that night held no tough goodbyes. Your leave was just another thing coming, and for your next step we are happy. There was no need to thank you, I felt. No thank you, I miss you, and goodbye, only one goodluck for your life. I couldn’t say anything alluding to something final, because that night wasn’t an ending, and therefore there isn’t another beginning, just a higher step on your ladder. The friendship prevails, the memories keeping it in place.

And we are all looking forward to seeing you another night, one just like any other. You’d appear, maybe late, but no one would care; you might leave early, or you might stay til the morning. We’d all sit down, exchange the usual greetings, eat, drink and smoke, with the shallow realization that you haven’t really left, and the friendship hasn’t been gone. For no matter how many times you'd leave, your heart stays with us and for that we are grateful for your gift of friendship.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Write for the sake of your love of writing.

Or do whatever it takes for you to end up (and eventually die) doing what you love, whatever it is you want to do, even if it takes your life.

Because it is the purpose you and I have been made for, and it the reason to live, and if it really is what it is,, then id be happy to die of it.

Pretty idealistic. In a way it is grim, knowing that the ultimate end would be death. But don’t we already know that death will come? And at this point, the ‘YOLO’ adage comes in.

Life comes and goes. Painful to be left by someone. Also when it is your turn to finally leave people behind. Death can only be sweet when it is:

Escaping from something painful.
Entering it knowing you have served yourself well.
Dying at the peak of your fame (or infamy).

And with these I guide myself, no less, through life. Guidance through life using death. Flashy.

And this is when I know that I should be great. i shouldn’t exit BIG; I’d rather live big, and then die in a small manner. Pull together my greatest of works and then publish, then wait for the fame, and if that doesn’t do anything to help the spread of common good, I’d settle with infamy for the plagues I’ve unknowingly let out. Either way, something I have done is out there, bolstered the good, or at least shaken weak faith.

Anyhow, I am not dying. Simply thinking. Hopefully not stinking.

On with the current events:

This is a new laptop. Secondhand but ever-efficient. One dream is to own a machine to keep thoughts in, something with a real keyboard, while listening to music. Also this keeps my music organized and talks to my menagerie of gadgetry and others’, among others. Magic.
Halfway through The Once and Future King by T.H. White.
Started watching Game Of Thrones this morning. The books I shall read after finishing aforementioned tome. The tome is three inches thick, by the way.
I am now based in Kalibo, Aklan. Provincial place, which I hate, but it is also home to delicious pork. And the cost of living is low so the upkeep for living hasn’t changed much.What I have sacrificed in living in Manila, Kalibo makes up for it in its own little way. I live alone in a condo in Manila, and I live the dorm life in Kalibo with other flight attendants.  Magic.
Recently I have been the angry flight attendant. Frequently fly with me and you’ll see why. Actually here is why: some people may fly frequently, but that doesn’t mean they have become, in any way, observant. Or smart. Or literate. Or considerate.
I have maintained a love/hate relationship with my work. In my head I have some rough opinions. People close to me know what I harbor in my head.
I share with Mark Ronson the birthday September 4th.
As always, after every hiatus, I am getting up again. Writing is difficult. But it is also easy. It’s dumb to say it is easy.
I am not dating.
My freezer is full of coffee grounds. Real dark, thickly delicious coffee.
Everybody says I’m thinner than the last time they saw me, which is roughly a week prior. And they marvel at my ability to eat. I gloat through my mouthfuls of food, bragging about my ultra-fast metabolism, which I do not know yet if existent.
I drink more now, although I cant say I have a higher tipsy threshold. Beer and hard liquor. Most nights exclusively beer, but I wouldn’t refuse a shotglass. Or bomb.
New work uniform.
Same work routine, with some little negligible amendments. Basically, the core remains the same.
Sadly, I am asking for forgiveness for the bad writing.

It has been five months since I last posted. And for much longer before that, I think. I still hope to write for my fame though.

I have a new set of long-term goals:

Publish something.
Save enough to keep on writing.
Take up an MBA (either in PT or English).

My own life bores me. I don’t know if my goals are reachable, and if life would go my way. But what I do assure myself is that I shall write.

My life is the genre of every troubled male teenager you have seen.

I am pretty sure however that some people have as much claim to this as I do. But this is my laptop and this goes to my blog so let us keep the spotlight on me. And although being well past my teenage years, this is still my space.

I have thoroughly figured out, and accepted completely, that it is not about the loneliness –being single in this age is not as pressuring as it was ten to twenty years ago, but more about the lack of sex, that is driving me to feel alone. In the advent of casual sex, and its viability due to convenience, I have managed to get by, though not as easily as I had previously hoped, but I am managing to live single and just consume sex, or at least it is how I imagine my life would be, if it were all a movie. In this movie I am the lead with just one sex partner whom I have sex with from time to time, at my beck and call, and we shall not have anything deeper than tongue-on-tongue action, and this is because I do not believe in penetration because it is unsafe on all counts, with all the holes and the nooks and crannies riddling the human body. Make out, relieve ourselves, make out some more, then finish. No strings. Decent conversations, occasional dates, more talking and intellectual debates shall be had, all of them deeply ingrained into the script, and since no one is vulnerable emotionally, either of us will be free to shoot down each other’s badly-conceived ideas. Because no biases are present, no bad feelings will emerge. Every comment will be respected and not taken personally, and if not, both shall just agree to disagree.Done. And only sex is imminent in every end of the conversation or prior to, and then more talking. Then more talking then the casual goodbyes, the usual thank you text messages, and the agreement to do it again, and it will be fulfilled, and this is the only form of commitment present.

I am bad at remembering dates, so no date will be picked tomark the conception of the unconventional relationship. And no one would even care about the dates. And no one would call the relationship a ‘relationship’ because it is disgusting. It wouldn’t even be called a partnership. It is what it is: what I have defined it to be, and since it is too complicated to name, it will have no name, and rightfully so, because labels are disgusting and there would be a lot of pressure if it were to be called something. It is a ‘complicated thing without a name, but it is well understoodby the only people involved, and it serves a purpose, so it exists and it thrives and survives whatever’. Too long, but I can live with it. But I shall not say it.

The movie will have a wonderful script, with a lot of idiosyncrasies courtesy of me, and it will be shocking, unconventional and borderline weird, similar to how my life is.References to pop culture will be scattered, so as not to alienate the conventional moviegoer. This will give some kind of reality to hold onto. It will be set in somewhere cool, somewhere not too hot, and not third world, where they do not have jobs to juggle, just one. And these jobs would have regular hours, as to make both available. Money, or lack thereof, would be out of the picture too. Each one has whatever one needs to survive, and whatever want it is that is wanted, it will be acquired, because both of us are sufficient. No borrowing, no one will be short on rent or utility bills, whatever. The living shouldn’t present anything remotely real. There will be the right amount of money, but not too much that it creates some form of conflict between classes. Schedules will be synced without much effort. Coincidental, maybe, but no one notices it, so no one points it out.

Basically, what I am hoping for is a dissection of what I reallywant, and this movie might be some kind of a wake-up call, but I am really hoping for it to be some kind of affirmation that my life is not really a mess, and that my weird ideas are truly plausible, and therefore possible, with the right set of factors. I want to reach a conclusion that in this day and age, a person like me who is not so uncommon, who harbors ideas that are not completely hard to digest, with parameters that are not at all astronomical, sex without strings attached is coherent enough to be one of the choices among marrying and staying single and sexless. I choose to be single with sex and without much commitment other than being there when needed, being a proper sounding board for ideas and being level-headed when needed. I do not need strings. Hmm. I would rather not have any.

And this is how I am preparing to start my 24th year. September 4th, 2013 marks the start of something new. Something not socially acceptable (but doable) but with my disregard for social convention (and my adherence to believing it to be bullshit actually), I might find this comforting in the long-term.

Tell me what you think. I am going to bed.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Peace. Probably.

The nighttime brings me peace. I guess for everybody, it, too, heralds a sense of calm. For most, it is a blanket of silence that sleep would kind of work itself into.

Generally, that's how nights work. Unless you do the nightshift or fly red-eye. This I dont live by. Im an insomniac, see. The empty streets awash with the soft glare of orange streetlighting; the silence and the noiseless humming that breaks it; it all murders me with guilt to not go out for a walk. And when is a better time to take a stroll than at night when the air is cool and cars go fast enough to be bothered with? Right, tonight.

Naturally anyone not used to being out at night, alone, would cower at this way of living. Do not get me wrong though: i love mornings too. But the night provides a different kind of light, i guess. But this is not living dangerously. Roaches are always foraging, hunting for dead meat and getting high on my fear.

Maybe it is the silence i cant get in the morning. I cannot get enough silence. Or the minimal bustle. As a borderline, self-proclaimed antisocial, this is borderline utopian, in a way. Or the lack of movement.
Maybe all three. Or maybe something else.

Probably because at night nothing is garish, the lines are much more straight, nothing is noise. Probably.


I like this time because it gives me much more time to think, with less distractions. This provides me with a space i create only for myself. And with this i try to get up and get ready to try and write again. And then be better to please myself.


Wednesday, April 17, 2013

On My Balcony, In Boxers, Smoking, Writing.

I regret to inform you that i am also lonely, sad and not 100% well. Surprise.

This day marks the occurrence of three or more small incidents that all brought me down, zero to negative. Singled out, each one of these problems i wouldnt mind ordinarily; shit happens every day. No one is invulnerable although id like to see whats that like one day. But brought together, shits me up like a POW on each cheek.

And since every calls for a full-blown mind-arranging session, here's me, in black and white:

I have just undergone a breakup. Dont ask if i cried. No one does. (I mean i didnt cry about the breakup). As of current writing and all the way to the posting i shall be sad like soggy fries left uneaten. Clearly, my humor only churns out darkness at this point.

The main thing that gets me every single time i think about how sad i am is the fact that getting through the DABD (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression) stages down to the A (Acceptance) takes time. And believe me, i am rushing it. I am rushing it using the method i only used to tell my friends who have undergone breakups at one point and theyre bumming out everyone at the table. It is fast and effective but could lead to ruin. Needless to say, it is a desperate move, leave it at that.

The part where i am rushing everything to finish every stage at once may be the problem. I seem to take too long to manage anger. And the depression is driving me down the balcony (kidding). Denial, easily done. Bargaining, only with myself. And then there's Acceptance, also done. Yes, you cant skip a stage. Backlog's a bitch, yes.

Obviously, i have a lot going on in my mind, and a little going on in the bed. Maybe i'll leave my problems out there for the world to deal with.

Anyway. So the hard part's over. This would have to be the most raw i've ever been, and judge all you can about how i really am in real life, i dont fucking care. I have a lot on my mind right now. Yes, Blogger, don't judge me.


AND HERE, some good news:

I am rediscovering myself. And i have found out that i like to walk around alone naked while smoking and writing. Please knock before entering. Do knock.

I am more addicted to coffee than before. It drives me restless without the occasional swig of water. Also, Florence + The Machine has found a way to talk to my inner person, much like how Amy Winehouse does. Also, that Norah Jones puts me to sleep better than any pill could. I am extremely difficult to put to sleep. She doesnt bore but inflict calmness. I am asleep three songs into the album.

I am terribly sorry for my bad writing (again). But luckily i have no editor, and luckily-er, i dont give a fuck. No one reads this shit.


What a joy to be free. Of course being free also means being alone, but happiness is just around the corner.