Ingat, Halong, Amping

We've said "ingat," "halong," "amping" instead of "goodbye" to friends and loved ones years before the covid pandemic. But it has borne a heavier, deeper sentiment the moment Duterte is sworn into presidency. I remember reading, at the start of his term, about people who lived through the Marcos dictatorship, saying they fear it will be Martial Law once again. That was disturbing. Now, just a few days ago, Sotto was quoted saying there won't be a need for Martial Law when the Anti-Terrorism Bill is passed. Doesn't that say much about their real intention in drafting this Terror Bill?

We continue living our sheltered lives in eerie calmness while thousands are robbed the right to say "ingat" to their loved ones one last time. We've been living in fear all this time as greedy politicians destroy our country from the inside while giving away our sovereignty to imperialists left and right. Can you really say you live free when you craft your words, actions, opinions to appease those in power? Because mere dissent can cause you your life?

This year's June 12 doesn't inspire poetry nor nostalgia about hard-fought independence nor fiery national pride. But there's a spark of wrath slowly building inside the people who have been used and prostituted long enough. There's a glimmer of hope that true patriotism (untainted by blind allegiance to political oligarchs or manipulative politicians) is not totally snuffed out from the people's core.

So what I'm trying to say is fuck the Terror Bill.

Oh and Happy Independence Day, I guess.

Pagod Ngunit Patuloy na Lalaban

Bakit ba tayo umaasa na gagawin ng self-serving politicians at government officials kung ano ang nakakabuti sa masang Pilipino? Lahat sila trapo. Lahat sila tuta. Lahat sila pansariling interes ang priority at hindi ang mga Pilipino na siyang tunay na dapat pagsilbihan nila.

Patuloy tayong ginagago, at patuloy din tayo umu-oo't nagpapagago. Wala tayong ginagawa kasi "ganyan talaga eh, ano pa bang maaasahan mo?" No. Break free from that way of thinking. Let's not stay complacent. Let's practice the culture of demanding accountability and competence from the politicians we put in those positions to serve us.

Why should we tiptoe around them? Why should we be afraid to offend them? They should be ashamed for disappointing us, for letting this evil proliferate, for turning a blind eye on extra-judicial abuses and killings, for being anti-poor, for letting one man dissolve the separation of powers, for allowing a dictator to terrorize the masses, for letting our sovereignty be threatened by foreign bullies. Walang hustisya sa bansang 'to. Walang accountability. Let's not keep it that way.

Let's stop tolerating incompetence, injustice, and bullshit from the government. Let's use our voices to speak up for ourselves and our country -- and especially for the unheard. Let's speak up so that all politicians and government officials know we're fed up. We're angry. We're watching. And there will be a reckoning.

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?