Monday, July 25, 2005

What Book Are You?

You're One Hundred Years of Solitude!

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there
is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all
the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Friday, July 22, 2005


I was riding the trike on the way home, the weariness had settled on my limbs and I just couldn't wait to get home and get some sleep. I chanced upon the cracked mirror and forced myself to look at the face reflected on it. Same haggard face, heavy bag under the eyes, cracked mouth...can't help but remember what Nat said..."masochists. can't help but come back for more. we are sick. we are." i can feel how the words reverberate inside the emptiness.

Professor once commented, with biting scorn, that time is just a state of mind. I may just have to agree. Or maybe it is just that time is moving forward so swiftly and somehow I'm still suspended in this state of timelessness where time stopped since I graduated a year ago.

I've been trying to run around and do something worthwhile since gaining my freedom, a truly paradoxical concept for me. I've decided to follow the Buddhist way since being an agnostic last year.

Need peace.

- - -

I've finally watched Tori Amos' A Sorta Fairy Tale video (and I want to thank Karen, by the way, for giving me a copy of Scarlet's Walk, and the video collection of Tori Amos. NOw i just have to get these of my wishlist, don't I?)

It was weirdly moving. Watching these two appendages trying to survive in a world of humans with complete body parts. Seeing them stumble because of their utter incompleteness. But it was a happy ending for them as they somehow managed to complete themelves. I've yet to find that. Til then it IS still a Sorta Fairy Tale for me.

To watch the vid click here

Thursday, July 14, 2005


God must be crying really hard. In torrents, actually. I still love this kind of weather, though. Its the beauty and calm of the storms' aftermath that I'm looking forward to. After the storm, where else could we go?

Monday, July 11, 2005

Boxed Out

Moving on has never been an issue for me. Never really had. I’m a pragmatic person and I hate clutter. Surviving, I’ve managed to devise my own system which I religiously follow to avoid feeling of dislocation. Its either I throw it away completely or I just sweep it under the rug, for my future masochistic pleasures. Like Isadora Wing, I believe that there is a man under my bed. The faceless man who was made of 22 years worth of dust, fallen hairs, nail clipping-undisturbed.

And so does the seven years worth of gifts, letters, trinkets, and everything else in between that had passed from Faye's hands to mine. All was kept in the wooden rice wine box with gray ropes for handle, and shoved under the old clothes that had shrunk and supposed to be given to someone else who could put it to good use.

I realized that I should've thrown all of those a couple of years ago, when being strong actually IS false bravado. But now I had to let out the fear. The fear to touch the kept mementos from a lover that had long since flitted away. I fear to lay my hands on reams of letters bound by a single, think rubber. I fear that should the rubber snap, then I would snap too then each letter and characters written in the fancy papers would float and would seep their ways into my pores. I fear that my skin hadn’t toughen up with age, and that layers of skin are actually peeling off me, one day at a time. More easier to penetrate. More susceptible to pain.

I needed the space badly but I’m afraid that if I touch everything that she had left behind, her presence would envelope the four-walled sanctuary that I’d forcefully rid of her memories. If that happens, I would wind up with lesser space than I intended to, which could suffocate me in the process.

So much fear. So much fear. Too little progress.

Ending this on a comical note, I’m alone. Single and alone.