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Soliloquies

My Mind is a Universe

Soliloquies

I have been trying to give this site a fresh, new look these past few days as you can see from this pink and gold thing I have going on. You know that with every major change I do, I also update my pages. Today, I got stuck on my About pages… again. By stuck I don’t mean I don’t have anything else to say about myself, but rather I don’t know how much to tell. This has always plagued me. I wanted to keep it short. I really did. I wanted to be somehow discerning about what I spill online, especially since they can be read by virtually everyone, most of whom I barely even know in real life. But words are my thing, and I find it hard to keep the thoughts from pouring out sometimes.

But the galaxy I speak, is just one of the one hundred billion galaxies in the universe that is me.

So despite knowing so much, there’s still so much more you don’t and you never will. I just thought you ought to know that.

My Life Minus the Typographical Errors

Life, Soliloquies

Words, by far, are what I consider the best weapon I have against the fiendish villains of real life. There are several reasons why I blog. First, life has what I like to call “dead air”. Sometimes, we have nothing to do but sit on a couch and wait ’til our backs ache — we stare at the television, forcing ourselves to watch all those doggone awful shows; or maybe torture our eyes through our computer or phone screens all day. To sum it all up, life reaches a boring point. And to make the spare time productive, I write.

Second, my major is not English, and I am not required to write but writing wouldn’t make me less of a multimedia arts major, so I choose to write.

Third, writing is better than having doing drugs, or swimming in a pool of alcohol, or partying until dawn breaks. Writing doesn’t kill time. Rather, it makes the time livelier.

And fourth, my camera can’t capture all my good-for-writing experiences, so I use my pen (keyboard), my paper (computer), and my words to do the shots. Besides, while I may not be too bad at photography, I am a humble woman of the pen-and-paper activity. With passion as the initial capital, I am trying hard to develop the kiosk of writing prowess I have with me.

I check my blog site unfailingly. I don’t know why. Maybe I am just a bit narcissistic when it comes to my “masterpieces”, or maybe, it just really feels good to reminisce and appreciate how well I was able to capture the moments using my own version of a fifteen-megapixel camera. I care about people viewing my site. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made my blog site open for everyone to see. I would be pleased to know that the readers have somehow been entertained, or at least intrigued by my posts. But I would be even more pleased to see that the readers have been touched by what some others consider as mere trash. So to my “co-writers”, let us not be intimidated by those who appreciate in the inconvenient way. We’re still alive. We might be famous when we die.

Twelve Hours and After

Love, Soliloquies

Decided to publish this five-year-old draft today, just because

For the next twelve hours…
you will be with me, and I will be with you,
and we will worry about nothing but the cold night,
which eventually will be not so cold after all,
for I will be warmed by your embrace, and together,
we will rock ourselves to sleep.
The blues are freezing, yet we will stand in the middle,
unmindful of the chills.
You will hold me and would not let go,
and we will watch the water steam.

For the next twelve hours…
I will lock myself with you,
and we will do nothing but savor the moments,
and make sure that each scene was captured,
so that I can go back to them from time to time,
and from time to time means more often than always.
And though forbidden, I will be with you –
as much as you want me, as much as I want you.
As much as they’re hating,
and as long as we don’t care.

For the next twelve hours…
you will clench your limbs with mine,
and we will dance ’til we’re sober,
we will tango though we can’t,
we will sing ’til sunrise,
we will look at the evening sky,
we will close our eyes and whisper,
“We will never fall apart.”,
we will have our lips entwined,
our hands gently clasped,
our hearts joined together,
our minds merged as one.

The extreme will happen in the next twelve hours,
for after that, when the sun starts shining,
we will be back to reality.
You with her.
Me alone.
Us together.

You, Her, and Me

Life, Love, Prose, Soliloquies

You’re a wonder.

And since we met, I was never able to take myself away from you. I’m still wondering if you’re true, and I still have desires of wanting to prick you, see if it bleeds, and then confirm that you’re real. Yet I know you’re real. Much more like a dream – that eventually came true. I still recall with perfect clarity the moment my eyes met your gaze and I realized how lucky I was having given that chance. That one moment. I confess to secretly sniffing you, when you weren’t looking. I found ownership of you for just about that split second. You’re coated of Hugo, and the scent never got out of my nostrils since then. And up to now I still have it, it wouldn’t go away, but a refill sounds much like a good idea.

She’s a winner.

And yes, she won you. She’s such the luckiest, having been able to hug you when you’re cold, or cook you breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Or kiss your toothaches goodbye. Or pray with you before you go to sleep. Or wake up every morning with the sound of the alarm clock, that will be turned off afterwards because of the choice to stay asleep with you, with her arms wrapped around yours, or your arms wrapped around hers, or both. She’s the most fortunate, for she stays with you all day, and yes all night, and all dawn, and all dusk – all the time. Sure she’s having the best meals, with you on the other side of the dinner table. She gets to share with you the sweetness of that dessert that she could have possibly made. She’s the only one who sees you first thing when you wake up in the morning, and last thing before you go to sleep. She hears your voice, your raps, your murmurs. She sees you dance, and krump, and giggle. She listens to your laughters, to your cries. She sees you turn red when you’re in fury, and when she smiles, you probably get better. When she cries, you probably pamper her. When she gets babyish, you probably cuddle her up. No doubt, she’s holding the aces.

I’m a writer.

And my words show what you are to me. I appreciate you. She doesn’t. And for that, I hold the power.

The Girl in the Mirror

Cogitations, Love, Prose, Soliloquies

Stupidity is a contagious disease and you seem to have been inflicted. Once again you stand still, showcasing an image – a desperate image ready to endure the ironically unexpected outcomes of desperate expectations. You suffered several days of not being able to get up because of the emotional fevers and chills that wouldn’t go away, nor would be abated by sardonic medications, which, for the record, are unprescribed.

For the nth time, you submitted yourself to the trap of deception. You satisfied someone else’s exigency while you constantly hurt yourself. You were never known as a masochist yet you seem to derive pleasure from the pains he invariably throws to you.

Perhaps it is the blasphemous love that draws you close to him. Perhaps it is the blasphemous love that leaves you choiceless despite the million choices laid unseen before you. If that’s the case, then screw love.

But that, for sure, is one thing that you wouldn’t do. For you are emotionally weak. And you seem to have mastered the art of martyrdom and puerility, and the indissoluble combination of the two.

You’ve spread your diamonds before him, yet he found no brilliancy in them. You’ve shone your brightest light towards his perfectly crafted face, yet his eyes didn’t show the slightest flicker. His cold shoulder is something you are aware of, yet you embraced the idea of giving him some more. You embraced that absurd idea, undeterred by the fact that your indulgence will never be returned.

Where’s the indisputable self-respect you once boasted? Where’s the solid dignity you once displayed? Where’s the undeniable wit you once emblazoned? Where’s the rocklike pride you once showed off?

Your self-respect has withered. Your dignity has become stale. Your wit has dried up. Your pride has deteriorated. You are nothing but a discomposured statue of abashment.

Standing firm is one thing you’re good at. And I wouldn’t dare let you tumble down. I wouldn’t dare make you fall once more. Hate is too severe a word, and I wouldn’t dare hate you. For after all of these, everything narrows down to one final conclusion – I am you, and you are me.

And so this is for me.

An open letter to YOU

Love, Soliloquies

This is not a love letter, for love is yet uncertain. You may not mean love to me, but you’re the closest one that I got, and so this is for you.

You are a dream, and sometimes, I wish to never be awake and just dream. I see the best visions of you when I’m in my subconscious, for what’s impossible becomes possible, what’s unrealistic becomes realistic, what’s vague becomes solid, what’s blurry becomes unmistakable. You make the difference.

You’re not my everything, but everything is forgotten when I see you. And I am with you all the time – my thoughts, my emotions, my weakness and strength. Your scent echoes and my heart drums with it, and eventually I found myself running out of torment. I am all safe and calm.

This is going to be momentary, they say. I hear them, but I refuse to listen. I am adamant by nature, and I settled myself upon that portrayal. I chose to pose for the portrait of the role I put myself in.

I am aware of the fact that you’re not mine. I am not yours either, yet I act as if I am because it feels better. There’s never a thing like us. There’s just you, and I. Us is just an illusion. We is an apparition. But you and I is close to reality, and sometimes, reality is all I have to hold on to — because sometimes, I am awake.

I am not as beautiful as them. I don’t shine. They’ve got everything laid before you, while I am here, with nothing but vehement hopes that maybe if I write you prose, you’ll give me a glance in return.

This is prosaic. I write what you won’t read, and then that’s it. Yet I am enthralled. The moments of you and I together pacifies my longing, for I know that everything is evanescent, and that “Nothing stays forever” is more than just a cliche. I long for you, and this will express my longing. My hopes will linger, and as long as you’re not telling me to stop, I’ll keep on writing…

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