Well, it’s been two years already of doing this shit, screaming the hell out of this emotional and intellectual catharsis—online. And in celebration to this cyberspace madness, I’ve been thinking of posting some of the best excerpts I have ever written here, which somehow sounded like a good idea, and also to share my old writings, which, I think, were really good. So here it goes.
In my psychical laboratory, I deconstruct and dissect whole thoughts into microscopic specimens of ideas, putting them on the table, tracing its very roots and examining each of their frameworks. Then I put them into a series of methodical and unorthodox experimentations that have constantly damaged the anatomy of my hypersensitive mind with its biohazard psychopathic toxicity. With these ideas being contained only in fragile, mnemonic test tubes, only one accident is what it takes for me to lose my hold to sanity and welcome myself to schizophrenia, or maybe—even worse.
Inside my mind is just like that; it’s a ticking time bomb with a silly circuit set for random detonation.
I might be uttering incomprehensible words trying to make out that incomprehensible implosion of feelings; I might have felt a spectrum of emotions well beyond the reach of my words that turned me into a complete blank, nothing but a static of shock and indifference.
…..of the unknown leading us to the simple yet complex and unpredictable paths and places, unthinkable, unimaginable, and to the absolute uncertainty of the unfathomable irrationality of things that are happening along the maybe aimless, yet the most meaningful journey we are about to start, wherein there is no turning back the moment we take that certain step, because maybe, life begins when we step at the point of no return and jump over the boundaries, over the high-voltage fences and cages of the boring, systematic structure of artificial life; and then when we take that step, there’s no looking back—only stepping forward and moving on, facing and accepting every come-what-may that comes along the way, saying “fuck you” right in the face of each. To wander…it is the submission to the possibility of getting completely lost and immersed into the whole experience: the freedom of it, the blissful pain of it, its chaotic static of peace…..without getting lost, there can never be a possibility of finding our real selves, and as to what my younger brother wrote, “It is only through going unknown paths that we get in contact with the repressed, cosmic truth” of our fucky, faulty existence. And so far along my wanderings, I have a found pieces of truth that was not meant to be mine.
I thirst for your lips. I am hungry for your presence, for your existence. I remember it all now, why didn’t I do everything when I know it was everything I ever wanted? Was I too afraid that what I was doing was wrong? Had I just let the fucking strings of morality control me like its helpless puppet? Was I too weak now to break the rules I’ve been breaking all the time? Was I too scared, too weak to cut those strings?
—I Did Nothing
…to wander means to travel but with no direction, to throw your compasses, to burn your maps, to reduce your existence to a naked singularity that makes your soul vulnerable to real faith, to let your soul go and grow that seed of freedom from within and see where its wings will take you—wherever it may lead—be it into the depths of the labyrinthine passages bushed by thick vegetation of trees as you pass through the hazy, mazy, merry-go-round wilderness of life; or be it to the boundless skies of heaven or to the bottomless pits of hell; or be it in the middle of unnamed, lightless streets no one ever crossed, or be it to the surface like of the desolate moon wherein gravity is almost nonexistent that you can’t almost feel friction beneath your feet; or be it inside your own self that has an infinitude of depth of been, being, and becoming, and you go through each crack, each wound, each scar, each dream, each experience and trace it like shapeless flowing waters and discover nothing but the countless possibilities of living…
I was smiling and crying. I felt like floating in space. I asked myself, “Am I taking drugs?” It was a place that I never dreamed of before. The place was called Love. And if love was really a place, can you go there with me?
What kind of peace comes from violence?
—A Letter Marked for Delete
And by the way, life is a journey wherein no one ever reaches the finish line alive.
—A Solitary Date with the Grave
Facing myself in the mirror, feeling the weight of the swelled infested tomato creates distaste targeted to myself. It explodes in waves of serious pain with nanosecond intervals. The mental agony is excruciating me a lot more. The ache travels like electricity from my ear to the left side of my neck. And in every twist, the twinge makes me grind my teeth. The supercomputer-like terminals are having a short-circuit.
It is in pain that we realize something is really wrong. Something must have gone terribly wrong. Fucking wrong.
Solitude is a sweet gift a person can give to himself. Well, that doesn’t work for everyone. Some arephobic of being alone. While some cherish such loneliness like a priceless gift.
—Solitary Bliss: Simala and Alcoy Journey
Have you ever been in a situation wherein unreasonable suffering seems to be the only task left in your life that suicide seems to be a very reasonable option? Have you ever thought that living only extends the misery and torment you’ve already took? Have you felt the vacuum of meaningless suffering sucking the life out of you like a black hole? Have you ever thought that breathing is a disease only death can cure?
Frankl discovered that they already proved Science wrong. If Science were right, then, they should have been dead, freezing, continually, slowly rotting meat. There’s something inside the human body that is more than itself. Something way beyond our human anatomy.
—The Atrribute of the Strong
Be it by chance or by choice or both. Such explanation is no longer a necessity. No perplexing mathematical equations or cold chains of logical reasoning would suffice or would fill the void; for things of such are beyond the power of human comprehension. The moment you explain love, you’re already wrong.
Maybe not a sin to God, but a sin to humanity. To dignity. To conscience. How could a sin to humanity(letting them kill Jesus ceremoniously) redeem us from the Original Sin our ancestors committed? Can a sin wash off another sin? … But nevermind that for the heart of the matter is “How could you let something like that happen in front of your very eyes?”
—The Dictate of Reason
Your life is a book—an invisible book kept in an invisible library, read and written by an invisible God.
—A Flash Flood of Summer Memories
As I breathe in, my longing starts to peak. I hold my breath. And the let it go but I still long for her. With closed eyes, I do it again. Holding on to an image of hers, I feel like a penguin with its feet stuck on the frozen terrain asking God how come I have wings and can’t even fly a little? If only I could fly. I would have left this place a long time ago.
—A Flightless Bird (Osmeña Peak)
I asked, “As time flies, what remains the same?”
“Only the question remains the same,” someone answered.
Education, so to speak, had become a tremendous cause of our pain.It became one of the most difficult tests of patience(if not the most difficult) rather than a fun and genuine adventure of learning.
…education was reduced to nothing more but a set of occupational training programs rather than a way to develop of our sense of compassion, conscience, and deeper understanding of human life.
In this modern era, communication is getting easier as it gets; but how do we really communicate? There are now state-of-the-art planes, ships, and automobiles for transportation; but how do we really travel? Masses are now being televised; but how much do we really believe in God? There’s now a variety of vitamins said to make us live longer; but how do we really value human life? And so on …
—The Illusion of Progress
It’s better to acknowledge that you hate the person so much rather than be slave to the hope of you agreeing with each other. Better accept things rather getting used to it. So be it, and let it be. Nothing will grow out of indifference. It is only through adversities, having adversaries, hate and love that one can grow. And that only happens in a battlefield.
In this kind of world, everlasting peace seems to be impossible. But even so, it is the only thing worth fighting for. Right?
You can now feel your sanity unshackling the chains of friendship as it slowly escapes from your mind. It’s gonna leave you behind. This is a moment when your sanity betrays you.
You’re thinking that it’s better to get fucked from behind by the zombie than to get your ass eaten off.
In each quack they visit, they were given liniments with unknown mixtures of liquid in which his mother was told to drink and to dab on her abdomen. Different colors that are mixed always turn out black. So it was a dark remedy in a hope for a brighter future.
—Painless (A Short Story)
Then I realized that it was my first time to be on board a ship for more than 10 years. Yet it felt so blank as I was staring at the pitch-black expanse of the sea under the silent drizzle brought by the orgasmic clouds as they raped the unbroken skies in a classic starless night.
—Mt. Napulak Climb, Igbaras, Iloilo
That is why sometimes it’s better to avoid bookshops when one has money. The hormones. The lust for books. It may even be a sin.
In the end, one usually yields in for the force is too strong. Resulting to a tragedy. But it’s a tragedy I won’t ever regret. It wounds my pocket deeply but never ever fails to heal my heart.
—Getting inside the Mind of a Book
…How trembling it is to hear unrequited lovers weep
‘lone in rooms with insomnia lulling them to sleep…
—A Broken Wishbone (Poem)
…I won’t beg for sleep anymore.
I won’t beg for dreams of you anymore….
—Sleepless Blvd (Poem)
We people better understand right now that when we were born, we are already doomed enough to stand on our own two feet. But what we don’t know is that, how beautiful it is to stand on our own two or three feet.
—Gestalt Therapy Verbatim (Book Review)
Surfacing by Slipknot. It has been playing for hours inside my fucking head. An imaginary live concert is taking place somewhere in my twisted mindframe. Each words, each beat, each note flowed like a spiritual bloodstream of vileness and freedom along the veins of my consciousness. The current was too strong that I have had to inflict a wound to my own mind so that the unrelenting gush could slow down. I wanna destroy something beautiful tonight, my wounded mind uttered. Well, maybe not.
—The Alchemy of Hate
“How does it feel to live forever?”
…. … … …. …
Then I answered,
… … … … …
“it would be a lot worse than insomnia.”
—Worse than Worst (Poem)
…9 AM News Break!
Screaming bloody murder deafens the ears of the earth.
Advanced Biochemical Warfare!
Global Modernization of Terrorism!
Nuclear Bombs falling from the skies
waiting to kiss the ground goodbye!
Explosions of splitting atomic particles melting unknown human bodies,
bathing them with chemicals unknown to nature.
Countries choosing sides! …
…Social schizophrenics fill your room.
You are among the remaining (endangered) one percent of the world’s sanity.
You are afraid to breathe the same air they breathe
—as if breathing the same air would turn you like them…
—Another Broken Radio (Poem)
…Moments turned to memories.
Memories mutated into nightmares….
is my only escape
from this pain…
—Dilemma Machine (Poem)
Emotions are combustible materials and alcohol is flammable.
After dreaming of her a lot of times, I realized how living without her can be a nightmare.
—A Thousand Beers Ago
…With dark, succulent bags beneath them
that must be swelling from repressed tears;
how does your beauty bloom in such sadness?
What was your secret all these years? …
Writing is a state of mind.
Mostly during psychotherapeutic sessions, you’ll see the absolute, unshakable truth unfolding right in front of your very eyes; that there are lives out there that are nothing more but God’s measure of how much suffering a human being could take before he or she breaks. That’s the real world.
—A Year of Screaming
“What is life?
It’s not what happened before…
What is life?
It’s not what’s going to happen later…
What is life?
It’s what’s happening right now.”
Now, fear starts to build a building inside me. The jackhammer is doing its job. All of my fingers in each hand are shaking. There’s a construction site somewhere in my anatomy. A hysteria is under construction.
There are internal miniature earthquakes taking place. Each pulse shakes me more, creating a chain reaction to the map of anatomical fault lines within my body. It’s destroying the construction site inside. I can feel everything crashing down together with the falling debris of emotions. The heart is the epicenter and I want it to stop.
It is silence when you hear nothing; it is also silence when no one hears you.
—Old Streets (A Short Story)
…It’s a vision of a dying man
of twenty-one years of age.
The deterioration of progression
is fueled by an inner fiery rage.
Now, his soul is growling with desire
to evacuate its human flesh.
Oh, the dark of the nights
has never been this fresh! …
—Into the Light (Poem)
…In the depths
might be a world so dead
that time even ceased to tick
—lifeless and timeless—
with a million
unseen dead eyes
staring back at me,
a graveyard of fetal skeletons,
of rotting zygotic corpses
of words yet to be born
but have died
of an unconscious abortion
—Dead Eyes (Poem)
The words I’ve been longing to write always leave me the moment I start writing. They disappear as quick as a puff of smoke from a cigarette after making love with my lips. It’s like a half-second orgasm that almost doesn’t register to my senses for me to have a memory of it. For a second, the words give me a sense of euphoric hope and after that, they leave, they escape, they betray, leaving me miserably with a feeling I couldn’t convey.
I stare at the sheet of words painted in a canvas made of smoke, and then it’s gone after a second, fading into nothingness leaving no slightest evidence of its existence.
The fire just keeps on growing and growing into a holocaust of volcanic eruptions of demented emotions, of pyroclastic flow of tragedies, of demonic, molted lava of frustrations, and of God knows what. A burning world of blistered motherfuckers called hell is set to sing the anthems of widespread destruction and desolation—exists inside of me. The moment words fail a writer, would be the advent of a living death, a spiritual catastrophe—life becomes a living funeral wherein you no longer count your remaining days because the remaining days no longer count—because you know you are already dead to this world. You can’t even think of suicide because you know you that deep inside of you, there is nothing left to kill.
I write in an attempt to keep myself sane—my strive for homeostasis against this agonizing psychological tension. I write in an attempt to stitch these seemingly immortal wounds through a thread of words using a pen as its needle. I write in an attempt to bring the things I love closer to me. To stitch them close to the ventricles of my aching heart. (Writing is a metaphysical surgical procedure.) I believe that in this kind of way, the gravity of words will pull everything in my world back into place, and pull everything back into one whole piece. I believe that in attempting to write despite the fact that my own words leave and betray and hurt me will restore the dead, lost, fragmented pieces of my dying being. I believe that writing will make me feel whole once more. I believe that writing will bring me back to life.
These previous latent months, I just realized, was a stage of oblivious pregnancy. I was pregnant yet it was like I was in denial of all the symptoms. I was impregnated by a girl. Her way with words, so powerful, so unique, they can change the alignment of the stars that predetermine my fate, her creative hands so blessed by God, they create a new universe inside of me, hands of an artist that can mold me into a better person without even touching me, her planetary eyes that make my wits go fucking retarded that they fall off from their orbits and tesser light years away scattering beyond the solar system, her sweet smile causing temporary amnesia, it makes my breathing and speaking and walking forget everything they’ve learned about rhythm, her beautiful voice that always put me into a heavenly trance, I always imagine her singing beside me everytime I strum the guitar, and the way she moves around, she’s like a princess of the Utopian empire in my dreams.
sa dalan sa kangitngit
padulong sa sam-ang
sa nangamatay nakong
Nagpalibot ining lugara
ang mga nangakupos
nga kandila sa paglaom
nga gipaw’ng sa dag-om
ug matang sa kinabuhi.
For it is only when one is stripped off of something he thought he can’t live without that he will realize and discover the greatest of his potentials.
—If You Could See What I Hear (Book Review)
When got to La Belle Aurore, Hernan Branch, the first time, it was an internally intense experience. It was just something like that. An experience when all your senses and thoughts and everything are concentrated into just one fleeting moment. There’s no tomorrow, no yesterday, as if nothing exists outside the bookshop. I was in a state of bliss I do not understand. Maybe the spirits of the books that surround welcomed me, and they permeated through my skin through my bones and into my soul. They were speaking to me a language only souls can speak. And yes, I have no idea what they were talking about but hell, it did not make me feel less blissful. A bliss beyond words. The spirits possessed me without me knowing, I guess.
—La Belle Aurore
Whatever drug Anthony Burgess was in when he wrote this, I want some.
—A Clockwork Orange (Book Review)
As a whole, the book has a disoriented flow. If we talk about music, it’ll be like a beautiful sound of discordant notes fitting together into the music sheet played by the orchestra to your ears. But hey, this book, in its truest nature, causes both psychological and physiological disorientation.
—Haunted (Book Review)
As to what to I’ve heard from some old dude, “Life per se is life enough.” Time flies. Everything in life is forever temporary. Ironic, yes. But isn’t it because of impermanence that we know how much a thing is really worth?
And for this fleeting moment, I am happy.
—A Place for Change
in the depths and in the comforts of my pockets
my hands were shaking as they crush themselves.
how could these hands feel so unable
to create friction to provide warmth to the coldness of her sorrow?
then I could feel my teeth tearing the corners of my mouth.
how could I always fail to say the words
that will shed light in the midst of her darkest hours?
—i looked up (poetry)
my hands are no longer cold, i guess this is enough. this is what insanity does, i guess, and this is the warmth i need. the warmth of insanity to keep me sane.
…still feeling the remnants of the nightmare, you’re groping for your missing senses, with your heart slowing down as if finally remembering its normal rhythm…
I have nothing left but a life to end. I felt the privilege of being able to kill myself. This made me smile. I realized that only oneself has the authority to kill one’s self—and no one else. The self kills itself. Fair enough. I’m tired of living anyway.
—Tired of Living (A Short Story)
Suffering … is the key in creating exceptional art. What hurts us the most awakes the artist inside of us. Brings out the genius out of our brains, out of our souls. Scars and wounds are the best source inspiration. You art shows your wounds your scars your life—it shows everything about you. Art and Suffering—they’re almost synonymous.
—Diary (A Book Review)
A construction site, as I am starting to feel it, is inside of me. I can hear the sounds of the ancient, inanimate machines in my head doing everything in ripping off the blood clot that had stopped the words from coming out. The wounds that had been closed are now being ripped open letting the blood flow, as if to have my heart pump it all out in one beat. I’m gonna expel the stagnated blood out of my fucking system and give birth to new blood cells. But first, I must bleed it all and empty myself of all this rancid blood.
After countless blinks,
as if it was
God’s fallen angel,
a threadless kite
longing for its string
to be pulled from above
because it wants to return
to the clouds.
—Ourglass (A Poem)
This is an automaton. I am writing as if everything were predetermined. I’m not listening to anything other than the sound of my fingers as they hit the keys. What a beautiful song: the time signature as inconsistent as my dreams, the words as incoherent as the static of the radio, and the noteless melody that sends my ears into unexplainable orgasms…
my most divine crime,
my most unholy conquest,
my soul’s in hell
day by day.
— —— — — — (A Poem)
Then when I got inside, I thought that I’d rather be in hell, at least I have a feeling that I belong there. The club was the wrongest place ever for me. The aura of alcoholic lust filled the room, and the wall echoed everything to my ears, and the thing they call music spun and weaved the people into a hypnotic helix of absolute fuckables.
Then I walked to somewhere imagining holding an imaginary hand, and I felt its wetness. I laughed again but with sadness and longing. I never wanted anything or anybody more. Perhaps that’s why I am in such chaos right now because it feels like the whole world is in my hands. Again, I walked aimlessly. I was wandering both outside and inside my mind. Then I turned around as if to check my trail. There was no more trail. Then I looked at myself. The bleeding had stopped.
Suicide, they said, is the ultimate act of defiance. The biggest “FUCK YOU” to life and to all. The greatest sense of control one can ever attain. When you said “Fuck you, everyone,” before you pulled the trigger and shot your heart with a .9mm, I should have been there saying “Fuck you too.”
—A Million Fucks to You!
I am still in contact with the world outside my head, things are moving so slow as if everything was happening inside a dream within a dream within a dream, at least I’m not standing or floating still—because for the past few days, I can’t really get the sensation of it, I felt so dead with misery like I was just a breathing corpse floating around, like being dragged by a nonexistent force and without really moving from a spot inside the outer space in my own head, a head full of universes chained by black holes of thoughts inhaling and twisting the nerves and bones of my brain; inside are the constant, eternal creations of beginnings birthed on repeat coupled with labor pains and the rhythmic destruction of those beginnings into neverending endings, of Genesises, of Apocalypses, of big bangs, of big crunches, of nothingness stretching and compressing into infinity. Inside my head, I have felt eternity and infinity, and that’s frightening, ‘coz once you get the feel of it, you wouldn’t want to get out or it’s so hard to get out, rather; you’ll feel so safe—but so dead, and you’re actually just a prisoner of the idea of the eternal and of the infinite and of the illusion of security. And I am trying as hard as I can to get back to earth’s nightmarish reality no matter what, and every time I temporarily get rooted back to this all-messed-up, fucked-up existence, I can only feel a fucking abysmal ache in my chest so deep I can’t seem to mentally dig and trace its source and a current of tears concentrating its rage behind my eyes waiting for the optimal time to blow my eyeballs out of their damned sockets—and this could happen later, I suppose.
Everything is not meant to be, but everything is worth a try. I tried and failed. That is, in itself, beautiful enough, for that’s life—life’s unfair, life fucking hurts, your whole life can even be a process of letting go that even at the end of it, you would still find yourself holding on to the precious memory of those nights that kept you alive.
The words that escaped your mouth made everything seem like the fakest illusion possible, the most unreal illusion one can perceive (well, that may be too much, I am overexaggerating), they transported me to another lost dimension or something like that, the words gave me a miserable ride into the unknown, like the “trip” you get after getting high with the most dangerous drug ever known to mankind, and I guess I am back, still not pretty much sure of it though, still feeling the results of the continuous car crash of emotions and reasoning in these silently chaotic streets of my being. I must slap my face real fucking hard, but that would only validate and worsen my summiting and descending feeling of fucked-upness.
For now, I’ll wander again, and this time, I’ll do it “alone,” but I’ll still do it the same way “we” used to. I’ll revisit the places we’ve been to, saying hello and farewell to you every time, and even staying through the loneliest solitude, through the awfully blinding feeling of absence, through the nostalgic coldness that can freeze your heart beyond absolute zero and get it broken if it beats too hard, and through the astronomical amount of yearning while listening to every sound, especially of footsteps, hopelessly hoping they were yours, all these, the darkest hours of dawn can bring, and I’ll wait until the warmth of the morning sun kisses my invisible tears away and welcomes me and envelops my world, telling me, “It’s another day—there’s another day.”
But then again, the choices I made created a long chain of events that led me to meet a certain person, a very special, very beautiful person who, lately, with her own hands, created a new heaven above me, an infinite expanse of a canvas painted with celestial scars that had replaced the night sky of the still, blinking, faraway stars, planets, moons, meteorites, and invisible Gods. And now, this new heaven is the roof of my being and will be illuminating the rest of the nights of my life…
—It Isn’t a Round Trip
How witless, I chased love while I’m so blind.
I can actually see the worlds behind the words behind the covers, I mean I imagine each of them as planets, and that creates an illusory hallucinogenic sober experience of having (and this happens when I am goddamnfuckingbored, tired, or sleepy) to see the books as living organisms; they talk to me and I talk to them; I enter them and they enter me. While lying down looking at them, I enter and flip the pages with eyes, and then I imagine what it feels like to be inside in the middle of those pages; like how does it feel like to be a fictional character? how does it feel like not being real—but existing? how does it feel to be completely alive only when being read, to be real only when imagined? what’s it like to be written into life? how does it feel like when a reader cries in the middle of your story and you, as a character, can’t get out of the pages and do something about it? what what what and I even asked the characters, have you even wished to be real? have you ever wished to be really born? to have real life? are you sure about that?
—Bibliophilia: A Therapeutic Disorder