March 30, 2015

It doesn’t have to equalize 

What I want in life doesn’t necessarily have to equate to what you have to give. 

What I’d like to have in life, for a day or two in the year, are waking up to (imperfect) calligraphy of quotes that reminded you of me, being greeted by flowers for breakfast, dancing under the stars while sipping on our favourite poison, having breakfast for dinner and dinner for lunch, floating on our backs, and the like. 

The anticipation of raw emotions makes good bearings. Steadfast longing wasn’t built in a day, or even by mere words. When you amplify your heart through the little things, that’s when I stop my selfish wantings.

I’m interested in your genuine interests, even if it makes us uncomfortable to no end. Being uncomfortably happy is really the ascent beyond planning and hoping. I cannot wait to try. 

March 26, 2015

Hands in the jar

We are ruminative thinkers–or so I’d like to think. There’s a humming joy even when the busyness mutes the little wins throughout the day. Yet we know that the candle burns at both ends with me and like clockwork, it cascades down to petty fumes and misheard tales to spark the tinder of irrational things. Then when the ashes settle, I take a step back to watch the good times dance across the skies, listen to the familiar tunes that are weaved into the winds and wisps, and play the tapes of retrospect–outside the looking glass. 

It’s when you’re detached that you’re the most sober. You don’t get drunk on promises, you don’t OD on precedents and you sure as hell won’t fall for words that make you gravitate towards self-deprecation.

Can I axe out of this? 

March 8, 2015

House of cards

I am, essentially, a knot of knots. I want to unravel at the idea of a becoming. As lofty as ideals go, I’m a wisp of happenstance and concerted efforts. There’s no order of things, as there is no you at the beginning.

John Mayer’s Waiting on The Day is a hug in the dark of the night.

March 2, 2015

Treading on ripples

Carelessly you fall into the crevices that you built walls around.

Carelessly you slip into looped REM sleep and never want to wake.

Carelessly you find less reasonings and go with spontaneity.

Carelessly you catch yourself being more than yourself and being totally okay with that.


To expect or to want is to set yourself up for the great tragedy. Anticipation makes great company, but nightfall creeps by painfully fast and at the same time, painfully slow. The only insurance you have is the safety net that will cushion the unexpected curveballs, the numbing times and the in between’s.

But with all the padded fears and armory, how do you inch forward? How do you make good on hopes of stability and consistent contentment–albeit the possible landslide? How do you move from a pleasant spot under the shade to the other side?

For the first time in a long time, things are going swimmingly well–in many aspects. Now that’s where the anxiety attacks lurk and where insecurities wake. The cue for the rumble would be the incompatibility of change beyond compromise. What else can mules do?

December 2, 2014

Needlessly, not.

Routines have a odd sense of humour; you condition yourself to check off daily tasks and by and by, you name them chores. And before you know it, you call them on first name basis in hopes to gain some comfort in the familiar (and mundane).

Then you go through the motions and be that person everyone needs you to be. Slowly you forget what it’s like to laugh at the silly things, to be at places that doesn’t make you feel awkward, to dance with two left feet, to snack on whatever whenever you want, to sing on the streets and in the rain… Slowly these chores determine your waking hours. But that mustn’t define you.

You are more than a sunrise. You’re more than a rolling storm. You’re an entity of capabilities, preferences, experience and compassion. Love endlessly, they say. Love wholly, I know. If we were hardwired to function in necessity, then I say pull the plug.

November 23, 2014


What am I to do with those eyes / look at what you’ve done to my pride

Ahh. Trent Dabbs saves my week, again. It takes countless playlists on shuffle to find an artiste that strikes a chord with this monsoon junk.

Last night, I slingshot my way into a good place where I defied the gravity of sunken and sullen. While it is an undecidedly pretty look to be hollowed, I’m trying to find the beauty in the void. The possibility of filling that space with new-found joys, no more suppressed laughs and wild abandonment makes the weeks ahead a little brighter, a little easier and a little more hopeful.


I want to disappear into skin and bones. I want an illogical lifetime of answers to questions I didn’t know I would ask.


Tinkerbell: You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming?
[Peter nods]
Tinkerbell: That’s where I’ll always love you… Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.

October 23, 2014

Neutralize that seethe

The penchant for affogato is as natural as my taste for the bittersweet symphony in things. You can’t cheat on the espresso flavour as you can with sachets of instant brew and you can definitely not skimp on vanilla beans for this treat. As strong flavored as it might be, if done right, life is made alright again–even for that tiny window of time.

The year is ending and the retrospective mood is setting in. To right the wrongs or to progress with a chip on the shoulder? If life is about picking up the pieces then who’s to see what’s charging ahead? I’ve so many oxymoronic questions and I really do want to pick at brains and answers over affogatos.

October 21, 2014

Sequence that dance

From Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl:

For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child’s boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.

It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.

And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls.

It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.

I would have done anything to feel real again.

I’ve been taking forever to complete this read, not because it’s bad or complex, but simply because I’m running on borrowed time. These days, I lose myself to the work pile, fall off during text conversations, trip over words and lay off social plans in a fervent bid to scale the expectations imposed. I’m dancing to my own tune again.

This book, James Bay playlist and flaming jäger bombs could not be more timely.

October 20, 2014

That’s the thing…

…you’re right beside but so distant at the same time.

What can I do to make you see that my thoughts are mine and my time is yours?

October 19, 2014

Crack the stable doors

You can live forever in one place and never wonder what’s on the other side. That’s because you’re contented with the now.

I wish I can say the same.

October 6, 2014

“What are you doing on the other side?”

We’ve been through this, countless of times–people leave and some just never throw anchors. It’s almost like we want them to fling themselves into free fall and land on their two feet, right next to us. We wish so much against gravity, chance and everything in between.

I want to believe that memories are beautiful yet disastrous creatures that you allow to reside in your head. You let the funny ones in. You handcuff yourself to a bad one yet play squash all day together. And you definitely side eye the ugly ones that make you cringe at the mere whiff of spirits. As sterile as we try to retain these memories, perspective and hope come in like a fog.

Hope. Is it akin to holding a helium filled balloon? Or letting it go and waiting to see what happens?

September 20, 2014

Stereophonic relevancy

We’ve toasted enough to reckless weekends and lost Parisian nights. We might have carved one too many keepsakes out of soap and etched hipster symbols on that phony stone in the Japanese gardens. How many hours can we steal from the world and live in this bell jar of a virtual high-speed chase? We try to marry our idiosyncrasies for a good hour before the party crumbles, inevitably, every time. That’s the problem when someone right/wrong comes through the doors at the right time; you’d try to make it right.

Oh, red herring.

September 18, 2014

Some Kind of Impetus

I’m hard wired to thrive on narrow beams and tread around babbling brooks. I get uneasy around still waters and plateaus. Like a tide that creates a current, I want to carry you in my thoughts and cradle in patting knowledge. We don’t have to sync; we just need momentum.

Perhaps it’s oversight, but we can relish the eclipsed truth that the moon is on our side. I can gravitate to the other side where there is warmth in the cavernous shadows. Maybe one day this enigma can defy and define the darkness behind the stars and find some sort of gratuitous solace.

They say, any port in a storm. But I need you to interpret the flashing green we see not to be the emergency exit on hyperdrive.

As I do.

August 17, 2014

Liberty is the possibility of isolation

A liberdade é a possibilidade do isolamento.

I was introduced to Fernando Pessoa’s works at a fairly odd time during my college year. I was in between semesters, in transition after a summer back home, and definitely in search for direction and a career path. I’ve always found myself rocking back and forth on leaving or staying in the States then. I digress. Distractions aside, I found myself spending time in between classes to read The Book of Disquiet and lose myself to questions and philosophies. I wasn’t searching for answers in particular. But there’s this void you desperately want to fill and you don’t know how else except with words.

I’d woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.

I don’t usually watch a film thrice or read a book twice, but I found myself leafing through his works to gain some stable footing when life rattles and blurs perspective. What better to save me from myself.

I want to wake up to quotes I can brood on, lyrics I can sing (in my head) to, words I can be empowered by… It’s difficult when there so many routines to go through before you even have time for yourself. Words for a tired soul is as pointless as it is mindless. This rat race will consume us whole. So sometimes we have to lean on songs that drive home or words that warms you enough to sleep easy till the next light.

I’ve seen an image like you somewhere in my daydreams and some part of me knows that I’ll recognize it when I see you face to face. You’re quite the open-ended joy I didn’t plan for. Sure, I’m building castles in the air, but for the first time, there isn’t any collateral damage or façade to upkeep. Let’s just be.

August 11, 2014


I don’t know about you, but songs with “somewhere” in the lyrics are an instant draw. Perhaps it is that realm of uncertainty–closer to hope than misdirection–that ignites me from wood to white.

Somewhere we can both be right/Somewhere where imagination grazes in the half-light
(Brett Bixby – Fireside)

But nothing hits home like Keane’s Somewhere Only We Know. Richard Hughes (drummer) aptly explains it:

We’ve been asked whether “Somewhere Only We Know” is about a specific place, and Tim has been saying that, for him, or us as individuals, it might be about a geographical space, or a feeling; it can mean something individual to each person, and they can interpret it to a memory of theirs… It’s perhaps more of a theme rather than a specific message… Feelings that may be universal, without necessarily being totally specific to us, or a place, or a time…

Somewhere Only We Know – mv

Lately, I’m feeling like a bird of passage. I’m drumming to a beat, but there seems to be no haste or slack. Somewhere really cuts it. If there’s no port, then why the hell am I cruising for? My patience for the extrinsic is wearing thin. I’m going to dive head first into the abyss for an anchor and hopefully come to the surface and greet the green light, vis-à-vis.

August 10, 2014

“I write emotional algebra.”

I’m entrapped by the litter of good reads around me. The hour-long escapade to my favourite nook has been my saving grace from the horrible run of events this July. I thought I would be hallowed out from work; scraped dry and too defeated to lean on any understanding. I was pretty sure I would “contract” logophobia after this stint. Funny how I found myself steering back to a thirst for literature and debates. I want to be provoked by reason and awakened by schools of thought. I quaffed enough for a weekend, but I want something substantial to last the week and all the waking moments in between.

Do you know what I would answer to someone who asked me for a description of myself, in a hurry? This:

?? !!

For indeed my life is a perpetual question mark–my thirst for books, my observations of people, all tend to satisfy a great, overwhelming desire to know, to understand, to find an answer to a million questions. And gradually the answers are revealed, many things are explained, and above all, many things are given names and described, and my restlessness is subdued. Then I become an exclamatory person, clapping my hands to the immense surprises the world holds for me, and falling from one ecstasy into another. I have the habit of peeping and prying and listening and seeking–passionate curiosity and expectation. But I have also the habit of being surprised, the habit of being filled with wonder and satisfaction each time I stumble on some wondrous thing. The first habit could make me a philosopher or a cynic or perhaps a humorist. But the other habit destroys all the delicate foundations, and I find each day that I am still…only a Woman!
– Anaïs Nin

There’s a inherent danger in believing–or investing trust. I’m quick to be engulfed by profound thought and simple truths. In that same vein, I flip with disregard in tangent to fallacies and less structured arguments.

I admit I am quick to judge. I would think it developed as a hazard of my previous job, or as a shell of too many dumb/drunk conversations. I marooned myself to a lofty rung, and the view isn’t too bad from here. I am not entitled anything, and even less expected to reciprocate. This dome does sound like a self-fulfilling prophesy, but I sleep easy to it.

I sleep easier to this detachment than the circuits of your mind.

The concrete conversations with you make me question answers that I was contented with. You make me dizzy with choices and you make hovering between ideas–and not actually having to have an answer to everything–appealing. As unsettling as it may be, I’m grounded by the tennis game action of provoking and resounding. While you dislodged my faithless stance in people, you’ve also weighed my mind with your quips. Perhaps when we ever do lay the cards on the table, we’ll be the makeshift vanguard of judicious conversations and pseudo wins.

We need mimosas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then, we need more meals in a day for more excused crutches.

July 2, 2014


I took a minute to lie between the covers and hear the silence of a Wednesday night. Thirty minutes later, I’m still stretched on my back and waiting for a comet to dazzle the bleakness of nights.

Work is work; I enjoy it enough to wake up at 8 promptly, and I loathe it in equal amounts when I take home the shoulder knots, pounding headache and checklists.

These days I take to the books to find solace since I spend 3/4 of my work hours in conversation. Therapy in words is unlike a familiar tune you hum along to. I’ve made good homes of the reading nook and crannies, as well as punctuating the seemingly endlessness with a night cap. To swirl in the comfort of my favourite words and rhyme is to fall asleep to the stars.
And we forget the moon somehow. Without its own light, the moon pales to a backdrop of light speckles and sparkles. It leans solitarily on the knowledge of slumber when the world moves madly on. Yet it doesn’t quit on being a beacon in the murky waters. It doesn’t leave to love another. It turns to the cold so you’ll have more.

And if we can sleep soundly in the crescents of the valley tonight, maybe, just maybe, the moon doesn’t have to take flight.
I’m a deadbeat sweetheart beat. I can’t shine when in your parameters. I want to just be. So let’s lead parallel paths and let me be someone else’s moon tonight.

May 2, 2014


Every so often, you become a different person when your environment changes. It’s not akin to shedding new skin in light of a new affair, but more of a metamorphosis and revelation of sort.

This progressive change stems from a chest of fears that you want to bury so deep. Unearthing it would mean to face your demons, that’s why you keep your heart close. (Proximity and figuratively. Ha) But when you don’t have to fight your battles alone anymore, this struggling episode means you’re living to a certain expectation. Essentially, you’re no longer a driftwood.

Fractions of the waking hours: There are lazy mornings, contented afternoons, happy evenings and therapeutic nights. The anticipation of conversation, laughs, affirmation, discussion, learning from and about each other is truly a driving reminder of being truly blessed in uncountable measures.

With a supportive nucleus of friends and family, it is easier to take leaps of faith. For that, I’m confused at times if reality is pulling a prank with all the pieces falling in place. I worry too much. Some say I worry as though it’s my job. But sometimes I think I need to let loose on the reins of precise planning and calculated emotions. As much as a crime scene triggers a OCD clean fiend, I’m troubled by still waters. Go figure.

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