some fragments, way overdue

of a love letter to the only place I'll ever love.

• Every dark corner; every rat-infested room, every peculiar scent I've long given up on knowing more about.
• Love. And all it's perils - including, but not limited to: drinking in midafternoons, lying in the middle of the road and rolling down hills completely sober, skipping philosophy classes to drink, reading Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being and de Botton's Essays in Love umpteen times and everytime, misreading every line as a direct quotation from your own existential love life (or lack thereof).
• Coming home to a broken mirror with a note that says: I'm sorry, the mirror was fragile; just like me. - Chase
• Snow in the guise of kapok, foretelling the arrival of summer. Foreshadowing goodbyes.
• Poking my face between the pages of Sexing the Cherry in his presence, after he's trekked the Kanluran road to my apartment, to help me apply the feminist and marxist approach on the subversion of roles of de Botton's lovelorn characters. Darn it, he so smart.
• Hoard of extra mattresses, awaiting, often hoping for, the fleet of surprise guests (welcomed or otherwise).
• Closing down Faustina's, the muffled sounds of violin, five cups of cheap coffee after, "to love someone out of compassion means not really to love."

lately, all I've done is write you letters I've nowhere to send.

Which should I do first:

• read (still on the 11th page of The Castle)
• write (and get published)
• draw (finish artworks)
• play the piano (without having to go back to classes)
• live

The problem with getting back on track, I realized, is where to start when there isn't a track to get back to.

the little things

potatoes

a feel-good movie

a new favorite song

earl-grey

a cup of hot coffee

infinite laughter

a tall glass of cold water

a good book

pancake Sundays

adorable kids

a blank sheet of paper

what's yours?

over lunch

A hefty discussion with Ken. A talk on history of some sorts. A series of theories, absurd. I laughed. Ken laughed. We thought it funny. Hysterical, even. But behind them, lurking in the shadows like the hyenas in your backyard, is a silly little hope. For an illumination.  

Theory 1.   You own a zoo. 

Theory 2.   Your dad owns a shipping company (like Ken’s does).

Theory 3.   You own a train.

Theory 4.   You’re a son of a bitch (YOUUUSONUVABITCH like Lily would say).

Theory 5.   You come from a family of politicians.

Theory 6.   Your dad is a drug lord.

There's more. But Ken thinks I'd rather not say. A crack at preventing myself from exposing my heart. Yes may ganung dramathon. After which, I was forced into adding that the reasons behind these theories will be concealed until further notice (or development).

today today today

• An entire day spent on Thought Catalog.
• Wallowing, weeping, wonderful. With The Perishers on the background, it’s even more beautiful.
• Wallowing is sex for depressives. Personally, I wouldn’t know but Winterson said so. And like a loyal fan, I believe her.
• This morning, my father asked me not to get my hopes up. Embassy’s withholding our passports 'til god knows when. I might miss HK. I wanted to throw a tantrum. But I nodded instead.
• Got a call from Nikko. Re: Ontario.
• Conjured up a couple of plans to keep me from leaving. Not a single one seems plausible.
• But, it made me feel a little better.

on christmas eve:

• Finished a couple of boxes of chocolates. A week’s worth of sweets consumed in one sitting. Am now devouring a bowl of chocolat truffes as I type this.
• A tray of lasagna beckoned me. Oh sweet tomato-based pasta, a bed of melted mozzarella and raindrops of parsley on top. Third serving, and chewing started feeling like a chore.  A tray of lasagna beckons me again today. Mother of goodness, you Italian madness one more bite and my Christmas will be in ruins.
• Poorly wrapped gifts with an I love you note. I love you back kuya, but please take lessons from the National Bookstore ladies, you wrap gifts like a geezer.
• A cashmere jacket, cut like a bomber. Foaming bath cream; scent of iris. A black faux-leather with a hoodie. A camel leather jacket, with breasts bulleted with studs. And a beautiful pair of russet sandals with golden soles. Yes, brothers are the best.
• No surprises under the tree this year. Only preempted tragedies.  Oh and badly wrapped gifts.
• I’m sick. I always get sick during the holidays. I remember spending the entire New Year’s Eve this year nursing a bad cold like I would the past year’s grievances. 
• You're a late santa. But thanks for coming and goading whatever silly hopes I already have. Merry Christmas!

on the kite runner

• The previous owner read only up to 127^th page. The fold on the margin of the page was a giveaway.
• I wonder if there are any bookmarks in Arizona. Or concept of memory.
• Between the 124^th and 125^th pages was a receipt for some salon in Arizona. The bill was for $158.50.
• Hassan is a front-runner for names in my list.
• I only know two, and both broke my heart.
• The first I met in Place des Fetes. A Nigerian who has a voice for native love songs. He died from a stab wound.
• Next is Hassan. Hair-lipped, loyal, Hassan.
• I imagine I pat his head and shake mine as I ask, why are you so sincere? And tell him, this love will get you killed like a bullet through the back of your head.
• It did.