L

(In which I look back with mixed emotions.)

***

Look at me again with the eyes
of an innocent child.
Touch me again with your
warm, trembling hands.
Tell me stories of your life –
Your eccentricities
Your clan
Your complicated life
Your beautiful plans.

Talk to me again.
Forget the struggle for words
and speak about
your philosophies
and romantic analogies.
Tell me again
how stubborn I am
how I enchant you
and torment you.
Confess again to me.
Tell me your secrets.
Trust me.

Let me hear your voice again
in your moments of glee;
its shaking and trembling
in austere sorrow,
pain and fear.
Tell me you’re scared
of missing me.
Of losing me.

Show me who you are.
Talk about your reverence to your people
your family
and religion.
Utter again promises you can never keep.
Write me more letters to read.
Give me more reasons to weep.
Let’s make more memories to look back to.
For you said
that those lovers without
beautiful moments to cherish
are the most unfortunate.

June 6,2010 12:21 AM

Funandfearless’ Countdown of Most Hated Songs

(In which I finally had the audacity to pose as a semi-nostalgic VJ.)

***

My posts about the dreadful man who broke my heart years ago were already buried deep in this blog. Unfortunately, this dreadful man has his ears for music and I once desired to blog about the music that had him LSS and me brokenhearted but I decided not to for the sake of moving on and for sparing this blog another bitter post. But what reminded me to blog about music that made it to my Most Hated list was actually a teacher who sang one of the songs. Then I thought, “Hey! That’s not a bad idea! Okay, I’ll blog about it.”

Although it might not show, I have already adjusted myself well to the pain of being dumped by someone who is too immature to understand and too ethnocentric to be humble. These songs used to be my favorites. Then long ago, they were notorious and banned from my playlist. But though I can now sing them without hearing an internal crack that only I could hear, they still belong to my Most Hated. I can’t think of any title to go with my list. If you can suggest a better title, I might change my mind.

So here goes, coming in at number five is a song that his friend recommended and since then he played it on his MP3 on replay. Thank goodness to the complex array of consonants and rhythm of the chorus, he was unable to sing it properly.

5. Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You by George Benson

The fourth spot was actually a toss between Aladdin and The Lion King. But he couldn’t get over the cuteness of Simba and Nala more than Aladdin and Jasmine’s romantic kiss on the terrace and it went on for days. That actually earned this video a spot in my list. Look! Aren’t they just adorable?

4. Can You Feel The Love Tonight by Elton John

Halfway in my list of Most Hated songs is a Korean classic that he sang one evening. After checking out the actual song on Youtube, I found out that he was both offbeat and off-key when he sang it.

3. To Heaven by Jo Seong Mu

Coming in at number two is one of James Ingram’s hits. He was so crazy about this song that he even printed a copy and asked me to teach him the tune so we could sing it together. For the last whole year I wanted to blast every radio station that plays it on air. Too bad, DJs love playing this song every midnight and weekends. Things antique, how do we love thee?

2. Just Once by James Ingram

I bet the Most Hated Song in my list belongs to his own Most Hated songs list as well. His rendition was such a disaster that it could fill Howie, Brian, A.J., Kevin and Nick with outrage and humiliation as much as it fills himself with shame. He doesn’t even want to remember that he ever sang this song.

Without further ado, (Whoa! So emcee!) here’s my most hated song.

1. As Long As You Love Me by Backstreet Boys

Dreadful December is Coming!

(In which blasphemy is the last thing I mean.)

***

People would usually avoid being in or ending a relationship on special events; i.e., birthdays, Valentine’s Days, Christmases and New Years to prevent the suffocating feeling of being reminded of how sweet those days used to be until we got dumped. However, we often forget that the first and the last days are not the ones that really count. It’s all the days within the relationship that you’ll be reminded of.

I was actually tempted to have a three-month older version of Green Day’s song as the title of this post. But I realized that waking after December isn’t really a good idea since January is another month to hate and the months that follow are hurtful and desperate. I can’t sleep all year long. Right. The happiest days of my life so far ends in January and begins on I-don’t-know-when. But it was the approaching of December which brings me to another half-burned, half-elated state of being.

You just know when it’s December by the mere picture of everything. You can even feel it and smell it. I don’t know how to describe its odor. I just know when the air smells like Christmas.

And Christmas used to be a happy moment. We didn’t start then nor end. That’s the point. It’s one of those times within the bonding moments I just can’t let go. As for me, I can give away the first meeting for anything. Especially when I think of what mess I had made of myself since then. And who wants to remember the parting of the ways? But when all is over, all that remains is the memories. And happy were those memories. When I saw the pretty Christmas tree being put up by our lovely officemate, it seems like time is moving backwards, though only internally. I seem to be the only one who goes back in time and all was looking forward.

I don’t think there is any point of avoiding any memorable day before making and breaking somebody’s heart aside from saving the sanctity or anything of that day. It’s not just about the lovely Christmas tree. Not about the expensive one-hour long distance call which was shortened by fifty percent to save the other half for New Year’s Eve. It’s not the Christmas card with the lovely message though grammatically incorrect. It’s not those days – not even the best day – that really break me into droplets at the slightest thought of it. For the daily calvary is indeed more painful than a single day.

On Losing and Mourning

(In which I got someone who somehow understands in the form of printed text.)

***

After finishing The Four Temperaments, which is about the complex love affair of a ballerina with a violinist and his son as well as with her dream of becoming a star, I started reading the novel I bought together with it on a secondhand books store.

The Nightingale’s Nest is about Pamela Griffe, a girl who lost his husband three days after their marriage when the man was sent to fight in The Great War. She then works for a couple who owns a gallery years after. Their home and the people they know will eventually add another life-changing chapter to Pamela Griffe’s life.

Here are two paragraphs relating to how she felt when her beloved husband was taken because of his duty to defend his nation.

We only had those few days, but they changed my life forever. It wasn’t only grief that separated me from other single girls of my age; it was that I joined the ranks of the widows. We were no rarity value; there were tens of thousands of us, each dragging her individual tragedy like an untidy packed suitcase, a disobliging memento mori for the as-yet unbereaved. Even my parents managed to give the impression that for me to miss Matthew too much, or to show that I did, would be something like bad form, when so many others out there were in the same position. And many of them, their tone gently implied, almost as if comforted by the fact, had been married for years, and had children. It was as if my fledging marriage to Matthew did not, could not, count for so much as all those longstanding ones, exemplary or otherwise.

. . . In telling me that I was in some in some way fortunate to have lost Matthew before things went any further, before we had built a life together or got to know each other better, or had a family. . . they were driving the very aspect of my loss which I found more agonising.

I always hear people – whether celebrities or common people – console a brokenhearted person after a breakup by saying that it is better that it had ended rather earlier before too many times were spent together and too many memories were made. They would even give the example of a couple being together for ten years, got married and later found out that they were not really meant for each other and have to separate.

“See? At least you were saved from that fate!” they will say.

But, regardless of the consolation the early parting might give you for saving you of more sweet days to be recalled painfully and be forced to extinguish from your mind forever so as not to incur any more pain, the fact that you have lost never changed. You don’t need ten years, or children or a marriage to know that you loved and were loved in the same manner that you don’t need any of those to know that you have just lost someone. True. Telling anyone who just had their hearts broken by whatever or whoever, that they somehow do not have the right to mourn the way they are mourning since the relationship hasn’t even lasted for how long it should have based on whoever’s standards, doesn’t give any cure to the wound. So what if it lasted for only two months and the relationship was a goner ever since it started?

I too had my own share of this tragedy, only not about death of a physical body but death of a dream. But as far as I know mourning I also know that life doesn’t end with a parting and my life needs to continue. When I think of him deserting me, I thought of Maria Clara and Ibarra. Though they love each other, Maria Clara was forced to marry Linares to spare his father, Kapitan Tyago (not that he has any reason close to Maria Clara’s). But when she heard of Ibarra’s death, she’d rather die.

“While he lived, I could have married–I thought of running away afterwards–my father wants only the relationship! But now that he is dead, no other man shall call me wife! While he was alive I could debase myself, for there would have remained the consolation that he lived and perhaps thought of me, but now that he is dead– the nunnery or the tomb!”

- Maria Clara, Noli Me Tangere, CHAPTER LXII, "Padre Damaso Explains"

Perhaps, that’s the only consolation I have from everything that happened – that he was alive and might probably be thinking of me.

Currently reading:

The Nightingale’s Nest by Sarah Harrison

Music playing on my mind:

Think of Me (from The Phantom of the Opera)

On Choices and Preferences

(In which I look for a piece of me.)

***

I haven’t gotten over the unfinished reading of Coelho’s last book. Once, I was communicating (through SMS) with the friend who gave me the book as a present.

“How’s your reading?”

“Honestly, I stopped reading it.”

“Why? Isn’t it beautiful?”

To get rid of explaining how I view his work which resulted to an undesirable conversation the first time I did with another person, I just said “Fashion’s not my thing. And so is showbiz.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh! The book is actually good. But in a reader’s life, there should be at least one instance when he/she won’t like the book. It happens. It was such a pity that it happened between me and an expensive book.”

“So that book’s not your thing?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do you like in books?

“Hmmm… it’s in the subject, the characters. And sometimes, the setting. Why don’t you guess?”

“Look. I guessed you would like that book and you didn’t. I’m not good at guessing.”

“I am asking you to guess now.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

I knew he would give in. After a few minutes, he replied. “I guess you would like a story about a girl with multiple personalities falling in love with different guys.”

I was surprised with the answer. He likes multiple, doesn’t he? It took me a while to type my response on the phone.

“That’s a very imaginative guess. Interesting enough but not even close to the real thing.”

“That’s what you get for making me guess.”

He’s right. I forced him to guess and got a very surprising answer. And its element of being surprising is almost insulting.

“Okay.”

“So what is it?”

“I like things that concern human beings - real human beings. Well, I like Harry Potter. But I enjoy books that reflect the reality of human life – no matter how hokum or dark it is. I like the story about artists – painters, musicians, writers, photographers, dancers and okay, theater actors – the arts I’m connected to. But not the showbiz and fashion industry.”

“Got it.”

I have always had this thing for artists. Have I told you X is a poet? I remembered him writing a poem in a crude handwriting that I have to learn another alphabet to decode it. Right, I like artists.

I continued reading the next paragraphs of the book I just bought in a bookstore where they sell cheap secondhand books. It’s a story about a married violinist who fell in love with a ballerina. And the ballerina fell in love with his married son. Interesting.

I was about to sit comfortably when I remembered something. I grabbed my phone and typed. I should know why he thinks a story about a philandering girl with a complex psychological makeup fits me.

Currently reading:
The Four Temperaments by Yona Zeldis McDonough

Me and My Impulsive Nature: Another Desperate Post

(In which Fate has caught me by [semi] surprise.)

***

Our work was highlighted by the exchange of loss and resumption of electricity for the last two days, which means less pay and more irate parents. However, the several hours that we were given to enjoy was blissful. Blogging is my only consolation in times like this.

And as expected, a couple of hours before the shift ends, the buildings went dark again so we were sent home. That’s another chunk off our pay slips. Aww…

I saw one of my officemates by the exit door as we walk down the stairs. She lent me her hand which I gladly took.

“I read your note (blog post),” she said with a smile.

“Ah, yeah – “

“-Uy I have good news for you.”

“What?”

“I saw him – X – at the Korean store. He looked really different! He’s so fair and handsome…”

My heart sank. The last news you would want to hear about a past lover is that he’s more handsome now and he’s over you. What a beautiful recovery! I managed to flash a smile and joked “I want to go home.”

In the comfort room, I heard a friend say “Oh so he’s here? And he looks better? Come to think of it, I thought I saw him in one of those 24-hour convenient stores. But if his face is smoother now then it’s probably not him.”

“Which reminds me of what I told him before he went home.”

“What is it?”

“I suggested that he get a treatment from a dermatologist and eat more.”

“Well at least you know now that he listened.”

I went out of the building and sent a message to my “cab peeps” telling them we’re dismissed. I crossed the streets to the building opposite ours and waited near the Korean store and remembered what she told me.

“Is he still there? I forgot to ask if she saw him today,” I thought. If there’s anything good about the news, it’s the fact that he dared to come in closer proximity to where I am, of course, without the slightest intention of seeing me. But knowing he’s somewhere near is already good news. Or is it another bad news?

I glanced at the store and saw a couple of guys occupying the table near the glass walls. I recognized the guy in blue who’s facing my direction. That long, lean face with glasses – Jeff? I shook my head and looked away. I might be wrong. But if it's Jeff, then the other guy who was with was probably X. Gosh! What am I thinking?

My heartbeats raced. I walked towards the other 24-hour convenient store which was then closed for inventory. I sent another message to my friends telling them I’m waiting. They asked me to go to their office but I declined.

I waited there. My body was aching for an unknown movement but I stayed still. For moments I felt like my heart is going to be thrown out of my ribcage. Then I remembered what my friend told me when we were in the comfort room.

“You know, according to The Secret – “

“You’ve read it?” I interrupted, trying to regain my usual composure.

“No, I watched it on video.”

“Ahh,” I nodded understandingly. Then the feeling of terror mixed with worry that has been lurking in the corners of my mind suddenly burst out. “I think I don’t want to see him. Not now. Why should I – “

“Well, according to The Secret, the universe only gives you what you consistently think of. So if you keep on thinking how much you don’t want to see him, the more the universe will conspire for you to meet.”

“So what should I do? Think of how much I wanted to see him?”

“No. Don’t think anything about it.”

Does that mean I should just refuse to think about anything that has something to do with him? To suppress means to hide the pain in the depths of your soul. It doesn’t mean to kill. And the only thing you have when you suppress the pain is the desperate hope that it will die a natural death. Or should I just indulge my whole being to pain and have my heart and soul be brought to the death row over and over until I am too numb and cold to ever feel any pain? In the end, it is the selfsame desperate hope that reigns. It is but the proverbial choice “between the devil and the deep blue sea”!

Several minutes passed. Out of boredom, I turned my head to the left, just in time to see X walk out of the store with Jeff. It’s really him! I watched them walk away. For a moment, the earth seemed to pause. And then my connection between the present snapped loose. I found myself walking towards their direction, my light steps slowly quickening. Then I stopped and watched them walk away again.

I stood motionless as they get farther by another meter. I watched X intently as if counting the steps that he takes. I know he’s unaware of my presence. I know. So when he slowly looked back it seemed like all the air I have in my body filled my ears, deafening me. For seconds he fixed his frozen, wide-eyed gaze on me. And he continued walking.

The wind brushed the heat off me, freezing me more. I was about to turn away when he stopped and spoke to Jeff in a manner so serious I swear I thought someone’s going to die. Then he gracefully moved his lean physique towards me, his smile widening with his every step.

He smiled at me! And oh! The office mate has spoken the truth indeed!

He passed by me on the left side of the road which makes me wonder why he doesn’t take the wider side. It made me feel as if we were on a stage play where blocking is as important as acting. I swung my head and looked up to him.

“Long time no see,” he beamed at me.

I was supposed to say “It wouldn’t take this long had you not been hiding from me.” But I just said a cool “Yeah. You look good.”

“You also!” he replied in his very unique manner that I longed to hear.

It was just your usual small talk. Until I took the chance to get bolder.

“So how’s your girlfriend?”

The smile on his face vanished as if I hit something vulnerable and he took a light breath. He twitched his lips the way he always does when he’s thinking and muttered “So-so. Just so-so.”

I nodded. “I see.”

“You? Do you have boyfriend?”

“No, I don’t.”

Whether he responded with “Not yet?” or “Ah, you don’t.”, I can no longer recall. He tried to lighten up the mood by saying “I’m studying here.”

“Ah yeah! Do you know that I’m studying – ”

“Red Warriors?” he asked and his eyes brightened up. That simple question made my heart swell to the extent that it’ll explode. I felt like I’m Erik being swept away by Christine Daae’s sweet smile and voice.

The conversation went on. Regarding which, I can no longer remember.

“Uhmm… You want to eat?” I muttered, out of stupidity. I forgot he just got out of the store.

“Aww… But my friend is waiting for me. Some other time. I’ll text you.”

“Do you know my number?”

He held his mobile phone in a way as if to say, “You see? I’ve got one?” But then again, I might be wrong.

I crossed another level of boldness. “I can give it to you if you want,” I said, which I regretted right after I said it. Another comment made out of sheer stupidity.

He smiled. “Well, I’ll just ask Esmeralda.”

I coaxed him with a sideward look and said “You’re lying.”

“No. I will.”

I admired his uncanny talent of telling a lie so effortlessly swift. And what is this moment but a potential six years older version of Maureen Daly’s “Sixteen”.

“You look happy. That’s good,” I commented, unaware if I’m still wearing the smile I’ve been faking from the start.

“You too.”

“Anyway,” I concluded. The moment is getting more and more awkward.

“My friend waiting for me.”

“Your friend is waiting for you,” I replied as my teacher mode suddenly kicks in. “Bye.”

We walked away.

Daroga*, you should have seen him. You should have seen his smile. He smiled at me, Daroga! He’s been nice to me! My angel has been nice to me! Are you listening to me, Daroga?

I walked aimlessly as though the minutes that passed have cost me all my life. And in a matter of a few steps, my entire vision has turned into a mirage.

*Daroga/The Persian was the person who saved Erik (The Phantom) in Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of The Opera.

I’d Rather Be Blogging

(In which it is surprisingly painless this time.)

***

How pathetic is it to still be thinking of the circumstances and people that reside nowhere else but the past? To still keep the memories properly documented? And worse, to still be writing about it? No one needs to tell me I’m just a breath away to being a total freak. But after all the negative things I’ve experienced, looking back still gives me some reasons to celebrate today:

1. I have a safe database of my old poems. That’s the reason why I keep your e-mails, baby.
2. My internal “strength counter” tells me I’m closer to being stronger… as well as to being numb and indifferent.

I remembered to check out my Myspace for some poems and found out that one of my favorites was posted on Bebo. I already forgot the password and had to reset it. However, the computer illiterate side of me has forgotten that some contents might be lost after failing to log in for a long time which includes that beloved blog post. That’s when I remembered to check out my old email address for the comment he has posted on that poem. Oh! The beauty of technology!

Forbidden

My whole being started to dissolve into this endless space
Into this endless square space where I feel my own breath surrounding me.
Suffocating me.
And you were there –
you were always there
to redeem me from my solitude only to plunge me deeper into sin
with such naiveté and warmth.

I wonder if you could see through my mask
which has become thinner time after time.
If you’ve seen the reality,
I should be cursed – as well as you.
We should be cursed.
For in your presence, hell is a garden of roses and butterflies
where we dance with the wind and birds and the leaves.
It is only when you leave that hell becomes hell.
I’ll see you again, to redeem me from my solitude
and if you return only to plunge me deeper into sin,
I would be sweetly submissive.
For what I couldn’t spare is
the present
this perfect moment –
Now.

October 5, 2008
2:40 PM

I couldn’t resist the temptation of looking at his profile which reminds me of the vestiges of words and actions that seemed real once upon a time.

On the title: I read an SMS message quoting The Reader’s Digest about being vocal about your problems to people.

“Do not tell everyone about your troubles. Half of them don’t care and half of them are happy that it happened to you.”

Scary.

But hey… it’s a blog viewable by anyone!

Once upon a time, there was a conversation...

(In which the discovery of the song reminds me of a musical and tearful night.)

***

Can you sing for me?

What should I sing?

Anything. I want to hear your voice.

Okay…

Thank you.
And you? Can you sing for me?
Yes…

To Heaven
By: 조 성모.

괜찮은거니 어떻게 지내는거야 나 없다고또 울고 그러진

않니 매일 꿈속에 찾아와 재잘대던 너 요즘은 왜 보이질

않는거니 혹시 무슨 일이라도 생겼니 내게 올 수 없을

만큼 더 멀리 갔니 니가 없이도 나 잘 지내 보여 괜히

너 심술나서 장난친거지 비라도 내리면 구름뒤에 숨어서

니가 울고 있는건 아닌지

걱정만 하는 내게 제발 이러지마 볼 수 없다고 쉽게

널 잊을수 있는 내가 아닌걸 잘 알잖아

혹시 니가 없어 힘이 들까봐 니가 아닌 다른 사랑

만날 수 있게 너의 자릴 비워둔 것이라면 그 자린

To Heaven
By: Jo Seong Mo

Are you alright? How are you these days?
You aren’t crying because I’m not there, are you?
You used to come in my dreams every night
But why can’t I see you these days?

Did something happen?
Did you go far away so that you can’t come to me?
Are you mad because I try to look like I’m fine without you?
So you are just playing a joke on me as well?

When it is raining, are you hiding behind a cloud and crying?
All I do is worry about you, please don’t do this to me
You know how I can’t easily forget you just because I can’t see you

In case I was having a hard time without you
I kept your place empty so that I can find a new love
But all I can fill in that place is despair

Don’t be sorry; even if you are far way
Your image from before is stilled filled up inside of me
It won’t take that long until we meet in that place where there’s no goodbye
Until than, just wait for me a little longer

translation by: eebyul (also credit: aheeyah.com)

Thank you..

If there is anything I should be thankful for having bittersweet memories, it is the reminder that once, a melody was sung for me. If it is in anticipation of the future that seems so impossible to triumph over, I am still grateful that we had the past. And I believed him when he said his name means a road to heaven. I still do.

Hot and Cold

(In which the wind gave me another memory.)

***

I have had so much hatred to all those FX drivers who have been going through the same route where no passengers get off. Yeah. I like the view in Rainforest Park but the heavy traffic in that area makes me forget all about the beautiful sceneries. It’s really good to stare at all those trees and lovely houses while you get yourself stuck in the heavy traffic due to road repairs and stuffs but if you know you are just minutes away from being late, you won’t enjoy the view.

Today, I am lucky to have a driver who deviates from the usual routine but unlucky enough to have the wrong co-passenger at the wrong time.

So the driver didn’t pass Stella Mariz but the Rosario area. However, a man made an early reminder that he will be getting off at The Medical City. It wasn’t a big deal at first and because I have this very terrible cold and a slight fever, I dozed off. I woke up from my deep slumber just in time to witness a very delightful scene – a road turned into a parking lot. And yes, you guessed it right. I didn’t come to work on time today – again. In fact, the traffic was really bad I have to walk a block to save my paycheck from further deductions.

As I got off from the vehicle, I felt the wind – it was both hot and cold. Whether the feeling was because of my feverish condition, I don’t know. However, I suddenly got the feeling that I want to go somewhere with trees. Somewhere serene. Somewhere quiet and peaceful. It was as if nature can heal me in a way that medicines can’t. And whether it was my body I desire healing for, I don’t know.

I was stuck with that feeling even hours later. What is there in nature that keeps me coming back? Is it the wind? Is it the noises from children running and laughing? Is it the birds chirping? Is it the butterflies that kiss your palms? Is it the tender hands that hold you when you walk? Is it the eyes that watch over your movement? Is it that distinct, foreign voice that shouts your name when you get too far to be held and watched over? Is it the happy memory of sitting under the shade of a tree with a good book and your lover’s head on your lap? Or is it everything?

Or maybe it is just my fever.

On Forgetting

(In which accidentally hearing a conversation made me ask questions… Again.)

***

No, I’m not eavesdropping. It’s an accident. I just felt the urge to write but there is nothing to write about. Or there is. Maybe. But that will cost two reputations so I might as well keep my blog quiet. But the urge is so strong I need to write about something and the conversation that took place just behind my wall gave me inspiration.

How true are the adages “Out of sight, out of mind” and “Absence makes the heart go wander”? I wish they are as true as they should. But then again, I believe, it’s not the presence of the person you are supposed or trying to forget that make everything freaking difficult but the memories. Oh those sweet, haunting, should-have-never-happened stuffs.

The next question is “How long should the person be absent for him/her to be out of your mind?” Is six months enough? A year? How about two? Another immeasurable thing. (This one should happen ASAP.)

Speaking from experience, it s really not easy. I don’t know how it is for you. But I believe that forgetting about someone takes a lot of effort – especially if the mere thought about that person is enough to take you to the ICU. Of course that’s an exaggeration but you get the point, right? But the more guts and courage you muster to forget about that son-of-a-B, they just don’t get you any closer to your goal. Because the more efforts you take, the more conscious you get. And the more conscious you get about forgetting, the more it seems impossible. So my friend’s advice: do it unconsciously. It’ll take some time – sure. But make yourself busy with other people and other stuffs and you’ll forget about that person soon. Got that.

Just as everything about the plan seems to be perfectly executed, it’s the freaking memories that keep you stuck at square one. No. I am not talking about the thoughts of you and that person having a romantic dinner somewhere. I’m referring to things that are, for me, so trashy and cheesy yet so strong. How about the note that she/he wrote on a paper when you’re busy on the phone? The paper flower? Or a conversation-on-paper the two of you did out of boredom which you found when you came across your old folders? I told you they’re cheesy. But nevertheless, it’s the personal touch in them that made them special.

You can throw that. But I doubt if I will or I can. You see, no matter how rubbish they are, they’re still proofs how happy I was once. And seeing them once in a while is another proof that I’ve become stronger. Yeah. You have to shed a few teardrops at times. But that’s just it.

So why do I need to forget? Why can’t I just forget about forgetting? Now I’m back to questioning Time. Sigh. But the night is still long. And I still have memories to keep… out of sight.

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' (line 89 – 91)

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." (line 97 – 98)

“The Raven”

Edgar Allan Poe

Currently Reading:

The Winner Stands Alone by Paulo Coelho

On a Chessboard

(In which I rest my survival in Life’s cruel game on a flat surface of white and green.)

***

The second unit of the academy is filled with busy people making do with the very sufficient time left before coming up with a presentation tomorrow. I, together with the other teachers who just came from a pictorial with a student who’s leaving, trotted towards the other aisle to see how the students’ rehearsal was doing when a petite, slim girl wearing a baby pink blouse approached me with widely open arms. I was actually surprised to see her since I thought she was supposed to be in school today. Nevertheless, I received her with equally wide-open arms.

“Hi! How are you?” Emily said.

“I’m fine. Thank you” I said, and followed it up with a cliché that I’ve mastered in this profession. “And you?”

“Yeah, good. Oh! –“

I automatically knew that there’s something juicy she wants to share. Then she began laughing like something’s tickling her and she looked around. She grabbed my arm and led me to my room. The door wasn’t locked and we entered. I leaned on the backrest of my chair and waited for her to speak.

“Tomorrow, “See-You” will have a sports fest. And they’re gonna join.”

I waited.

“You know, Rain, Joe and…?” she looked at me, waiting for the dreaded name to be mentioned. I did.

She beamed. “Yeah, they’re gonna join the sports fest! Rain, is going to play taekwondo, Joe will be swimming and he will be playing – “

“Soccer?”

“No. Chess! Walang soccer.” and she laughed heartily.

“Not a bad choice. “ I said, smiling. “He’s good at that. But he said he rocks in soccer. (I remembered him bragging that when I see him play soccer, I’ll be oh so proud.) Were they required?”

“No, they just wanted to join. But I was laughing at him because he wants to play chess. So I told him ‘No one’s gonna watch you. Your game is so boring.’ That’s really funny!”

“Tell him I am.” And we both laughed.

“When was it?”

“Tomorrow.”

I nodded and looked at her. The smile from her hearty laugh remained. I refrained from asking more about him and the chess game.

“How’s school?”

“Oh! Terrible! You know? I have English 1 subject and I thought it’s madali. But no! I’m wrong! It’s mahirap!” she exclaimed, placing the stress on the wrong syllable when she pronounced the last word. She told me stories about how she thinks of me every time she has difficult essay homework and that she should have listened to my lessons more carefully when we’re talking about essay witting. I managed to respond to her inquiries while my heart is sinking. We went out of the room and were welcomed by the gazes of the students who were practicing how to sing Michael Jackson’s “Heal the World”.

I walked slowly to my other room. It seemed like the students are so busy doing their stuff that they don’t mind skipping classes. I sat down on my chair waiting for Jean. I thought for a moment. How long that moment seemed for I have went back to my old safe of memories within that short span of time.

He is good at playing chess. I discovered it when I asked him if he wants to play Scrabble.

“No. I like chess. You like chess?”

“I used to.”

“I want to play chess.”

“I don’t think we have a chessboard here. You should bring yours.”

“I don’t have. In Korea.”

When we finally get a friend to bring her chessboard, we played. Mine was black. And in a matter of six pieces, I lost. Not that he’s an expert for beating me but I don’t have to be an expert to see that he knows how to play. And he plays well. We never had a serious chess match after that. Either I get bored upon arranging the pieces or I give up at the first sign of defeat.

Once, he and his friend Deum had a bet. Chess match. Best of three. We were sitting around a huge rectangular table. Each player has their cheering crowd around them. Or should I say, Deum has his. I was sitting on the neutral corner. He looked at me with sweet, confident eyes.

“Who will win, you think? Me?”

“I think he’s better. We’ll see.”

“Aish! Ok. I’m alone. But I’ll win.” and he flashed a smile. It must be the kind-that-charmed-women-all-over-South-Korea sort of smile which Kaye has been telling me about.

The game ended. He lost and charged the other player of cheating, which Deum responded with “No! Touch move!” and was answered by another “Aish!” and an appealing sideward look at me. “Yeah. Touch move.”

One more “Aish!” was muttered.

The second round ended with a score of 1 – 1. The crowd was dispersed when the bell rang. Everyone was eager to go home. Deum gave him a thumb down. “I was just kind.”

“No! I won!” and he looked at me. “Right?”

“You did now. But it’s a tie. You still have one more game. So who won?” I inquired with a smirk. "No more. Time is finished." Deum responded.

I was facing the empty seat of Jean and I asked myself again. Who won? Come to think of it, everything that happened was like a chess match with crystal pieces. Mine was black. And I cringe when I look at the state of my game. I should have castled. My queen was gone. My rooks were gone. And I’m counting on a Bishop and a Knight, struggling for my pawns to get to other side.

There is Nothing More

(In which I realize where I stand.)

***

As I was browsing my literature book in search for a short story, I found my self stuck on a page marked by a piece of paper. I held it up and stared at the white sheet bearing a penmanship so illegible that only the artist of that crudeness knows how to decipher its visual complexity. I ran my fingers on it and stopped at the colored blotches – dried marks of something once mine and alive.

“How terrible this poem was!” I though to myself. Yet what is more terrible is that it’s all real. It was and it is. How could these unfinished and untitled stanzas speak louder than spoken words? I stared and read for what seemed to be the entire night. I stared and read until I couldn’t bear to stare and read anymore.

Suddenly, I feel a growing feeling inside me and I saw the paper weakly succumbing to the strength of my fingers. The crispness of it seemed to echo through the corners of my room – filling it – filling me. Then there was a sound – a sound so heartbreaking as if it was screaming for mercy. I held the deformed paper tight so as not to let it escape but not so much so I can still hear its plea. I stayed motionless for a while then swung my arms to let it go. It landed into the plastic bin which I’ll get rid of first thing the next morning.

I let it go. And not a tear fell. Neither a sob nor a sigh escaped from my calmly closed lips. Only a loud scream from within.

Versus

(In which one virtue never wins.)

***

In our Literature class, we were talking about the different types of conflicts as part of our discussion on the plot of a short story.

Professor: Have you read “The Plighted Word” by Narciso G. Reyes?

(Edit: Dear Reader, for the full text of “The Plighted Word” by Narciso G. Reyes, click here.)

The students looked at each other. My friend asked me if I had. “I don’t remember if I had. It must be a no.” I said.

The professor, seeing the puzzled look in our faces, ended our agony by starting to tell the summary of the story.

Professor: The setting was wartime and it’s about the love story of Flora and Tonio. Flora’s father decided that she marries the son of the landlord. Tonio is a soldier and so his father doesn’t consider him a good choice for a husband. He told Flora that if she marries Tonio, she will be widowed early but if she marries the rich boy, she will have a good future. So everything about the wedding was being planned by the two parties. Flora told Tonio “When Sunday night comes, consider me dead. I am going to marry Damian, the son of the landlord, just like what my father said.”

The night of pamamanhikan came and Tonio survived an ambush. He came to Flora’s house and called out her name. Flora heard him and all their sweet memories under the moonlight came to her. And you know what she did? She covered her ears so she couldn’t hear him. When Flora didn’t come out, Tonio left. That’s how the story ends.

Groans of disappointment filled the room.

The professor’s smile seemed to me that she enjoys the sound of our sympathetic groans. Then we moved on.

Professor: In the first part of the story, who or what are in conflict with each other?
Class: Flora and her father.
Professor: Then it’s man versus man. What about in the last part?
Class: Flora and her self.
Professor: (Nodding.) It’s man versus self. Now remember that it is literature because it symbolizes something deeper. What does the father symbolize?
Me: Practicality?
Professor: Yes. (Pauses.) Realism. What about Flora?
Student: Love?
Me: Emotions?
Professor: Love and Emotions. Romanticism. (Pauses.) Who won?
Class: Her father.
Professor: Then it's realism. What does Flora's conflict with her self symbolize? (The class was quiet.) Flora was supposed to follow her father’s decision since the wedding has been planned, otherwise, she will embarrass her father. What does that symbolize?
Me: Loyalty?
Professor: Idealism. What about Flora’s attitude toward Tonio?
Class: Romanticism.
Professor: Which won?
Class: Idealism.
Professor: Young people will always argue that romanticism must always be first and idealism and realism should be less prioritized. But that just shows how young they are.

There was a brief moment of silence as if everyone’s contemplating on what seemed to be a newfound knowledge. Suddenly it all came to me. My thoughts wandered from the present to some months ago. I saw it. Out of the darkness, all the letters flashed in gold.

This is reality. You have to accept it.
I like you but if it goes on, it will be more painful.
I’m ending it now.
Just forget about me.

The painfully slow flow of my thoughts was stopped and I was brought back to reality.

“…we have to do a genre analysis. Now please look at the next page…”

Skin

(In which I found something perfect.)

***

I rode the jeepney to the G-liner bus terminal. As soon s I got myself comfortably seated, I bade my mom goodbye like I always do. I sat up and listened to the song being played on the jeepney’s music player. The presentation of the song wasn’t s serious as its theme. The song was a sad one – about a failed relationship and broken promises.

As the song draws nearer to the end, my sad expression gradually turned into a smile. That song! I knew it! Oh gosh why didn’t I think about it during the time when I was looking for songs to comfort me? Damn, I feel so connected to the song that I have to cover my face with a hankie to hide my big smile. I should have heard this long before. It’s just perfect. I hope X can hear this – and understand this. But it’s just too bad that the pain X has left me was not skin deep.

Skin
Grin Department

I
Lagi na lang tayong nagaaway
Sa walang kwentang bagay…
Lahat ng tao ay pinagseselosan
Kahit na alam niyang itoy kausap lang

II
Love dont you know..
Mahal na mahal kita
Di mo lang alam…
Tl ako sayo…
Sa twina…
Will always…
Love you….wooooooo
Will always !!

(Chorus)
Bakit kailangan pang mangyari ang isang katulad nito….
Diba’t ang sabi mo ako lang ang true love mo yun pala…
Ay di totoo…hoooooo

III
Akoy mayroong nalaman,
Itoy tungkol sayo
Nang aking malaman…
Akoy na-shock sayo!
Sa twina….haaaaaaaa
Long la la la la la long la la la la la la long long li long long…..story !!

(repeat chorus)

VI
Goodbye nalang sayo
Split nalang tayo!
Salamat sa mga date natin
Salamat sa mga trip natin
Salamat din sa mga sulat mo…
Susunugin ko!
Salamat din sa nagsabing my shota….ka na….palang…..iba….haaaaaaa

(Bridge)
Hi ho hi ho
Skin lagot kayo!
Hi ho hi ho
Ohh mahal ang panget mo!
Iderma mong muka mo
Kiskis mo sa aspalto
(repeat 3x)

Lyrics from http://songslyrics.selaplana.com/songs/opm/skin-grin-department/

So Far…

(In which I realized that I’m not a very bad student after all.)

***

I’m 21. And I’ve been a sucker for Life’s hardest spanks for as long as I can remember. That statement wasn’t written for effect. Seriously.

And for the last 13 years or so, I’ve learned several things (They might sound foolish and you might have learned them your own way but I’m still writing them though.) that show how well I know Life’s lessons but not quite as well as how much they should have made me wiser.

Anyway, at least I’m not that ignorant.

So far, I’ve learned…

That five-year-old kids shouldn’t use scissors without an adult’s guidance.

That drinking milk is important.

That you shouldn’t watch another kid play while feeding the dog.

That listening to instructions carefully is a must – especially during a district quiz bee.

That principals aren’t so concerned about your feelings that they can even announce how stupid you are for failing to listen to instructions carefully during a district quiz bee in front of ALL the other students on a flag ceremony.

That in high school, having your chairs arranged in a circle is a very interesting, if not the most effective, seating arrangement.

That wearing glasses increases your chances of being friendless and misunderstood.

That joining a brass band means more than having music lessons.

That it’s better not to be with your younger sister in the same brass band.

That the chance of not ending up with your first boyfriend is very huge.

That Elton John was right when he said that honesty is such a lonely word.

That rockers could also be softies.

That some professors aren’t as professional as what they are supposed to be.

That you can surprisingly be at your best under pressure.

That algebra isn’t big enough to keep you from being on top.

That friends are chosen.

That no matter how smart you are, you are never smart all the time.

That at times, the worst decisions we make are the ones that seemed to be well-thought and well-planned.

That the belief about “men are wolves and women are foxes” isn’t always true. It could be the other way around.

That Koreans believe that you can die when you sleep with the fan on.

That entering a relationship is a gamble. And when you engage in a gamble, be ready to lose.

That in a relationship, courtship is the best part.

That even if a man is very nice and sweet doesn't mean he can make you happy.

That a right love at the wrong time is still wrong.

That the one who promises doesn’t know what a promise is.

That at times, even if men’s promises sound suspicious, women still believe.

That age does not justify maturity.

That you can cry over a breakup with your mouth open in front of your mom and don’t feel bad about it.

That crying isn’t equal to vulnerability.

That no matter how much you wanted to curse the ones who broke your heart, you just can’t because you can’t hate them.

That you can be cold to people you don’t like yet you wonder why some people are cold to you.

That no matter how much you wanted to give someone you love their happiness, it is never easy to give them their freedom from you.

That loving means letting someone go.

That letting go is braver than holding on.

That I am not brave.