I fancy I'd write you letters. In long hand, like some distant lovers do in the old times. I fancy you'd keep it tucked in your weathered wallet, the creases permanent from the many times you have folded and unfolded it. I fancy you'd read it in bus stops, aboard the subway on your way to work, on midnights when sleep would not come.

But really, I fancy I'd write you letters, only so I can end it:



At your service,
or
At your disposal,

nothing invested nothing gained

You have joined the fleet of the ephemeral, and I have decided not to think of you. Save for the brief moments in the wake of delayed buses, the interval between thought and sleep when I see your face across me like an apparition; a dream.

All day I am a dead man walking, in this plastic suburbia where nothing means anything anymore. Where people knock and run, before I could even open the door. 

Why is it, I wonder, that I am drawn by the fleeting? Seduced by the enigmatic pull of anything that stays, if only to leave a little later. Seemingly pleased to the brim by momentary elation. And yet with one eye constantly open, fearing the shadows in the alley, the skeletons in the closet, the dreams tucked away in boxes, the vale of bottomless truths waiting to jump in and cut off this temporary, right down in the middle, where it seems to hurt the most.

But is it really too grave a crime to find life in the passing?

You nonexistent ghost of ideals: Toru, Romeo, Ren and Ted, all rolled into one that never came. Never will.

I am reminded by how close you are to the real thing. When out of longing, I trod your timeline like I would a bad dream. But here we are, farther than we were before we knew each other's existence.

I'd say I wish I'd never met you but I can't. Because truth is, I wish I'd known you more.

I’m calling dibs on the word apathy. Like how you once did with qualms. Qualms in bold letters. Qualms in italics. Qualms over the line, while faith lies under.

You have since moved on. Never looked back (or wrote, or called). I pried your drawers open, dug through your trash, read your letters and  turned your room upside down. Just so I could inherit qualms instead of being so certain.   

But now I’m apathy. No bold letters, no italics, no underline; just plain old feigned apathy.

April playlist - happy tunes. Steering clear of sad songs, which means I have to skip every other item in my ipod 'til I've got nothing else to listen to but your silence. Growing increasingly violent like the waves of days past.

Mid-April will be hectic. Got to get my shit together and move on with life. Work will be great aid to forgetting, and so will new projects here and there - if I ever get started, that is. I need to read, write, eat, sleep, among a lot of other things, yes. 

Ah, fuck this. I'm listening to The Perishers on the way to work.

do not wander off into the unknown

Is this not the poetry in this banal matter - that it is fleeting? Then why would I rather that they write ‘prosaic’ in red across my forehead in order to keep what I know I cannot?

Listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go.  I’ll be the one with the book. Sitting alone. Waiting, thinking: Shall I add this to the list?

a knife which I turn within myself

Reading Idris Parry's introduction to Franz Kafka's The Castle, I can't help but feel a certain fondness for the fragile in Kafka. It must be pure conceit that allows me to relate anything with myself, but I couldn't help but find my own heart reflected in Kafka's letters to Milena and in the diary entries where he confessed his fearfulness.

Those happy days become in retrospect merely a time when "I looked over my fence... I held myself up by my hands, then I fell back again..."

a shot at subtlety

I mask you in metaphors, hoping to muster enough courage to read between the lines and flee. 


But even without the figures of speech, literally, I know the rhythmic beats that whip me bloodless. Even with feigned understanding, I catch the drift of the waves in your verses. I know from the waning sound of footsteps that you are attempting what I could not do: run away. 


But I am delusional, and my ears are plugged with dreams. 


And in the stillness of the flash between thought and sleep, I open you like a worn out paperback. I follow the lines with the point of my finger, pretending I could read you (at once dreading the worst: I can’t). Pretending I could continue pretending. But like you, I am masked in metaphors. And in the stillness of the flash between thought and sleep, I can only muster enough courage to confess: I am a phony.

When Mookie talks of trains that moan of phantom hunger, I think of you.

But do not be mistaken, for you are not that train. You are the train expressly slipping through unseen tracks. Eluding so fast, preventing me a sight. What I catch, if I catch any, are the howls. The sound of all that rifles through and does not stay. And in the nights of sleepless anticipation, and the mornings after of defeat, I hear your howls again. Only fainter. Only signaling remoteness. 


And alone in the platform that binds us, I fear that I have once again missed the train. 

this is an appetizer

An exotic one, can in fact be called outlandish. The kind whose name you can’t pronounce. The kind whose taste you can’t quite define: sweet, bitter or a bit too salty. But surprisingly never bland. Served in bite size. Like hors d’oeuvres in round plates. Complete with garnish. The works. The hilarity.

But my taste lacks sophistication. My tongue curls. In search of a familiar tang. And you have none.

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).

please don't think I'm a nutcase

Although I totally am.

To act otherwise would be too poseur. Refining myself would be too impossible a task. And I don't want to, either. Who wants to be normal, really?

I'm a total nutcase. From a distance, I may look absolutely typical. Up close, I'm a scarecrow.

In fact, I may be scaring the hell out of you right now.

Unless you're a nutcase too.

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!

It’s a few hours to Christmas and my heart is in repose. 

I am amiss. It isn't the magic of the presents. 

But of your absence.

it's discontent that lugs sleep away at night

It is easier to discover our soulmates in the guise of strangers.


It is easier when any attempt of the soul to connect is rejected by the obvious: distance. It is easier to abandon whatever physical pining one has amassed over the years of isolation this way. Also, this makes it easier not to get disappointed.

i fancy someone would come and say, “i found you.”

In this primordial game of hide and seek, I’ll be the one hiding. Anticipating the hints of hushed movements – tiptoes, a long inhale, detained exhale.

I fancy you’d come as a surprise. Just when I least expect you to. Just when I’m about to give up and put myself out there.

On bad days, like this one, I fear that you will not come. I fear that time will catch me behind a tree waiting for you when you do not in fact exist. Then I fancy that I do not give a damn.  But I always secretly do.