A sheltered vagabond, waiting

It has always been like that – a soft music accompanying my melancholy. Like a gentle tear made more fragile by the night, what silence do I seek amidst a blanket made of confusion? Would my solace be granted if I would learn how to think first, than to let my emotions come in? Some say it’s all the same. In the journey we all make, it’s not what comes first, but what comes out in the end.

It’s like wishing for an eternal instant that would seem like forever. A momentary glimpse on what heaven might feel; or how one’s wish could all become real. Touch my soul like the gentle breathing of the wind, and then leave me. Let the mark embedded on my heart be my salvation. I seek refuge to find peace.

Let me hear your story, not the ones fabricated by mere play of words. Let me hear what you have seen, so that your eyes may also become mine. Let me see what you hear, and in the words that you say, in your world for a while let me stay. I am a child willing to learn. I am empty, so fill me.

For blog writers

“There was no formal goodbye that day. No ‘see you tomorrow’; no ‘take care’. A simple nod was all they did say, yet they knew everything’s okay.”

These were the first lines in the mind of the janitor I have not thought of a name yet. As he scraped off vandalism on the walls of the comfort room, a single line found its way through his heart. In bold black letters, someone had ‘cared’ to scribble, “TALK ABOUT SALVATION :-),” with an arrow pointed at the can. It aimed to rumor people who badly needed to “go.”

This sounds like a mediocre movie where one could really find inspiration on an unlikely situation. I don’t want to be philosophical about the whole matter so let us just say that out of sheer boredom, the janitor took out his pen and unrolled a toilet paper.

“The greatest of all novels would be written on a bathroom tissue,” he said aloud.

What he did not know was that someone was using the next cubicle. Dressed in a formal suit, he heard what the janitor said. He was actually trying very hard to vomit. A formal interview awaits him. After more than five tries for a white-collar job, he thought that he could no longer accept another rejection. He was desperately trying to puke his guts out to calm his nerves.

To make the story short, below is an excerpt of the conversation that transpired. I have not yet thought about how it happened or who and what triggered the event but let’s just pretend that the two found some sort of commonality. Beneath the cubicle where they sat, they exchanged ideas without knowing who was on the other side.

Janitor: The shameless prick writing on this blog does not know what he’s trying to say. That is, if he really has something to say.
Formal Guy: Yeah, his ego is larger than his talent. Playing god – that’s what he is.
Janitor: Speak to me of immortality and I’d readily talk about writers – or the ones pretending to be. I’m the janitor on this whole thing and I think I talk smarter than you do.
Formal Guy: We’re not supposed to know each other, remember? He loves irony. Let’s just get along with his whims.
Janitor: Fact is, we came from the same figment of imagination he has. In a sense, you are you and I am also you. We are the same. As creations of this god wannabe, a script has been laid out even before our conception.
Formal Guy: Actually, I think this is a free-flowing script. He’s just trying to find sleep. But let’s go back to that playing god thing. As his creations, we are slaves to his will. A world is created specifically for us to do what he intends us to do.
Janitor: Which makes the whole matter complicated. In a sense, we do the dirty work for him. Afraid of revealing himself through his writings, he uses us as a disguise. Sort of putting on an iron mask, he expects us to disclose what he really looks like.
Formal Guy: The loser!
Janitor: I would like to ask a question though. Just what control does he have over us? Absolute? But what if the characters he made really rebelled against him? Against his will? Against his vagaries?
Formal Guy: Then this conversation would have never existed. But then again, it did.
Janitor: So tell me one thing straight. Just who is fooling who?

Then the little chat was stopped by a sudden noise outside. It was three o’clock in the morning and my mom is telling me to go sleep.

“You are different from what I imagined you to be, yet you are the same. A surprise package that came out better.”

A straight circle

It always starts with a conflict – a struggle from within. In the end, I know a part of me would betray me, like a hand softly trembling out of fear.

Comparable to a hidden confusion is a suppressed smile. The manifestations are always there. Subtleties are like the gentle song of a mother to a child, with the former simply being near. It is a fact that the most complex of situations could be described with a single word. On my part, I have to run around in circles to get my lines straight.

Countless people are silenced by a verse of a familiar chord. And though I’m talking with myself right now, the people I let into my world are listening. Hide as I might, the biggest traitor is myself. When the mind speaks, the body listens. When the heart has chosen to be silent, the whole body screams.

What then is my story for today? Beneath the nuances are shades of gray on an otherwise rainbow that is blank. Nothing’s new in here, more questions than answers. I tried to ignore what I felt this day but I guess I simply could not. Strangely enough, I found motivation to write based on the struggle I feel.

In short, I’m desperately trying to hide an unarticulated emotion. On a game of chess, I’m loosing.

Tangan ng tadhana

Katulad ng kandilang pinipilit patayin ng hangin
Iiwang bitin.
Paglalaruan ang apoy
Pero ‘di naman itutuloy.

Katulad ng lastikong parang nais lagutin
Hihigitin
Hanggang humaba at susubukan
Ang kakayanang ‘di maputol
Saka iiwanang may buhol.

Bakit ‘di pa kitilin?
Nang sa ganoon ay tapusin
Ba’t kailangang paglaruan
Ang buhay kong tangan.

Tadhana
Para kang bata.

Open letter

What sense do we make of it all? Is it too late or too early, too crowded when you just feel lonely?

It was eleven o’clock in the evening. Late as it was, I couldn’t possibly force myself to sleep at our office in Batangas City. I know I’d stay up all night thinking about everything yet end up concluding nothing. There’s something about sleeping on another place. The insomnia grows worse. Unfamiliarity, maybe? Or is it just me?

It was almost midnight when the first bus arrived. Amidst the throngs of people, I rushed in line not to get a seat but to get inside the bus. It was raining. The streets were flooded. I am wet, I am tired, and I want to get home.

There were no stars that night, like the dreams clouded in my mind. With nothing else to do, I set out on an arduous journey.

There are times when I hate it when I think too much. Questions are like screams found inside my head. I prepared for that; a two-hour bus ride plus a conversation with myself.

As the bus went past the solitary street of my solitude, I thought that somewhere out there, another child is crying, another heart is breaking. And if all the pain in the world would be put together, the agony would be too much for this world to handle. Unlike a balloon waiting to burst, the end might not come with a resounding explosion. Who knows what it would be; a drop of a needle, or a dry leaf falling from a tree?

Would everyone go to heaven since the life we have here feels like hell? I don’t know. Like a joke waiting for a punch line, the end of the story is always at the end. Some stories do end up happily, while some simply end in tragedy.

Two bus rides was what I had to go through. After more than an hour, the second bus did not take long. The road is always longer when the travel seems like forever. So after I got off the second bus on that starless night, I was hungry but was glad to be home. The rain had stopped and there were no floods in San Pablo City. Though one thing I did wish for inside my head that night. I was cold. If there were someone out there who’s listening, would he have heard my plea? That I be enlightened by my confusion, and I be silenced by my screams.

I’m still wishing.

“If your heart could speak out your dream, it would be in a form of a wish.”

Walang pamagat

Siguro
Mas maganda sigurong sabihing sigurado
Na hindi ito ang huling paalam
Kundi simula lamang.
At sa susunod na pagkikita
‘Wag sanang makahon
Sa mga salitang tulad lamang ng
“Kumusta na?”
At “Buhay ka pa pala.”
Kahit papaano kasi
Direkta man o indirekta
Ang kahapong nangyari’y ‘di mabubura
At ‘di maitatangging ito’y naging bahagi
Nang buhay mong napakahaba
Ngunit napakaiksi.
Katulad ng ating pagkakakilala
At pagsasama.
At ‘di mo namamalayan
Bukas, paalam na pala.

Forever?

it's hard to tell if i believe in forever
i'm just asking for a sign
and if i look would i really find
the one i've built on my mind.
i guess fantasy is the same as reality
you'll never know the truth 'til it's over
and by then would it be hard to admit
amidst all my guilt, the pain i've reached
that only the heart could tell
we believe in forever,
for it's better than never.

The sound of one heart crying

Like a piece of paper being torn
Like a prick in the hand from a rose's thorn
Love songs played on the radio
That no one could hear except you. .
Sleepless nights
Lifeless light
The truth is painful but still it is true
Sometimes
The most painful tragedy comes in silence
It is only you, who could hear your heart cryin'. . . .

"The need to speak, rather than the need to be heard."