How do I start?

Yes, I ask myself that a lot nowadays. It’s a never-ending question, really. How do I start something that starts with me asking about how to start?

I still flicker along the night and only rise from the depths of darkened hell to wake into a brighter one because I have to. They’d think I’m dead if I didn’t. Of course, death is still a matter of perspective. I am dead. Sometimes I only was and in great moments, I will be. It’s a curious thing to think about. Death. Should it always be morbid? Does it not deserve due respect? We have too much against it when it cannot help itself. Death finds us because it needs to. It is not the same with life. Life forces itself on us at times. We yield because they will all dictate that it is a gift. What kind of gift shoves your naked self into a bitter world?

I can see you rolling your eyes. What a cynic, you might say. What a realist, I might add. Death isn’t all that you think it is. It is more than any of that. To die when your eyes are still bending particles of light, that in itself is more beautiful than life. You should not assume I like such notion. No, of course not. A realist does not enjoy knowing that life fades the moment your lungs take shape in the form of air.

I mind my death. It is not thrilling to see myself hiding from the mouths that ask if I’m alright. Of course not. Of course, I am not. Do you think me mad to forget so easily? The human condition demands everything to be felt. It insists that one has to feel dead in order to know that you are alive.

I am still alive. But I am also dead.

 

I wish it wasn’t so.

 

 

 

 

 

What was I talking about again?

P

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Whatever this title should have been…

I don’t know why I’m typing this right now. It seems that my promise to write at least every other day has been broken, just like a lot of promises I make.

To my mother, I miss you terribly, achingly… so much so that I became sick or I was already sick before, but I got worse? Right now I don’t know anymore. I’m sick, mom. Sick in the head, just like Mr. William’s case.

Sometimes I see nothing on the horizon and sometimes I see you, faded and far away. I want to run to you, jump into some kind of vehicle that would take the quickest to be where you are. You were never perfect. You weren’t the perfect mother or friend, but I loved you so much–love you, still– that I wish to undress from this body and leap into the abyss. There are times when I ask you the reason why you left me. Why did you leave me this early? I’m not angry and I’m certainly not in any state of hating you. I just want to understand how you think I could survive without you. You were my rock, the ledge that keeps still even when the very core of this life shakes. I could see no one who could come close to even replacing you, not even my dad.

What kind of pain is this? Why can’t it just let me be? I want to be myself again. I miss her.

Everything feels so different, so jumbled that my mind looks like a Pollock painting. I’m trying to help myself, trying to reach out to someone, anyone who’d be willing to help me because I can’t do this on my own. A lot of times, I don’t even want to do anything at all to help this sorry piece of person you’ve left behind, mom. It’s like you took me away with you and what’s left is nothing more than a heap of junk trying to show off itself as just a busted machinery. Can be repaired. Can be polished.

This prose definitely does not make sense to anyone and I’m just rambling on to whoever is curious enough to read this. Well, I’d like to say this to you then:

 

Hello, I’m broken.

 

P

What page are you in?

      I often wonder during my daily travels between the sun and moon, what my role is in others’ lives. Where am I found in their ocean-length autobiography? Could I have been dedicated as a single chapter in my childhood friend’s life? Was I the period that marked off the end of a paragraph in one of my friend’s love affairs? Did I fit in as the space between a stranger’s sentence describing his commute on a Friday night? Could it be that I formed the title in one of the most dramatic scenes in my mother’s story? Perhaps I was swimming in the margins of my Alma mater’s history, graduating to frame the next paragraph that speaks about my generation and how much we have potential as career scrappers. Did I became the page itself in someone else’s adventure, absorbing each letter then letting those black stains be the one appreciated and noticed, but not the blemished paper? Where do I fit in, I wonder?

A better question would be: where are you in mine?

P

It liiivveesss!

And so I begin my adventure anew in this site, full of plans that I most likely will not follow and dreams I most likely will still chase. Thank you for sticking around and I’ll try to post something new every week from now on since my schedule is wide open. Hodor!

 

Kitty posts. Next attraction.

 

 

 

P

Making All Else Move

There is certain uncertainty

in how the sky flies,

but I cannot

or how the earth turns

yet I am still.

 

It is as if everything else

moves but me:

an unmovable object

that the world hoped

to yield and to rive.

 

I have wished to move

and to be,

but I am unmoving

and always will be

making all else move.

 

P

ps. this is another old piece

Untitled XV

I love you

for whatever you are

and whatever you give me

and whoever you see in me,

for wherever you may go

and wherever we meet,

for whenever you’re there

and whenever we’re apart,

for however you love me

and however you care,

because I love you forever

and forever I will be there

 

P

ps. this is another old piece

Judge Me Not

Do not judge my garden

because of its fruits.

Do not seek the blot of your pen

on my paper suit.

 

Instead, search for this solitary shadow

that beats its wings

without contempt or sorrow.

Surely, very surely, I am not with kings.

 

Let me fly, let me fly.

You do not need to tell the color of my sky

or why there was rain

when I am not even chained.

 

I am now and I am here.

I, you should not doubt.

But if that was not clear

then get the hell out.

 

P

ps. this is another old piece