Familiar pen and pages yet everything looks different.
Tonight, I will do the ultimate restitution. This is the right way and the only way. There will be no more backing down. It's time I followed up on a promise I set on stone so many years ago.
Good night, ladies and gentlement. The curtain is closed. The encore is finished. The applause has died. Time to turn off the lights and turn the chairs on top of the tables.
I am now at the bus stop found in the cradle of darkness, right beside the wrong side of redemption's bed.
And lo and behold the bus is now coming for me.
I am tired. Darkness, swallow me.
I just realized that despite my seeming fatalistic view in life, my proven pessimism about human nature in particular, and my lack of belief in a higher power, I will cry when I get married in church one day. I'm already married, yes, but, well...
Can you really fight the tears the years will bring once it's finally ever after for you?
An ode to Neverland and to finally figuring it out.
Time passes slowly
For those who never know
And all we've got really
Is a dream of where to go
So I hold your hand
I have faith that you've got it figured out
In the deepest parts of me
That's all I cared about
Second star to the right and straight on till morning
But there's no real map to where we're really going
The Never is lost in an ocean of Forever
If I had to fly away, it'd be you and me together
When the only memory I have
Is the setting of the sun,
Why do I bother living
A life that hasn't begun?
So you hold my hand
You have faith that you had me figured out
In the deepest parts of me
That's all I'll care about
Second star to the right and straight on till morning
But there's no real map to where we're really going
The Never is lost in an ocean of Forever
If I had to fly away, it'd be you and me together
Second start to the right and straight on till morning
All the dreams we had are now slowly returning
Credits to J. M. Barrie for writing one of the best novels ever.
Full moon sways
Gently in the night of one fine day
On my way
Looking for a moment with my dear
Full moon waves
Slowly on the surface of the lake
You were there
Smiling in my arms for all those years
What a fool
I don't know 'bout tomorrow
What it's gonna be
I was a fool
Couldn't let myself go
Even though I feel the end
Old love affair
Floating like a bird resting her wings
You were there
Smiling in my arms for all those years
Never let go of the music.
A singular entity among a mass of nearly weightless men. This is the purpose that we have come to embrace, the one mortality we have come to accept. As the loving writer once said, "We who surround ourselves with lives even more fragile than our own..." I wonder, did he know that the same thought applies to us who ascended from the purposelesness of being the beast?
We are but one big cesspool of instincts. We cling on to lives that we want to improve and to believe in the solidarity of. We are the products of the dreams we both forewent and achieved. But who are we really when we look at ourselves?
Aren't we just the people who settled for the compromise of a life that betrayed us when we started knowing more about it? They say that enlightenment is a good thing, but why is it that every moment that we start knowing more about the myriad intricacies of life, we start liking it less? Shouldn't it be true that when you start knowing about the infinite wonders that the universe can give, it should become wonderful? Why is it, then, that this wonder gives rise to fear?
A very eccentric writer once said that the greatest fear of all is the fear of the unknown. True, I agree, but not completely, I retort. No matter the amount of logic we employ in our lives, there should always be a space for faith in the emergence of something unexpectedly good in our lives. And no matter the weight of reality, there should always be a pocket of hope hidden somewhere deep inside of us--somewhere unreachable by all that is unhappy and unacceptable--and it should never be emptied. This is our only hope for survival. Our salvation is ultimately only ourselves.
And so here we stand at the edge of a forever that is bound to wrap around itself, threatening to destroy all that we ever died to fight for. Tonight, the immortals die but we'll remember the death they left behind. In memory, truly, is the only immortality.
"I am anti-life, the Beast of Judgement. I am the dark at the end of everything. The end of universes, gods, worlds … of everything. And what will you be then, Dreamlord?"
"I am Hope."
Indeed, strange times are upon us.
A world of chaotic tendencies, faltering with every passing minute of existing reality due to the inherent propensity of the human frailty to commit mistakes of a specific--if not of a greater--degree that far outweigh their capacity to exact restitution or rectification. This is an era of pointless choices, one that blatantly offends any humanistic revolution of any time that has already passed. This is the era of the boundless idea, but it is not an era where we even think anymore.
It used to be that we always had something up our sleeve, we who want to consider ourselves above and beyond the call of our mortal skin. Alas, borrowed time dampens our skills and the concept of an immortal achievement is lost in favor of the desire to cherish in a myriad number of ways the seemingly few years of our conscious existence. In a time where we could have conjured a universe with a hat trick, we've become artists who prefer to escape the magical act of escaping the glass cage. Our magic is now lost.
I ask any soul, what really does change the nature of men? Every fleeting moment, I look back further than I would have wanted and I wish no less than the greediest of the dead to return in time to set straight the written line. Always, always, I'm moving against a flow that I myself was the catalyst. Closing one end of this tunnel of madness means I have to drown in the darkness that is to follow.
A reader that never did understand, and yet I've always read more than the common man. I've thought of the supermen and the feared princes, and how we couldn't have gotten them more wrong. I've once written out a rebuttal to an age-old idea, only to convince myself that I have otherwise written something that will not hold up in an era of preconceived notions about whatever has already been written. Whereas my mind exists to wallow in the laziness that the search of enlightenment entails, the world exists to remind me that, indeed, there are more things in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in my philosophies. A deathly pity.
In times of absolute denial of reality, I write. Of the multitude of words, nearly everything has been exiled into the void. Every corner of my mind screams in agony with every death, and I die even more at the expected onslaught of failed memory. I live in a time of immortality, yet it is not an immortality of life or memory but of forgetfulness. Nothingness is the one true eternal. To think is to be, but to forget is to become. A pointless tautology, and yet I succumb to it.
Random and incomplete musings paired with the indomitable cold of an indubitably silent morning. Fragments of thoughts and journeys of the mind that made a turn to a dead-end. A half-assed attempt at answering one question only to come up with more.
Truly, an era of ideas but--perhaps--never of thought anymore.
A recent waking dream:
At the edges of Creation, a little girl found herself before the Gate That Never Opens. Beyond it stands the Keeper of Lore, Master of the Unchallenged Secrets. He sees the little girl and, in a voice of a thousand splendid supernovas, declared, "The Great Mystery is too much for the likes of you to comprehend. Unless you answer my three questions, you shall not pass."
The little girl looked at the Keeper of Lore curiously, bent her small head slightly backwards, and let out a small twinkling laugh. Breathlessly, she replied, "You're a funny one, Mister. I don't need to answer anything because you don't have to ask anything. That gate never does open. It never will."
She tapped her foot on the starlit ground and whirled around. With a light step, she started walking away. Then, as if forgetting something, she slightly leaned backward and looked back. Seeing the Keeper's baffled face, she remarked, "Besides, we're not allowed to go outside anyway."
So, this is how it goes, trala-fucking-la.
Fuck you and your generation. Fuck you and the spoils you enjoy and the lives you lead. Fuck your music players and smartphones and your fucking umpteenth iteration of the same fucking thing. Fuck you for feeling better about yourselves.
Fuck you because you're stupid. Fuck you and your fucking faded and tight jeans and thinking it's hip and cool and fucking awesome when you don't bother taking a fucking read on your fucking history lessons. Fuck you and your rallies. Fuck you and your charities. Fuck you for thinking that we have become way too paranoid.
Fuck you for believing that our childhood were myths. Fuck you and your cities and all this fucking idolatry of your fucking freedom while living on your parent's hard-earned I-invested-for-a-fucking-accident-like-you trust fund. Fuck you and your cameras and thinking you matter when the real world already has enough color to fucking get rid of an acid trip. Fuck you and your voices and your fucking holier-than-thou ministrations when religion lost all semblance of shit when your dad fucked the tripping shit out of your maid.
Fuck you and the way you teach. Fuck you and your concept of success. Fuck you because you're mediocre. Fuck you because you'll get through life fucking the same depressing people and having the same fucking problems and fuck you because of that--because of having problems that you think are the fucking bane of the universe's existence.
Fuck you and your stupid vampire novels and magic bullshit and all the inane amount of sequels you watch on a daily fucking basis. Fuck you just because. Fuck you and your fucking concepts about unity and not knowing just how many seven fucking billion fucking mouths are, and still believing that there is equality in the world.
Fuck you for believing in a god and believing in that asshole's plans when fucking kids die in streets everywhere, too fucking young to know the fucking difference between a pussy and an exit wound. Fuck you and your hypocrisy about respecting life when elsewhere prisoners die and you don't care because you got to feed your fucking dog today with that hogwash of a fucking travesty that weighs more than a fucking Ethiopian.
Fuck you for your indifference. Fuck you because you call up and say, Happy Something Day here and not know that the other person is not happy. Fuck you for that callousness and fuck you for believing you're nicer than you really are. Fuck you and your pretensions and your beliefs and that entitlement you carry because you worked your ass off 40 hours this week and trula-fucking-la-fucking-loo you fucking hated every fucking holy shit moment of it. Fuck you for not following your dreams, and fuck you because you did.
Fuck you for smelling like fucking Chanel, but give yourself a holy buttfuck for smelling like a fucking sewage shit, too. Fuck you because you masturbate pathetically at night, chanting to some fucking asshole's name in the hopes you get fucked--and you do, because fucking tears drown you as you reach the fucking climax you fucking made for yourself.
Fuck this morning. Fuck all mornings. Fuck the wet sidewalk and the blue sky and the humid air and the stupid glare of the fucking sun.
Fuck the city and the cleaners and the police and the traffic that makes my hair itch and the fucking commuters and the homeless man.
Fuck you for reading and fuck you for hating but fuck you most of all because you're existing, breathing, living so much it's irritating.
Fuck you for the bang-up job and the attempt at being unique when you're all idiots who are trying so hard to not make each other sick.
Fuck you for thinking and for musing and for believing and for all the shit you sing, and fuck you because you're the guy with the stupid ring.
Fuck you for figuring it out, fuck you for having the fucking balls. Still, fuck you because you ain't got shit until you piss on all the walls.
Fuck you for putting up, fuck you for giving a fight. There's no better way to tell you this, but you're a fucking douche who fucks anyone in sight.
Fuck this for rhyming, fuck everything because I'm winning. This is war we're starting, this is the shit that nobody's about to be denying.
Fuck the tomorrow you make for yourself: it's the past that's waiting to happen. Fuck you for assuming that your future is going to be golden.
Fuck the writing, and fuck the news. I'll give you the fist while you give me your views.
Fuck your stupid laughter, fuck your joke. I'll strangle you slowly until you fucking croak.
Fuck the writer, and fuck the book. I know how you see me, I've always known that look.
Fuck you because you think you're happy. Fuck you because you're sad.
It's always one thing or another, everything to you is just as bad.
Fuck you because I taught you. Fuck you because I won't.
The anger that consumes me, oh please fucking don't...
Fuck you because you're dead inside.
Fuck you because it's always strange,
How we're trapped in a sideways fuckfest
Where we don't know what to gain.
And that is how it went, trala-fucking-la.
Masokista: Hampasin mo ako! Sugatan mo ako! Parang awa mo na, saktan mo ako!
Sadista: ... Ayoko nga.
The world works exactly the same way.
I am no knight. I wear no shining armor. I carry no sword. Myths cannot say that I can trot with my head off my shoulders, nor that I am green. I am no child of a wonderful cavalier whom the queen loved. I am no king of a table rumored rounded with skill and pride.
I am not in search of a grail. I know no lady in the water. I have not in my possession a sword that cuts air and fire in half. I pulled no blade from stone nor brick. I have not killed my own son, nor was I a brother-lover to a half-bred fay.
There is no promised kingdom in my visions. I was not visited by a virgin in my sleep. I will not pass in the arms of women, doomed to see to the end of a savior of the islands. I will never come back when my land needs me the most.
I... I am no warrior. I am no king. I am no husband. I am no father. I am neither master nor apprentice. And, by the gods, I have never seen a better sinner than I.
I am no angel. I bear no wings. I carry no trumpet, nor do I have any seals. Songs will never sing that I told the shepherds, nor that I guided the magi. I never flew to the side of the all-father, nor did I flew to save the promised people. I am no witness to the flight from death.
I hold no flaming sword. I am not with the third, nor with the rest. I never killed a firstborn, and I never spilled my blood on the river. I never pushed the waves apart, nor whispered in the warrior's ear. I never knew the trees, nor did I know of the king's treachery.
There is no silver in the city where I am. I will hold no virgin in my praise. No eternal light shall bid me welcome, and no eternal flame shall grant me home. I will never know the fear of the end, when the eternally holy and the eternally damned comes to meet me where I am.
I... I am no guardian. I am no friend. I am no morning star. I am no black viper. I am neither above nor below. And, by the name I dare not beseech anymore, naught has there been a better sinner than I.
All are but a fleeting reconciliation of choices. Everything is composed of truths that never were. But you have never known your place. Always fleeting, always fleeing. And so you suffer. You cannot do more than shed inanimate tears that have naught an effect but bury you more in this never-ending cycle of hatred for the likes of you. For you never fulfill your promise, and you never do anything. A world of pleasure, but never a difference. We have endured for your kind, we have tried to make it whole.
But I am indifferent. And I am losing hope in myself. I am not a friend anymore, especially if no friend can be one as well. I want to pull the sword from the rock so that when the fires come, I will be able to save those that needs saving. Too much, too much.
Now, no more. I cannot spare more thought for those who can never spare one moment.
I am no friend. No, not anymore.
Title's loaded with too much emotional blackmail, eh?
But, really, I miss having to miss things I used to do. You know why?
Because I'm happily contented with the things I used to take for granted.
Things like loneliness and solitude and the introverted viewpoint and watching the world dissolve into madness and keeping to myself or to someone else that I definitely want to be around with me and be with for the rest of time and all this shitty insanity that I get from just being myself and I just don't know what I'm saying anymore.
Fact of the matter is, I don't miss the world at all. I don't see joy in the things I used to do. It seems I've changed. In light of the boy I used to be--that stupid nincompoop who never believed that things *do* change--I'm a fucking travesty of who he is. He must be hanging himself shitless right now.
So, yeah, I took for granted the reality of who I think I really am. And who I tried to do away with. Recently, I've discovered that driving around alone, reading my books alone, and playing my games alone (actually, 'alone' is relative since, personally, it just describes the space I allow myself to be in... or who is in that space) aren't actually all too bad. I took them for granted when I tried to find solace in the presence of a multitude. Which I don't really belong in anyway. I'm this nail that stands out way too much that I turned to a dick. Insert a mandatory 'haha' here. Haha. There.
Fuck off, world. It's nearing sunrise and I have no qualms about going to school with a heavy and sleepy head. Tata.
"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light of meaning in the darkness of mere being."
-- Carl Jung, from Memories, Dreams, Reflections
And so they say that no universe can exist besides one's own. And I believe.
For no knowledge is certain. And nothing can ever find its true foundation. Everything needs something before, and something with it. And now I tell you that it is in that requirement of things that should be that we are lost in a disarray of faith-driven ideals and twisted life-altering decisions.
But you care not, for your universe exists solely for your own pleasure. And you ignore that there are those who are in the wait. And I express silent anger.
For one has vouched for me. And I vouched for you. And you play a card that isn't yours to deal in the first place.
So, solipsistic tendencies are what you want to display, eh? But solipsism works both ways. For ignorance of my universe, I point you to ignore mine. And I can ignore all the better. I can disconnect. I can maim. And I can kill. Memories are but fragments. Pain is something I only choose to feel because the world tells me that it is there. But I can play this game.
Because I believe nothing exists. And nothing is with purpose. And should there arise a need for me to sever, I shall with all pleasure.
Tread lightly in this universe. Patience is many a-splendored thing. It is not one of my merits nor my virtues. And it is fast running out.
Solipsistic nihilist or nihilistic solipsist? Either way, death exists as an end that is immutable and invulnerable. And whether it's a dream or a confirmation that life itself is the purpose, I exercise the desire to steer through the uncanny pitfalls of my beliefs and say that there's only one absolute in my life: choice.
And lo and wonder because I can always choose to destroy.
... But not even God cares to see.
"Power is having every justification to kill, but won't."
Lamentations upon regrets, and the truth is hidden sevenfold in words that are hidden in treasure chests lost in the winding paths of a heavenly dais. And you ask me. And I don't know the answer. Sometimes, I really don't.
And you say you miss me. And that things have somehow changed. What you don't see is I'm always just here, always just with you.
When you start believing that things have indeed changed, that's because--sometimes, just sometimes--your universe did. And often, your universe is just you.
Because that's how each and every single one of us are: trapped in our own crystal universes. Truly, who isn't?
An immortal once said, "The more things change, the more they stay the same." Curious and curiouser, yes?
I'd rather be hanging at the edge of the pedestal you are upon than be on my own, enduring this quite unknown feeling of distance between the universes we have created for ourselves.
Vague, vague. My writing never really changed. I am missing and lost and elsewhere in this universe. I am always somewhere else, and I don't know why or how but it seems like I have lost the capacity to care about most things.
Ah, the soul is lost only to become a soul revived. I have almost forgotten how callously indifferent I am at times.
Pardon me, my friends. The sad truth is that I couldn't care less if everyone died right now. I'm just going through the motions. And how I wish for them to end soon.
Because I need to be somewhere soon. I need to be someone soon. There is no time for stupid musings and idle thinki----*
Countless coincidences in a lifetime of malapropisms, and yet we never do learn what they really mean. For a price, lives are merely just hindrances to the legacy we're trying to create--or to memories we want to forget. In everything, in everything, as I always have believed, there exists a choice. And where no choice is left, there we endure.
For how can one form 'endure' without 'end'?
Vague, vague, though not really. I am still what I have always been. But nothing ever truly ends. Nothing ever truly changes. And so nothing can ever endure. In the lifetime that you are given, you will never make a right choice. You never will.
Because your choice is just a part of their lives. And your life is just another speck in the shore of lost dreams that they inhabit. You never will matter, and you never will learn.
And as I've written in times long gone, I have started conquering heaven a long time ago but I still haven't found this god you all have been looking for.
They say love can be learned. Hopeful but futile, I retort.
Learning takes time and time can mean never, now, or forever. And for mortals doomed to live one hundred years of solitude, never and forever are one and the same.
So if you have to love, love now.
There is no other way. There will be no other chance.
One by one, on the edge of defeat.
Hear my voice, hear it repeat:
He has gone where no mortal repent:
He sold his life, his will now spent.
Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings--always darker, emptier, simpler. -- Friedrich Nietzsche
Philippines, seriously, get your act together.
No, not Filipinos. The country. The land. The sovereign will (if there is actually one). Yes, La Filipinas. It's you who should get your act together. Less than a week from now, it's going to be (oh, hey, yawn) election day again. You think you're doing a good job by advocating this widespread act of social destruction but it's not helping. Please. We're not bicameral. We're not really partisan. We're a bunch of bastards who only got motherhood statements under our belts.
When you start getting rid of yellow ribbons and orange check-marks, that's when you actually start deciding. Get rid of the stupid surveys and the pointless advertisements. Please.
Let me point it out for you, Philippines, because right now, you are really being stupid.
1. I'm for your father, not you. Your father was the hero, not your mother. It was the people who overthrew the tyrant, not your parents. Your family still has to answer for a considerable number of lives because of the agrarian reform crap that you advocated. Deliver the facts straight. You still have a lot to answer for.
2. Cut the bullshit. You are a businessman. People know the ruthlessness behind your eyes. From rags to riches, yes, but at the expense of other rags becoming rags still. Answer the damn allegations in any way you can. Appease the people with something because, in politics as in most things, something is often--if not always--better than nothing.
3. And this goes out to all: the competition is not *who* you think it is. A quick check of what's really the sentiment out there reveals that it's an ousted ex-convict that's actually leading. The numbers don't tell you that. No one actually would admit to that. But try to divide the fucking intelligentia into a shitload of groups and you'll actually see that it's the one who's left behind to garner the vote of the uneducated mass that's going to get propelled to the highest shitseat in the land.
I am at the end of my wits, seriously, about this election. No one's actually paying attention. Go bicker and bite, you stupid politicians. Just don't put a proven criminal back to power. Otherwise, you've just proven your stupidity.
Philippines, oh, Philippines. The Filipinos don't love you as much as they say they do.
J: Gusto mo ng Butterkiss?
J: Okay lang kahit walang butter, basta may kiss.
For things to endure, first, an end.
It's never over, not yet, my friend.
For everything that matters, not one less.
Come, join me in this beautiful mess.
J: Wag kasing saktan ang mga diabetic. Medyo mahirap sumara ang sugat sa puso ng mga yun.
Baguio pa rin.
J: Gigisingin ko ang iyong diwa gamit ang... (drinks Coke, deep in thought) DILA! Ye-hes, rhyming!
Patrick Starfish the Ultimate Friend: Huuuuuuh, huuuuuuh. HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Baguio intestinal fortitude.
L: Parang okay yung utak lugaw.
J&J: Talaga lang ah!
The sword is unsheathed once more, and the shield is put up again. In the climax of this war waged on an ice floe that never will melt, we stand opposed. Trapped in a detente--or a stalemate--we neither move nor speak. I look at you and wonder: are you a mirage borne of this cold and deathly breeze or are you the sprite that will tear me to pieces for even seeking out your favors?
And the sun sets. Blood trickles down the slopes of the banks. The ice simmers under the warmth of a thousand casualties that never will rise again. You bask in the resulting heat, while I watch you with feigned impunity. I count the moments as they pass, knowing that this is just one long era of silence. And that in this era, the first move is the admission of weakness.
Twilight comes. The stars start to become our audience. All around us are the dead, breathing the air that is never theirs to use anymore. We still haven't moved. We still haven't reached a decision. And we still haven't accepted the reality of this pain we're trying to evade.
But as night beckons and the nocturnal blanket starts to crawl, the heart moves that which the mind cannot. So I let loose the shield. I bring up my sword arm. High, high, high above me, I raise this blade. And in one swift move, I turn it around and stab myself through the chest.
The pain is staggering, but I know that no words will escape me. The blood will be much, but I know that I will never run out of it. Your tears, they will be many, but I know that I've killed you as much as I've killed myself.
And things end. And we remember yet again that we are mortal.
Eloquence is the sword that maims the fool. Ambiguity is the shield that protects the wise. And so we stand where we fell and learn to take delight in this moment of utter defeat.