tulak

ang itinutulak

nadadapa

ang tinatahak

ay iisa

sa kabila ng halakhak

madadapa

at tulad ng mga pilay

nangangailangan ng saklay

bilang alalay 

at gabay

hanggang sa maka utay

—071923;8:49.

9:57 pm

I could not stop myself from reminiscing.

From people to events, nostalgia came like a strong brisk of a wind that takes me away from this risky reality. Like a tornado that I could never forget.

I went back to that place.

I was happy that I was able to do so. After so many years, missing the people and the streets…and the events that are now just written in the sheets.

8:45pm

“hey, what’s for angst today?”

“nothing. just life, perhaps?”

“life? what about life? the angst of life? truth?”

“yep. and that truth is, i couldn’t keep anything. people..relationships.. friendships. i couldn’t keep everything but memories. and its just fair, i’m not someone they’d want to keep either.

12:21 pm

I’ve sworn to the dusts of wind 2 years ago.

“I am your knight.”

It was funny. I was fifteen and wanting to be a pyrite.

I am not as valuable as jade who gives serenity, I won’t pass as a hematite for your grounding. Even my very own molecules aren’t highly regulated.

I was nothing – just like the dusts of wind.

Gone and cannot be seen.

11:42 pm

I know this isn’t relevant but i tell you, I felt so free yesterday riding the extreme rides. Those rides your friend puked over? It made me feel so free. Everybody’s shouting their hearts and I did too.

 

It was just really surprising to hear your name from the sound of my voice box, after a very long time.

10:35 pm

There are two stages of permanence.

One is change which happens every second of our lives; Second is death, which happens at the very last seconds of our lives.

Death comes when you run out of change. One minute you’re breathing, then you’re not.

The paradox behind the most ghastly and/or enticing words that convey either a blithe or a gruesome feeling is that,

Change is unchangeable and Dying is undying. 

As usual.

My dad asked for a massage.

I went to him, spitting words to try my luck. Bursting words, sounding like i just said it randomly, carried out of my thoughts.

“Go, practice on me.” He, too, said it like he wasn’t taking it seriously, that he said those words to get it over with. And so I did.

I did until I was worn out and tired, absentmindedly putting pressure on his injured right hand that I forgot it’s christmas. And he, a man with an injured hand, did both cooking and cleaning. I stopped right there, done and ready to leave.

“Thank you. I felt really better, you go and be a Physical Therapist.”

I was stunned, unable to speak and move for a few seconds, thinking.

I’ve got the words that I needed. I’ve heard the words I wanted to hear.

 

But as usual,

I am the problem.

12:58 am

she is tactless.

never afraid to speak and stand on what she thinks is right.

or at least she was

and at least she thought

because everything she could ever speak wasn’t heard

and everything that could ever heard was wrong.

12:48 am

Never have I thought I’d be this scared to speak. I knew I wasn’t being me. I could not resonate the sentiments through my cords, unsettling and dreadful. This world won’t take it from me.

So i took it all on an ink.

Cliche as it may sound, but no man is indeed an island. There was an old woman in Australia who wanted to die with dignity. Her neighbours would talk to her over the fence every so often, creating a small talk that would discuss about what she has to say about life, resulting to her being branded as the “philosophical lady next door.”

Her husband died in 2001. Having no children, she was left alone in their house that could be a 1970’s time capsule. Everything in their house was left untouched. The first box television with antennas, the disconnected rotary dial, expired medicare, aged books, the vintage furnitures and the six month old bottled milk sitting on her fridge.

Everyone she knew have already died. Her family, friends, her husband. And she lived long enough to witness each one of their deaths.

“These impressions, after a long life of nearly 90 years are my own. right or wrong, are real and lived through. My ten fingers don’t need any support to hold a pen, and neither does my mind need any stimulants to express itself. A last pleasure of a lonely life.”

She died alone. Found after six months. Rotting alone in her antic furnitures, thousands of times after a fly had laid its maggots to consume her flesh before she was even mourned.

“I am wondering if old age is a blessing or a curse, or a purgatory…….In the end, death comes as a blessing, but no one sees it that way.” 

I wanted to say I do.

She did not die with dignity. Her seat’s fallen and her scalp detached from her body. There lies a woman who spent the last bits of her life lonely, but having a brilliant mind does not grow scorn.

The carline had her journal. Her companion to her utterly lonely life. This would’ve sound hyperbolised, I must admit. But I am feeling the very same thing. I am with people, I talk to them, but i still feel terribly lonely.

And so I keep a journal.  A thousand pages of poorly written daybooks of living with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts and sometimes happiness. The window of my soul that could possibly be forgotten in the next few years.