Friday, July 29, 2011

Transcript V: Relativity

Don't take this negatively, Spiral, ok?


You have these strong convictions, but I think what you lack is exposure. Experience. 
Most of your friends are older than you, and we have our strong convictions as well.

They call me an 'old soul' for a reason.

Our years are longer and they, too, are behind our convictions.
Your mindset is beyond your age, but it risks paling in comparison to ours.
We are prone to getting more impatient, as how you see it, because of this.

I know. 
I have a love-hate relationship with the situation.

Don't worry, though.
Time has a way of teaching things.
I'm only telling you this so you'd understand how things are.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

Brain Fart XVIII


Ensure that "pity" and "fuck" don't go together.


Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Wednesday Realizations: Inn-keeping

When it comes to friendship, we cannot always insist that others should find time for us. They will come, and they will go. What matters is whether or not our lives and our hearts are still open to them on the rare times we get to be together. We should be as an inn - comfortable, cozy, and relaxing, even when filled with guests or otherwise.

Today, I perceived the importance of learning to stand on my own two feet, alone, or in the presence of those who matter. I have grown, no matter how infinitesimally small.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Monday Musings


Yet another boy thinks I am an angel in the night, XXXX.
I take flight tonight, but I am not an angel.
Not anymore.




Oh, Spiral, perhaps you never were.




What a very you thing to say! Hahaha.
Maybe you are right.




The competition here is fierce.
Everyone's beautiful.
You'll understand when you get there.




I think I have an idea, yes.
I will see for myself someday.




You should come here sometime!
I'll show you around.




Someday, yes.
I shall return there.
When is the best time to go?
Where's a good place to stay?




If you come on a weekend, you can stay in my place.
It's not big, mind.



I shall consider that, and tell you when I can.
This princeling has places to see.
This princeling has things to learn.
I shall prepare for this.




I am feeling the pressure, my friend.
I feel that I should rely on a greek god's form, too,
aside from the shadow of a greek god's face!



Saturday, July 23, 2011

Rolling in the Park



There is magic in the moment where you find yourself smiling, for no reason you can put a finger on, and despite whatever looms all around you. There is hope, beyond all that you've used up, in that one moment where you perceive what good you can possibly grasp, without heed to anything and anyone you've been heeding of until now.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

The Precipice

"Kelter up," chided the Fairy Godmother as my sleeves were being rolled up.

"Always leave this unbuttoned," continued the Fairy Godmother and the first buttons found themselves unclasped.

Sieg unslicked my hair and ruffled it lightly with his hand. The Fairy Godmother followed suit saying, "yes, Sieg's right," and ruffled it into place. They both stepped back, unmindful of the crowd around us and appraised their improvisations.

"There, much better."

"You look so straight in your polo. Wear stripes, and form-fitting ones, Spiral. Kelter up," the Fairy Godmother told me with a smile.

"All my party clothes are in Bohol. I only brought with me one set and I used it last week," I explained and continued, "I mostly took shirts with me. I wasn't expecting to use what I left behind."

"But it seems that's about to change!" I happily finished.

"Kelter up, alright, Spiral?" Then Fairy Godmother's eyes were positively glowing, albeit in a rougish way.

The three of us laughed. Sieg went off to see some folks while the Fairy Godmother got us drinks. We headed back to our spot afterwards. The Fairy Godmother took another look at me and asked, "Why are you carrying a bag?"

"I'm used to bringing a bag since I was young - sling bags, backpacks, knapsacks - I'm used to bringing one with me wherever."

"I see," said the Fairy Godmother as I finished.

"I can lose the bag, though!" I cheerfully told the Fairy Godmother, who smiled.

"That's perfect."

"But of course!" I agreed.

"By the way, I need to tell you something," I told the Fairy Godmother, who looked at me inquiringly. I moved in and whispered it to him so he could hear me over the sounds.

"Oh my goodness. For real?"


"I've been meaning to write about it for quite a while, but we'll see," I looked at the Fairy Godmother as I said so, understanding bridging our respective gaze which met each other.

"By all means, do so, but be prepared - you know what it might spell."

"Yeah, that's one thing that's holding me back," I said, seriousness coloring my voice.

"I know. And you're such a demure girl, well prince." Concern ghosted the Fairy Godmother's face.

"Ah, but I can be a mean girl, well, prince, too," I locked eyes with the Fairy Godmother, arched my eyebrows and gazed condescendingly at the empty air to my left.

Surprise was all over the Fairy Godmother's face.

"OMG. You have it in you!"

"I know, right? It's there, swimming beneath the surface!"

We looked at each other again and laughed heartily, as dear peers. The ice was broken.

It was a long night, and not unlike all good things, it was never enough.


Ahh, Spiral, I feel like this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.

I hope so, too.
Thank you.


Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Old and New Flames

The Fairy Godmother told me something about the Fae Consort(the Fairy Godmother's) and his latest work themed around a choice between burning and breaking. It got me thinking as I walked home tonight. Like the Consort, I choose to burn, to be consumed by and within it all until I am utterly spent, and transformed. Breaking is a physical change, burning is chemical. What is broken, remains, for all extents and purposes, remains broken. You can never put it back into what it was and expect it to be as good as before. That broken bottle can never contain what milk it spilled again. Burning, on the other hand, is transformative. When something burns, a good portion of what it was would always be transformed to soot. It becomes Carbon - the building block of organic compounds. Soot is black, ugly, and impure, but it is made of the same stuff as graphite, as diamonds. 

What then does this tell us?

Diamonds form under extreme heat and pressure. Soot forms almost always readily as long as things burn. Both are fruits of complete surrender to heat, to transformation. What we go through might consume us and it may burn, but it is essential for us to reach a point in our lives where we can claim to be as diamonds: brilliant, stunning, priceless. We should submit to the purifying fires so that we may be transformed. Flames will always hurt us, but do we not look for warmth from the very same flames that can spell our deaths?  Do not empty yourself of everything. Combust. Breathe in and take it all - and surrender to the pyre and be transformed. Let every hurt be consumed until everything is made anew.

Do not break yourself. Even forest fires are part of the Nature's cycles. Out of the ashes which sow the earth rich with experience and knowledge shall sprout the green shoots of hope.

Choose to burn and be transformed for the better. Do not break yourself.


Errent ainsi, cher ami, Vous.

Saturday, July 16, 2011


Ginambala ang aking pagmuni-muni ng dalawang anino sa gilid nang aking paningin: naniniid, nagmamasid. Ang aking paninging ang dilaw na liwanag at kahel na palibot ang pinagmamasdan kanina pa ay nakatuon na ngayon sa dalawang banhayng tila kaisa na ng aking anino.

Matao pa ang palibot. Batid ko ang mga magkakaibigang palabas ng malaking eskwelahan sa aking kanan. Hindi rin siguro mali ang aking hulang sila ay patungo sa kung saang lugar upang magsiyahan, sabagay, Biyernes na naman.

Marami pa sana akong iisipin upang aliwin ang aking isipan papalayo sa kay dami-daming bagay na siyang dahilan ng bigat na dinadala ko sa aking dibdib. Matagal ko nang tanggap ang aking pagkasawi sa pag-ibig. Tanging ang suliranin para sa aming pamilya - ang aming  panggastos sa araw-araw, ang panustos sa pag-aaral ng aking mga kapatid, at ang aking nais na makabalik sa pag-aaral - ang mga bagay na ito na lamang ang siyang nanatili sa akong kalooban.

'tang ina. Sa edad na dies y nuebe, pasan ko na ang mga problema ng isang treinta  anyos. Hindi ito biro, at ang masaklap pa ay napakadali akong napagsabihan ng isang kaibigan na tigilan na ang pagkalungkot. Wala ba akong karapatang malungkot? May ginagawa naman ako para matugunan ito. Oo, hindi ito sapat, pero pinagsisikapan ko 'to. Naputol ang aking daloy ng aking pag-iisip ng isang malamig at matulis na bagay na nakatutok sa aking tagiliran. Ang dalawang anino kanina'y tila nagkatawang tao at hinawakan ang aking magkabilang kamay, at iginiya papalayo sa lugar na iyon.

Ang mga sumunod na nangyari ay tila isang masamang panaginip. Bakit ba sa panahon ng kagipitan ay lalo tayong dinidiin, binabaon. Tanging ang aking id lamang ang naiwan. Kung bitbit ko ang aking selpon ay siguradong pati ito ay natangay din. Bukas, kailangan kong tumungo sa opisina at ipa-alam na ang pinakaingatingatang atm ay nawala. Hinanda ko ang aking sarili sa sweldong di ko matatanggap sa tamang araw. Hindanda ko na ang aking sikmura upang di ito magdaing sa mga oras na sanay itong napapasukan nang laman.

Ngayong gabi, tanging ang textong ito lamang ang may alam sa mga pangyayari.  Ngayong gabi, tanging ang higaang walang kutson ang siyang magpapa-alala ng lakas na nakatago. Ngayong gabi, tanging ang unan lamang ang siyang masasandalan, ang siyang magpupunas ng mga luhang kasabay ng mga hikbing halos pipi na.

Thursday, July 14, 2011


I will make a beautiful portrait of you.

We touched, we almost touched. Our fingers were as close as they could get, but like our kisses, they were divided by a veil of coldness none can pass. He stroked my cheek, he almost did. I shivered and leaned in answer, as if I could feel the warmth that could not pass the veil. He traced designs on my face, they almost existed. Those things shall ever flower unseen, they cannot pierce the veil.

There are nights when our trysting places changed. We reached out to each other with a yearning from depths of the pits of our being, and we almost succeeded. The landscape changes with each meeting under the crossed stars, but we keep returning to the same place, longing for the same thing.

I will make a beautiful portrait of you.

In another time, we are ensconced by the forest, but we are filled with the same yearning. They cursed us. Does the same curse live on? Now I am a prisoner of light, and I risk succumbing to the blight, but we are fueled by the same desire. Shall our arms remain forever extended until all life is spent once more?

His butterflies kissed my neck, and the rest of me, but alas the veil. He cannot pierce it. I cannot pierce it. No man can pierce it. We live with and die from the same consuming need. He cups my chin and his hand finds my chest, but I alone tug my glance towards him, and he cannot feel the life thrumming within me. Woe be to the veil.

I will make a beautiful portrait of you.

Tonight we found what Pyramus and Thisbe never found, and we shall use it. We shall ensconce ourselves tonight. I recall the old days upon the throne of Macedon as I recline upon a humble seat now. I tilt my head as my body gives form to the feelings that have always flowed beneath me. My skin shall glow and my eyes will glimmer and my being shall take on the fullness of life.

A press of finger, a whir of a shutter, and we are united.

He will make a beautiful portrait of me.

Pygmalion, Galatea, this is our way.

Send our love to Aphrodite.


Wednesday, July 13, 2011


It lay before me like a soldier bruised and bloodied. White lines traced where the blow fell hardest: veins that flowered out from a concentrated white heart. Shards lay all around it, waiting to rip the unwitting flesh apart, not unlike the dire omen of iron spikes around a mine.

I stared at it unfeeling. I expelled everything in that one pitch. It was cathartic, and sad. Now the silence I drown under is absolute. Or is it? I still have the dawn chorus and the earth-song, and the drone of the bustling city around me. They are there, but they do not hear or respond to me.

Perhaps, like that old phone, I should outgrow my longing and accept that my isolation is absolute, even if it means I should stop all means of intentionally reaching out. It makes me wonder, though, that perhaps an old random thought is true: I am but a curio, transient. Utterly transient. Soon all things will tire of me, like they always do.

Monday, July 11, 2011


With the well wish of the Fairy Godmother, bathe in the pools of the Mediterranean, dive under the prismatic foam and wash yourself with the sloth of the Caribbean. Wear the smile of Rio de Janeiro. Shroud yourself in the scent of Paris, wear the ideals of Milan. Let feather-light caresses touch your virgin skin. Sigh at the reunion of cloth and flesh separated by years.

Hasten to the sister of Malate, and walk to the doors with the bearing of England. Be cryptic, be aloof, be alluring. Become the mystique frozen in Vogue. Enter the dizzying lights of Tokyo. Be as sophisticated as Singapore. Head on with a muted swagger, smile, get a bottle of Ethanol. Sit on a table, alone, but with the command of the Dragon Emperor.

Give in to the music, break your walls down. Stand up, get another bottle. Stay. Glance to your left, catch an eye. Look to your right, wear a smile. Be as gentle as Thailand, and as friendly as the Philippines. Greet back, answer a question, smile. They will see your star-eyes.

Be unlike Ella, do not heed the midnight. The witching hour begins. Sway with the lupine grace of the cold north, be as regal as Siberia's striped white lords. Look around, see your First, smile. Turn your head. Catch their eyes, blow them kisses, get another bottle. Head around, call your friend, find your shoulder tapped.

Look back. Smile. Let recognition dawn upon you. Smile at the friend unheard from, and follow him. Smile, sparkle, let your soul shine through. Find your friend hitched, and the lucky guy, a friend of your First. Smile at Fate, talk. 

With the freedom from the broken walls, soar, talk, smile, become who you've always suppressed. Laugh, get another bottle, talk. Get told that you're fucking cool, and smile at the unexpected words. Thank the friend's man with the sincerity of Potala. Be as elegant as  Taj Mahal. Let time flow, give in to the ebb. Bid your friends goodbye, newfound and rediscovered.

Head out with the enlightenment of Angkor Wat, be as arresting. Head on in search of manna. Smile, carefree, at everyone getting their fill. Await your turn. Eat, lock eyes with those next to you, smile. Finish your food.

Leave, and grab a coach. Choose one for a Prince, and reveal your destination. Sit on the sidewalk by your friend's house's gate. Seek him out. Welcome him as he does you: with the Buddha's truth in your smile, and the warmth beyond of Teresa.

Talk for hours, sling jests back and forth. Paint the walls with your dreams and your fears, your secrets and with your everything and your nothing. Share a laugh, and thump Clit across with his own pillow. Listen to him sing(you never knew he could sing) and then talk some more. Wear yourselves out with all that is good. Sleep like a prince without the pea. Clit is but a breath away, the older brother you never had, and as dear as one could be. 

This is the sleepover your childhood never had.

You are with your friend. 

You are with Clit. 

Sleep, Clitopher.

This is more endearing than Lupa's den with her Romulus and Remus.

Friday, July 8, 2011



I spoke with the Fairy Godmother recently about quite a number of things. You already have an idea of what we discussed, don't you? Anyway, I wasn't surprised when the conversation turned to writing, mine and that in general. The conversation became more candid as I shared things few people, except you, of course, can attest to know. It was relief to relax and not be walled in. 

I suppose I'm becoming more open when it comes to who I am. No, I'm not talking about being gay. Please, you know that I know that ever since I was three. I'm talking about that which lurks beneath. Pah. I'm becoming like that again. As I was saying, we talked about writing. One thing surprised me during the course of that discussion. You see, for a brief moment, the Fairy Godmother echoed Pig Gautama's exact words. The Fairy Godmother also gave the same advice as Pig: cut things down, get deeper, and use conversations. The Godmother explained further that when I write, I show things instead of telling them.

You know that already, don't you?

I assume you also know how the scenes I paint are static. The Godmother said I needed to make my writings come alive. You know, that made me realize that that was the lesson Pig left quiet, probably in hope that I could figure it out in time. It got me thinking, Pete, and you, of all people, know how I am when I think. 

Yes, Pete. I figured it out.

You know how I'm used to being isolated and not being to share things to anyone, right? I guess that one of the biggest reasons why I write that way. When you live that way, see, you become skilled at taking it all in: sights, sound, and everything else. Writing stories and getting your tale across using conversations become alien. You see, the difference between showing and telling is that when you reveal scenes to people through imagery, you hope to evoke specific feelings from so large a pool. It's not much different from drawing sad images on a blown balloon's surface and expect to get reactions from what you present. When you tell stories, it's like presenting a balloon drawn with things that are hard to discern, and expect people to blow that balloon up themselves so they can understand what things there are to understand. 

It's a matter of subtlety and self-discovery for the author and the audience, respectively, I think. I'm not sure if I used the proper analogies, but that's how I see them. Anyway, I promised the Fairy Godmother one thing: I'll learn how to write that way. You see, it will help me in the long run, because that means with which I learn it shall be through real conversations with real people - the friends I've yet to meet. Yes, I hope to find friends, too. They're out there, Pete, I know it. An unintentional bump, a book, a shared lighter, an exchange of smiles - these things, and who knows what else, will lead me to them.

I'm writing to let you know that I'm healing, Pete. I'll become a better person. I'll become a fulfilled person. I'll grow in age and wisdom and in gratitude.

I will chase my dreams.



The Corrs - Dont Say You Love Me Mp3

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


It clung on to the wood panels that framed the door's glass. It was reminiscent of the monarch butterfly, the one with a rare shade of green. I haven't seen one in years - the most vivid memory was from those that graced familiar atis tree of my childhood. Its rear left wing was broken - a scar from a close call with death most likely.

I touched it, inexplicably drawn and utterly mystified. Its wings moved at the disturbance, but it showed no desire to leave. I looked at the guard close by - his eyes were close. I took the frail thing and clasped it in my hands. It got startled, and weakly struggled for a brief moment before settling down. I took it into the building, swiped past many doors and soon found my locker before me.

I placed it inside, carefully, and opened the the vents wide. I observed it for a good three minutes and smiled, wistful.

You will not succumb to the ants.

I closed my locker, albeit hesitantly, and went back to the floor to take calls.

That was four days ago.

The day before yesterday, I took it outside, and placed it atop the nearby bush. It fell, and could not grasp the leaves and stem anymore. It struggled, and fluttered its wings, but it only fell into the growth.

I took it back and placed it inside my locker. I looked at its many eyes, their many facets betrayed it and made me perceive its intelligence, its sentience, and its failing, before heading back in.

I opened my locker yesterday to find it still, it was graceful in death: its wings did not droop, and its legs were clasped, seemingly at peace with its surrender. It resides there still, and come friday, it will find itself in a jar. 

That jar will find itself home upon a shelf hours later, and the butterfly shall be one with the earth.

You will not succumb to the ants.


Thank You, iring, for everything. We'll meet down the road someday, share a laugh, an embrace, and our success. I hope work turns out good for you. You can sleep without guilt over week-long silences now. You are right. It is for the best.

Adele - Someone Like You Mp3


A surrender can be graceful.

My friend once told me that we were similar, but also different. We know the extent of our limits. While he knows how to tame himself and his wild, I am entirely different. I bide and build a dam. My words and my ways are carefully chosen, after all. Their chaos runs deep, but not too deep. 

When my dam breaks, the black tide waxes.

Spiral is calm. Spiral is controlled, but he is fragile. He is glass, not diamond. He gets scratched, but he can be polished. He melts under extreme heat and pressure to become a shapeless soup before he solidifies into an ugly heap. He is not diamond.

There is catharsis in abandon.

Peter is brash. Peter is unafraid. Peter can cut you with his words. He puts an end to Spiral's tales, he narrates things in his own way: he yields to the moment and finds strength to rebuild Spiral again. Spiral helps his peers see things in a better way. Peter strives to make Spiral follow his advice, or eat it.

A deluge is a prelude of peace.
Peter had to break the dam, else Spiral will be his own undoing. Spiral is Spiral's own demon, his greatest foe. He is the source of his own blight: he doubts that he can be loved. Peter took the stars, the mountains, the sea - the world and the cosmos - to lay down Spiral's fear in words. That is how Spiral does it, that is how Peter prefers it. Tropes and imagery shall always be an oasis, their saving grace.

Glass is finished. The curtains, rolled.

Spiral is not diamond. Peter will mold him back again, and Spiral shall be stronger this time. His smile shall be whole. This is the gravestone of Spiral's doubt and his fears.

Spiral and Peter are loved.

They are strong.


I'm sorry, You.
I just want to hear from You.

Glass II

-Padawan Crossing


 Maybe you're like a dolphin - you always have a smile.
I was uncertain about your expression, though.
What about it?

It was distant, like the sunset.
You are not quite sure if you should be happy because of its beauty.
Or if you should be sad. The sunset is the fading of the day after all.


"Your smile would be a good thing to dream of..."

 The familiar words waft up to your ears again. A different face. A different place. A different time. A different smile.


"Your eyes are have a faraway look to them. They remind me of being upon a hill's crest, or atop a lone tower upon lofty cliffs where it is not uncommon to look toward the horizon, waiting, for things that may or may not come."

"You see the sunrise and the sunset, the moonrise and the moonset, the shifting stars and their constellations. You see a hundred comets fly. You hear the sea birds and their cry. You feel the soft breeze and the gale's caress. You perceive the tides and bathe in the spray. You draw images in the clouds..."

A deep sigh.
"...the green and the mauve and the twilight whisper secrets to you. You hear the world's song from beneath the ground. You dance to the seasons. You understand the patient stone ,the serene felled trunks, and the graceful driftwood. You see. You know. You bask in the beauty of the world, but when you lay down to rest, you do not see the same in yourself. You look beside you, in your surrender to the spell of dreams, and find no one there, and with the peace of a swansong, that one song sung only before they die, you sing yourself to sleep."
"Your eyes are beautiful, but they are sad."

Bakit Ganon?

And just like that, my sand castle crumbles under the breakers.

One Glass Moment

"You have beautiful eyes."

The familiar words waft up to your ears again. A different face. A different place. A different time. A different smile.

"Thank you."

You glance towards the large mirror to the left. You've always loved mirrors, even before people branded you vain. In a time long gone, one where you were ignorant of your strengths, you would place your forehead and your palms spread out on the large mirror on your mother's closet and just embrace the cold. You would get told off for wanting to do that during stormy days. Those were days when large wool towels would be hung in front of the mirror. To ward off the lightning, your relatives used to say. You shrug before heading back down to the living room and curl up on your favorite chair by your favorite spot. In later years, your waking ones, you would realize how you loved the rain and the cold and the symphony of the leaves and raindrops and the crescendo of thunder heralded by lightning. In later years you would learn to embrace the lightning and anticipate the rumble that came soon after it. You vaguely recall how you would clap your hands over your ears and close your eyes and tense up until the thunder came. Fear was weak then, like all other negativities you possess now. Passing. You would resume watching the world through the jalousies, head resting on your folded arms.

A warm touch brings you back to the present, the vision of the young boy shimmering away in your mind's eye. An embrace comes with the final ripple before it all fades. A kiss reminds you of your worth. Your nape a lynch pin saying you are alive. What comes next is an erratic series not unlike the churning storm, and the gentle breeze. Here walled by four planes is the rise and fall of many spectra; the shifting of paradigms, personas, personalities; realities are created, merged, and subsequently destroyed, or made to evolve; the rhythm of the world takes a primal turn in the symphony of surrender and release; all the world fades and the mirror is the only witness. The mirror which you chanced upon in an unguarded moment.

You have beautiful eyes.

"You have beautiful eyes. You take after me."

"Really, mom?"

"Of course, you are my son."

That was a time when smiles where given more freely and more innocently. Nothing was forced. You smiled widely at the woman most familiar to you in the world before glancing back at the mirror.  I have beautiful eyes. The concept was new - you never considered your eyes attractive. They are much too deep. You never understood why two curving lines trailed  from near the bridge of your nose. They were, in your opinion, to blame why your eyes to you seemed baggy.

"Why are you making faces?"

"I'm not making faces, mom. I'm trying to get rid of these lines."


"I dislike them."

"But everybody has them, son."

You glanced at the face of your mother and see, as if for the first time, that her face had lines, too. You smiled. Maybe it wasn't so bad. You stopped wishing them away. You accepted them. Still, you thought it would be better if they were less prominent. Soft fingers brush your face just below your eyes. You have deep-set eyes, just like your father. A light forefinger traces the bridge of your nose. And you got your nose from him, too. You never really understood what those words meant. So what if your eyes were deep-set? You wished those lines away deep down, still.  Nay, you were ignorant of yourself then, just as you are lost in yourself now.

"Now, now, smile!"

You smiled warmly at your mother again. Everything was alright. Everything can wait.

Years weathered the world for five years and a decade or so before you had an inkling of what those things meant. Deep-set, you found out, meant it drew people in. It's like...curving inward. I don't know. Basta.It's deep. Kinda like shielded by your brows? i'm not even sure if I'm describing it correctly. It's deep-set. That's that. Your close friend would tell you. Playing around with classmates and a pair of shades introduced the concept of having a high nose bridge. What did it matter? To you, it seemed only to allow you to wear eyepieces with ease and without having them fall off at the slightest movement. What did it matter then? Why does it matter now?

"I like the contours of your nose."

The familiar words waft up to your ears again. A different face. A different place. A different time. A different smile.

"Thank you."

A finger, showing faintest signs of being careworn, traces familiar routes across your face. The soft and gentle roughness of the back of a palm speaking things, inciting emotions and breathing life into your wishes. You feel the rush of life. You find meaning once more, if only for a brief moment in time. In the space of a heartbeat when two eyes meet and a connection is formed, you find beauty and meaning in the tangled and incoherent mess you have made of the present. Pearls glimmer at the precipice of existence and on the edges of your eyes. Why won't this clarity last? A wan smile unfurls from your chapped lips. The same soft and gentle and rough hands cup your chin, tugging your glance upwards.

"You have  a beautiful smile."

The familiar words waft up to your ears again. A different face. A different place. A different time. A different smile.

"But it seems sad."

"No. Sorrowful."

"Why are you sad?"


Alien words found themselves fit for your sorrow, your insecurities, your thirst. The love that was never there always found reasons to mock you. It found ways to revive your need just when you believed it has shriveled up beyond help. Beyond hope. Beyond love. Funny how life finds ways to catch us unawares. The thought plays itself across your mind.

"Why are you sad?"

Probing curiosity alone could have empowered a repeat of the question. That was your belief. You were beyond compassion. You thought it gave up on you a long time ago. You never gave up on it, and that was the irony. The bluntness and the demand for the naked truth pierced your being. You were never one to think that truth could present itself before you, or that the present could demand the truth out of you. You were guarded. I musn't stand out. That was the dogma you lived by. In the effort to not be an open book, you learned to read people. You saw patterns and they guided you in the same way your premonitions, and your coloured dreams helped you.

Two eyes regarded you closely. Are they genuine? So goes the constant refrain of doubt within you, and yet you feel you must grab this chance. Hope might not present another skein for you. Every chance had to be appraised, the extremes, means, benefits, and hindrances weighed. This was learned the hard way, and you weren't one to set this belief aside now. No. Even when the stakes are this high. Even when the stakes mean that much to you. No. Now more than ever are you called to be critical.


This was the point of no return. You marshalled your entire being and braced yourself.

A deep sigh.

There are times when we find ourselves unable to bind our dearest and sincerest dreams, no matter how hard we try.

"Someone once told me my smile..."


Without warning you began saying things you swore you wouldn't share, surprising even you.





Que sera sera.

You took a deep breath.

"Someone once told me my smile would be a good thing to dream of but..."

And so flowed your confession. Your naked soul. Your very being.

And that was release.


Fiction-truth. Go figure. Repostted in memory of my solitude.

Saturday, July 2, 2011


It was the third time the song was sung that day. It was most familiar, after all, it is a celebration of life. The expression of those around me was jubilant, and the young child himself, dearest among us all that day, could not have painted a more joyous expression.

That was my first taste of endearment in that land, the heart of the Orient's Pearl, despite not being the object of its fixation. Did I long for it? Yes, I did. Who does not pine for acceptance and appreciation? I told myself that my turn would come, and, for a day, I shall an apple in everyone's eyes.

The wish was stashed in a red box, and stacked on a shelf in a nearby corner within my mind, never truly forgotten. On sped the days, which flowered into weeks and ripened to months, and I soon found myself on the edge of a smile. I pulled the door open, and found myself alone, again. This was not new, I was used to being too early. I went to my chair and sat, hand-clasped upon my desk.

One person came, and then another, until eventually all of us were there. An elder came and oversaw the daily rituals, and proceeded with her purpose. I consoled myself then - maybe they were much too busy, there was a lot to do after all.

Another elder came with the passing of the hour, and another, and what comfort that glossed over my quiet fears cracked and broke. My spirit fell, its feathers plucked off with each passing moment. I clung on to the cloud-nine that bore me aloft earlier, the weight of my loneliness and disappointment threatening to drag me to my defeat. 

With the final ounce of my determination and bravado and even hope, I steeled myself to act. I tapped the shoulder of the girl right in front of me. She turned around, her eyes slightly narrowed into ghosts of haughty slits. She had been talking animatedly with the other girl beside her, and I realized she might have been annoyed, however, I mustered all that I had left to answer her question, with a muted smile.

Mano man?(Yes?)

Birthday ko ngayon.(It's my birthday today.)


Ay, wala naman.(Oh, it's nothing.)

With a final brow-raised glance, she turned her back on me. We are good friends now, and I doubt she remembers that cold January day in 1998. She's one of those whom I can completely place my trust in. 

I bear no resentment or ill-will for her. We were children then. On rare times, I often find myself caught in a vision of that day, and how I saw myself sat in dead silence after the short conversation, my spirit dampened, and a part of me crushed. The years would come to teach me things later on, realizations a boy of 8 could not wholly fathom, but perhaps understand a little.

During my inner journeys, I see the box still, colored the stalwart red of hope and passion. On rare times, I look inside, and see the space that needs filling, still, but each and every time, the space is filled a small margin, and perhaps time alone knows when it shall be filled.


Do I sound so sad?

No, not sad. Lonely.

Well, yes. I think that's the word.
I've always asked You where he found his friends.
Where did you find yours?


Thank you, for that conversation, Fairy Godmother.
Yes, I'll call you that from now on.
Do tell me if you prefer otherwise.