BE ANGRY

I know it's exhausting to be angry. But the moment you stop being angry and accept all the injustices happening is the moment you surrender your right to live free. Because this government will not stop hurting the people. The psychopaths in power won't stop stepping on our human rights and using the law whenever it's convenient and advantageous for them. They won't stop protecting their hounds - - all the while spitting on the disenfranchised. We're being beaten down, bleeding on the dirt. Tell me, if we don't get angry and bite back, do we just bleed to death and rot unnoticed? I refuse. I'll remain angry until everyone wakes up and declares enough, until everyone clamors to take back our country.

Stray Eyelashes and Such

I stopped believing wishes would come true.
I used to try hard—
We all did.

Jump high
        every New Year.
Blow candles
        on birthday cakes.
Blow away
        stray eyelashes from your face.
Close your eyes
        after seeing a falling star.
Hold your breath
        when crossing a bridge you've never crossed before.

What did you wish for?
What did I wish for?

What do I wish for?

It all seems ridiculous now.
Wishes.
Our bizarre rituals to make them happen.

When did it all start to go sour?
Why did we stop believing?
Why did I?

We grew up, that's why.
Really.
It all seems laughable now.
Futile.

But it was magical, wasn't it?
Back when we still whispered wishes—
Our well-guarded secrets passed on to the wind—
And hoped the forces of the universe
Could make them happen
Somehow.

The illusion was good while it lasted.

I Started Writing for Myself Again

I started writing fan fiction. I'm terribly insecure about it though. I've read dozens of fanfics, and most of them are good enough to be novels. I feel like I'm throwing my child to a playpen full of popular kids who wouldn't give them a second glance no matter how many times they ask to be friends. 

My fic remains unnoticed, and it's funny because it's the perfect illustration of my attempts at writing prose and poetry. At least I finished it. It's all that matters. I think I'll continue writing fics because it makes me kind of happy. They'll just be more additions to this huge pile of poems and stories nobody is interested to read. Oh, right, my friends read them sometimes---although I'm not sure if they really like my writing or they just feel obligated.

World Poetry Day 2018

I only have this for World Poetry Day this year. :(

Ever wonder why clouds are a stuff of daydreams?
How a bundled mass of condensed vapor can trigger
Thoughts of floating and flying and escape?
Is that why people like me look out of windows
And stare at the sky?

Endlessly.
Pining for an illusion we can't grasp.

For what are clouds, really?
That they can make us feel free and shackled at the same time?
They're just haze.

Just.

But I still sigh as I look out my window and burn holes at the sky.

Abrasion

Sometimes, an abrasion hurts the most.

That thin film of skin scraped from the flesh. That stinging wound too shallow to trigger blood.

She used to play tag a lot. She was a small and clumsy kid, so she scraped her knees and legs more times than she could count. She would limp home to her mama, and she would get treated and scolded at the same time. It was a painful routine, spattered with tears and blood. She hated abrasions more than anything because they left the skin tender and sensitive, stinging, bleeding only when she forced it to. Her mama always said she needed to let the wound bleed out, so it wouldn’t get infected. She was relieved when she would finally see blood—because then, it would be like her other wounds. But then again, she scraped her knees and elbows too many times she can’t remember when she stopped crying because of them.

It was different when her lip was split open, though. She was six. She had never seen so much blood in her life. It dribbled down to her clothes all the way to her underwear. There are only flashes now, but she remembers tasting the saltiness of tears and blood and the bitterness of crushed malunggay leaves the adults applied as first aid to her burst lip. She went home to her mama, bawling. She only remembers showing her mother her blood-stained underwear. Despite the pain and tears, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by it. The memory ended there. She forgot how that wound healed and became another permanent oddity she has to live with for the rest of her life.

She wears the scars today like badges. She has survived that level. She proudly shows them and tells stories like she has survived a battle. Because that’s what growing up is—a battle against others, against the self. A battle to try to accept you and your beautiful imperfections enough for society to leave you a space in the world. But who would have thought that the next level would be dull and exhausting? That the wounds she would get as she grew older would be invisible—no cut, no blood, no visible infected area to apply malunggay leaves and ointment to? No one prepared her for this. No one told her that the battle she has to wage now is against the gnawing in her gut, the clawing in her throat, the palpitations that grip her core too often she can’t distinguish them from the rhythm of her own heart.

Sometimes, little things hurt the most.

The quiet desperation.

The perennial confusion.

The silent pleas for oblivion.

She hated abrasions the most. But now, she finds herself wishing—more often than she dares to admit—for any kind of cut on her tired body. For droplets of red to slowly trickle down her skin. For any sign that she still exists. And then she weeps. Because if she is existing for nothing, why can’t the void consume her and just give her the hushed darkness her exhausted soul desperately cries for?

Mitolohiya: a Book in Progress

Uhm, this post is waaaay overdue. I didn't realize it's been rotting in my drafts for years. Lol.

So as I hinted before, here's the digital version of the project I and Jissa Totesora did together for her Dream Project, any artform---illustration, photography, animation, film---that the student is passionate about. Since I share this passion with Jissa, I decided to help out by writing the content for her illustrations. :)

We hope to turn this into a legit book someday, but for now, this is already kind of an accomplishment. XD

Enjoy! <3

The Dark and Fascinating World of Philippine Mythology

I have always been the person who yearns to escape from this reality. The toil of living in it every day is overwhelming and exhausting. It suffocates me. That is why I seek refuge in other realities---books, movies, and fiction in general. This desire for escape is probably the reason why I’m drawn to Philippine myths and legends. Most Filipinos are crazy over  mythos from other countries that they disregard the beauty and magic of their own mythology.

Philippine mythology is more than the aswang that hunt for intestines and unborn babies. It is much more than the clichés movies and television feed to the masses. There is a rich culture behind the tales and legends whispered to us when we were kids. Yes, our parents might have used them to keep us from staying out late. (I read this study that Filipinos use fear as a form of discipline. And hell, it’s effective!) But once I’ve resigned myself to the realization that there's nothing I can do about the dark and the creatures that lurk in it, these stories about engkanto and other lower mythos have become my salvation from the endless torture of the mundane. 


Call me crazy, but I choose to believe they exist. This magical reality---which consists of dark, beautiful creatures hidden from our consciousness---is far more exciting than taxes and 9-5 work schedules. So, why can’t I succumb to its seductive charm?