Statement

I Might Not Be Back

I might be overly dramatizing these past few months, but it may as well be one of the most trying times of my entire life. While looking back at the beginning, it was the quote J.K. Rowling had uttered from her commencement speech which had really reflected these past few months in a nutshell – where she pointed out how rock bottom became the solid foundation on which she rebuilt her life.

This was extremely true for me. And I have to admit, rock bottom was not the coziest place on earth.

And now I’m rebuilding in a happy place. I’m keeping those people who stood by me, and those who had hurt me I am setting aside. I’m off to better journeys, and I’m meeting new people who I hope would stay, and would have sensed me to stay in return. And while I’m barely beginning I know I’ll be doing well.

Because this time, my family and friends are rooting for me. And this time, I’m rooting for myself as well. I might not be back, but never would it mean I was ever  gone.

I might just be fighting my demons elsewhere.

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Uncategorized

Chapter 1: Fragmented Highways

To pass the time and to keep my head far away from remembering the past two weeks, I tried to count the towering palm trees lining the highway as I traveled to a very far place – another one of my attempts to keep myself preoccuppied from moping in my lifeless state.

But they seemed to blur by too quickly as I lost count at 43 as the driver reveled in the early morning route and simply enjoyed the absence of too much traffic. It also lacked the untimely road reconstructions our city was recently notorious for.

As the car drove farther away from all the memories of what had been and what could never be, I gradually got the hang of breathing and thinking of anything else.

I decided to look far ahead and stared blankly at the longest highway I have ever seen, trying to detach myself from any reminder that I was made a fool in the short span of two weeks.

Jeepneys tried to overtake my ride and I faded back to one night, in that almost midnight downtown of the city where we rode a similar jeepney, with the smell of too much cheap rum and pineapple juice oozing from our breaths.

And I was taking you home.
And you were taking me with you.
And that was enough.

I thought long and hard about that very first night and as far as my memory serves me it only felt the way I wanted to feel on our jeepney ride home. Clearly, we were drunk and broken and missing but above all that we felt safe. We felt right.

People kept hopping in and out of our ride, seemingly going about their late night routines just like all the overworked and underpaid. But not us. Not in the slightest. The lights from the lightposts faded to a blur as I wrapped my arms around your waist, while you leaned in to my chest and breathed down my neck, murmuring all these used up storylines I was bound to forget.

We stepped out from the ride and felt the piercing looks of pedestrians drilling our backs. But we didn’t care, we didn’t mind. I took you home and let’s leave it at that. And I then it dawned me that a highway ride like that was way too short and needed work. Just like us eventually.

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I’m waiting for the plot twist.

Well really I am, I mean. Waiting for the plot twist. Because this. This thing between us was bound to end up where I sit at the edge of my bed in the shadows of the dying sun, whispering to myself, “You fell for that, huh?” I whispered back.

And while I wallow in self-pity I knew I had to answer myself. To open my mouth and answer myself, because then I would take a step in realizing that I really did actually fall for these foolish games of short-lived love affairs.

“You rallied for the fairy tale but was barricaded with the predictable twists of fate.”

Let’s relive the plot, shall we? But like all dreams that are notoriously fragmented and untrue, why not we begin at the middle.

But I’m not keen on giving up just yet.

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Prose

Talk About Semicolons By Midnight

There it is with the existing again. Twenty years of breathing in and out and you’d think I would already have had the slightest clue about what to do about my life. Twenty years of trying to act beyond my age and trying to act beneath it. But in this fraction of a moment turned more than just fractions that they transformed to whole and instantaneously significant – this is what worries me.

And I know there will be some of you blowing me off, telling me I’m still too young to have real problems and that the real world wouldn’t allow me a forgiving leeway to talk about my issues because life would’ve been too catastrophic by the time I finish ranting. But sometimes adults have it too cynical that they could also fail to notice that I’m barely hanging by a thread as it is.

The demons in my closet are slowly creeping out; peeping and leering and trying to grab my feet when I hardly couldn’t stand up for myself. This is getting too dark and realistic so I better shut up before another suicide series proliferates and becomes mainstream.

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Sentence

Guess who’s ranting again. I have removed myself from social media outlets for an indefinite period of time hoping for some divine intervention. And time to spend for my college work, to be honest. And if for some time, you’ve read one or two of my tasteless rants you’d come to realize why is it aptly named. So don’t blame me for not warning you that the following words wouldn’t sound artsy and poetic whatsoever. Or is it? Continue reading

Tasteless Rants

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Prose

Might Not Be Hers

The weather had been the least cooperative for the asshole that is me. Sporting my all-white kicks that had been the staple uniform for anyone trying to get laid, myself included, the rain poured all too heavily. Might be to wash away all the emotional condoms left by college students in the clogged drain left by the previous sem-ender party by the nearby dorm. All those could-be children by reckless and yolo-centric millenials down the drain. How tragic. Continue reading

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