mikelcleus

parfum

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 02:30:00 +0000

because we, after all, are half-humans, thus succumbs, from time to time, to physical exhaustion, there is nothing else to blame for why time seems to be so elusive as that manna that we never have (yet) shared. silent prayers are whispered, and salty tears offered, to appease gods that we may have displeased or forgotten. i asked the air nymphs to send you my kisses, hoping that despite their blindness they may find you through that same heartbeat as mine. when all these are delivered, and that you find your self in search, follow me. i will welcome you in Nefertem's lily. may Thot remind us that we are just like waters of the River Nile, passing through the earth's healthy bosom. we are not forever, love.

geeky love

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 12:32:00 +0000

capture program drop iloveyouuntil
program iloveyouuntil

*syntax: iloveyouuntil [birth year 1] [birth year 2] [year of interest]
dis ""
dis as text "i love your until"
dis _col(5) as txt "Age 1" _col(16) as text ":" _col(20) as res `3'-`1'
dis _col(5) as txt "Age 2" _col(16) as text ":" _col(20) as res `3'-`2'
dis _col(5) as txt "Age Gap" _col(16) as text ":" _col(20) as res abs(`2'-`1')
dis ""

end

local year=2009
while `year' < 100^100 {

iloveyouuntil 1983 1986 `year'
local year=`year'+1

}

**as long as "Age Gap" > 0 persists, my love likewise will.
**happy birthday.

speed date

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 03:21:00 +0000

forgive me, but i really have to post this. [click on picture to enlarge]

padelantohon

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 10:14:00 +0000

if words part from my lips forever, what action, big or small, can make you stop, look back, sigh, and wish that ours is forever? aah, forever, but we never believed in forever, did we? life expectancies may be increasing, but we, as one, decided to set our lifestory's end, not to point that we would live to the end, but to demarcate fantasy from reality. maybe we would really die at forty?
as you are a slave of your passion, i, too, am a slave, but of my reasons. and it is bitter-sweet to accept the mortality of my demi-divinity: that i, of midnight lovers blood, am bounded of what little i know... of you, of me, of this damned century in which we are awakaned. of all the truths and half-truths that was/is continually concocted, publicly or privately, that our lives are intertwined as Lucifer's will forever be with the heavens, on eternal embattlement, yes, but eternal just the same, remain true.
if there is one lesson, of the many that you thought, i will hold dearest, dear, it is that people was, is, and that will-be's is and isn't. it is the is-es and the was-es that define will-be's, and not will-be's per se.
your promise may have been written in tears, light and salty, but it is with a son's honor that i will live to complete my promise to your father's memory [even if i do believe that you do not know anything of such promises between the living and the dead]. may Bathala bless our soles.
__________
because i live a few paragraphs at a time.

havana

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 10:07:00 +0000

as intimate as bees and butterflies in coital position is the soles of your two feet to the open lips of your sandals, so is the perplexing unity of soot and grime to the sensuous arch from the most extreme of your extremeties to the back of your achilles'. your mama will cringe (while staring with dagger eyes at yaya) at the sight of your dirty feet, to which nanay, the lola, would mumble an old saying about planting camote tree. contrary to ji-hoo's claim, "sorry", with a clean feet and a kiss on mama's cheek, can save yaya from looking for another job for the next week. if experience is measured by the soles of one's feet, then those dingy little devils is worth a thousand intra-neighborhood trips.
now, as i look at my own now-shoe-d feet, i say, those were definitely happier days.
__________
for papo teng, the neighborhood lolo who used to serve merienda to his grandchildren, real or not (guilty). may Bathala be kind to your soul. thanks, jen. i was inspired by your entry.

karen

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 07:31:00 +0000

mga hayop sila, was all i ever able to mutter when i first heard of what happened to her. of course, back then, it was all hearsay. nothing was definite. and appeal to faith that she was alright, that what had been written about her is not true, was still not pointless.
accusations of her being part of centuries-old armed struggle cannot be true. i refuse to accept that it could be true. how can it be? how can she be? with her toothy smile, and less than 5' height, who would believe that she could carry a rifle almost her size, much more kill? of course it is not true. [and even if it is true, what ever happened to the rule of law?]

and that was years ago when she left to do field work in bulacan. i wonder if she finished her degree at the University. the last i heard/read of her was in storyline at anc, and from pat evang in the inquirer. she was never seen again.
yesterday was her birthday.

sunbae

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 14:23:00 +0000

it was not insolence that radiated through her eyes that took her, one step backwards at a time, to the edge of the pool to follow her star-inside-the-moon. instead it was trust, complete and forgiving, that made her commit to the ultimate sacrifice to follow a dream gone wrong. the taste of yesterdays still lingered between sealed lips of bloody rose. then the plunge.
it was faith, complete and forgiving, to sweet morrows that may never come that calmed her as water, soft and purifying, gushed through veins and seeped through pores to claim what was her. it was faith that he would remember promises long ago spoken, and that that promises would never be broken, that made her surrender what is. and because we humans are suckers for happy endings, prayers are never left unheard--at least in the end, until the very end.
and i was jan di. i am. because you alone can fix me, because you are "that spring from which my words flow," because you are my madness, i'll ask you just one question. do you know how to swim? because i have already taken the plunge. and it is only faith that keeps me breathing despite everything.
i trust you, my vampire. i love you. i forever will.

yassas

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 09:25:00 +0000

when we met, it was the wanderer me, the ever elusive vampire, that held your hand. and with my twinkling eyes, i surmise, you have fallen, ever so slowly, not without your--and my--protestations, into the deepest, darkest abyss hell has for the damned-est sinner-taker there is. i, your teacher, am not denying any of my transgressions against chastity, because i, first and foremost, am your teacher, from whom much--not all--of your knowledge had flowed.
flowers bloomed with the passing of the warming hand, but blood-red rose petals parted with the tip of the sword. water turned into wine inside warm vessels of the mouth as the heavens looked and looked at the (mis)education of their charge. ethereal beings that they are, the heavens just stared, gasped and implored as i, the teacher, the vampire, the wanderer, became water, wine and cloak to the student at the same time.
it is but natural that sometimes students fall for their teacher. but indeed it is perversion that a teacher fall for his own art. and i, the teacher, the vampire, the wanderer, did fall for the sacred vessel of Gaea. as punishment from the Most High, i, the vampire, regal and eternal, regressed to being a child.

sin

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Fri, 29 May 2009 07:58:00 +0000

because the world says we are outlaws, we are. and the jury of learned bigots will have easy time convicting us. because maybe we really are guilty, if denying social constructions credence is crime. but we beg to differ. we refuse to accept sanctioned what-is-es and what-is-not-s. of course not on whim, and definitely not because of passion. but rather because we understand that what you and me have is not different from what others have. because we recognize that a rose by any other name smells as sweet. and is as beautiful.
the first question i asked still remains, though. are you on drugs? because i were. i am. this elixir has transformed me to who i am from who i was and what i used to be.
yes, i am guilty. we both are guilty. but not of worldliness. but of living ahead of our time.
for dreams. for youth. i concede: we both die at forty.

high school madness

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 25 May 2009 02:52:00 +0000

this is just a rant of a former student about his former school. read at your own risk.
after seven years of education under spc-nuns, i decided that i couldn't take four more years of having to recite the rosary every day, of wearing the same white polo, black pants and black shoes day in and day out, and of putting up with the righteousness of the nuns and priests. so i took an entrance exam for a public high school, topped it, and studied there for four years.
as a public high school, it didn't have the same amenities my former school had. books were scarce as chairs were. we in my class were lucky because we can afford to buy pilfered public school books in recto. notwithstanding shortages in physical resources, the school boasts of its a-level students sourced from all over the province. competition was fierce, yet people were friendly. overall, i had a great time in that school.
now, picture me six long years after finally deciding to get my high school diploma--not because it has any worth in its self, but because i would need it for future documentation purposes.
as early as 8:00 am monday i was already at the school waiting for the records office to open. it is summer vacation, thus it is understandable that school offices may open late than usual. by 8:30 a records clerk came and openned the office. i went in and cordially greeted her a good morning. i told her want i want. she said she is not the person in charge of diplomas and that i had to wait for a mr. c. i thanked her for the information and said that i would return after a few minutes.
to pass time while waiting for mr. c, i toured the school and met some of my former teachers. i saw two ms. a's, who were my filipino teachers in years 2 and 4, respectively. i also chatted with ms. t, who was my english 4 teacher.
before 9:00 am, mr. c came. i waited a little for him to organize his station before approaching him and telling him what i wanted. he said that i wait. so i waited. by 9:30, a woman went in also requesting her diploma, to which mr. c replied for her to sit and wait as he is addressing another woman's [more urgent] concerns.
finally before 10:00, mr. c called my attention. he flipped through his records looking for my diploma, at the same time retorting that i should be serviced immediately because i was purportedly maliciously eyeing him ("masama ang tingin"). of course this is not true. i was merely looking at him, waiting for him, but not in any way eyeing him maliciously. before giving me my diploma, he asked for Php20 for "admin fee". he didn't give me any receipt for that transaction.
because i need several copies of my diploma, i asked him what to do. he instructed me to photocopy the original and return to him. and so did: i made 10 copies of the original and went back to him. when i was giving him the 10 copies, he only took 1 (to my horror!), and typed (not stamped!) "certified true xerox" with the principal as the signatory. i pleaded with him that i need several "certified" copies of the original. he just scoffed at me and said that i photocopy the "certified true xerox" copy.
not wanting to rest my case, i went to see the principal and pleaded with her. the principal invoked this and that issuance from the Department of Education and that she might be in trouble had she not follow the so-so issuance. in short, mr. c won. before i left her office, the principal assured me, after a tedious questioning, that i could request another certified copy of my diploma if the need should arise.
i hope there would be no need for me to return else i have to face mr. c again. i cannot understand why i can't make several certified copies of my own diploma. the Php20 "admin fee" is surely not sanctioned by any government body. mr. c's attitude definitely needs some working out. is the photocopy of the "certified true xerox" copy also a certified true copy of the original?
i need guidance.

Cut 8

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Thu, 07 May 2009 09:26:00 +0000

you remind me of ruth mabanglo's nude: bare--and disarming. i can almost taste you, smell you; i can almost feel your warm breath, your soft lips, succulent even. your eyes are like north star shining.
i saw the universe through your eyes, and my soul cried of happiness seeing you nude with all your clothes on. it feels like cold rain, really, washing through every contour of the warm body. simple. and beautiful.
you are beautiful when nude. no pretenses. no words. no anything. nothing. only you. and the world. and i, your vassal.

let me touch you with my silence. let me kiss you with my breath.

i died when i saw you nude. only to be resurrected as your angel.

untitled, undated

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 13:04:00 +0000

this doesn't have to make any sense;
no, not at all.

when i look at the stars above, or at the
water flowing from somewhere,
or at the rain falling from the skies

i see nothing,
i hear nothing,

but thunderous claps, and hailing voices of
men, women and children--people fighting for
what we have
and for what we could have next.

__________
i chanced upon this short poem in my old notebook on natsci1/econ151 while looking for a notepad where i can place my research ideas. back in college, i barely use notebooks for actual class note-taking, but for sketching and writing my then existential angst. ayun.

practice sessions

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 01:53:00 +0000

tomorrow
when everything else fails, let silence calm turbulent waters. let warm, wet kisses thaw arctic hearts. let ocean eyes overwhelm petty fights.let soft spoken prayers lull us to sleep, to awake to a sunnier morrow, to skies bluer than usual. let the idea of tomorrow, an idea so unstable, so unsure, so fickle, tide us today.

moonlight over paris
moonlight fading i came to marry beauty at beauty's door. moonlight dancing i dance with the heaven's angel once more. moonlight crying i laughed to grieve but grieved to laugh a happy ending gone so wrong. moonlight laughing i faded into a danced cry of moonlights and rain showers no more.

sketch pad

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 00:21:00 +0000

we started as dots--two dots insignificant of each other to be precise. you were made earlier than i am, but your mark has not faded a bit. and i hope it will not. we were two different dots living in two different parts of a blank page. you have your part of the page to fill as i do, too. i did not know you existed. i think you never knew i existed as well.
but we, two dots unknown to each other, became restless of the confines of a dot. we wanted to explore the world. and thus we became lines--two lines insignificant of each other to be precise. you started drawing your line earlier than i did making yours longer, but it doesn't negate that mine is also a line--shorter but still a line. but we cared less then. it didn't matter, actually, that you and i are lines. it didn't make us wiser of each other that we were not just dots. we did not know each other. maybe at some times we were parallel with each other. but i doubt if it meant anything. you are a line. i am a line, also. but we were drawing two different pictures.
but as you were drawing your line--as i was doing the same--you intersected the line that i had drawn. or was it i who crossed yours first? i am not sure, really. it doesn't matter which line did what, but now we are not just lines. we stopped being unknown to, thus insignificant of, each other. we are not just two dots or two lines anymore. we are we--you and me.
your line became more familiar to mine, and it is a welcome, every time your line crosses mine. lately we crossed each other's lines too often that it seems that we no longer are two lines but one. we no longer tango alone although we had waltzed with other lines before. and it makes the picture we are working on more beautiful.
we were two lines. but not anymore. we were insignificant then. we are insignificant still to the whole partly filled page. but unlike then filling the page is more wothwhile because now we are drawing just one portrait. and we do not know what else we can draw. or when will our two dots that became two lines stop becoming a line to end as a dot.
i hope it never will.
__________
i thought i lost this piece dated 10 june 2006. please forgive me for recycling posts. working and studying at the same time is so taxing.

because

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 23:36:00 +0000

at top of everything and everone else there is just one you who makes everything and everyone else--even me--seem insignificant. may you never grow tired of my roses.

curtain call

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 07:51:00 +0000

thank diwa for assuring the people that our financial system is (still) in good health, thanks to mechanisms put in place in the aftermath of the crisis of '97. not dismissing diwa's proposition, ben agreed with diwa, saying that the problem is not (yet) in the financial sector, but is, in fact, in the real sector, which eventually would creep to the whole of the economy. anti-climactic as it may be, the brothers spence were first to talk--about possible remediation even before the problem is discussed and how bad it has already infected us.
after everyone drank his very dark coffee, and contemplated a little, when the dusts settled inside the hallowed hall of the great recto, one thing is sure from the great minds: we are not really sure of what is really happening, or how it would affect us. hindsight is clearer than foresight the mages said.
while this important meeting was happening, just three inches past the temperature-controlled atmosphere of the high-arena, as everyone inside the room is busy scaring everyone else, just outside the glass walls of the turret, life goes on.

dream-catcher

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 05:01:00 +0000

my mom is not that type of mother that goes to see every of her children's contests. she wasn't even in one school play i was part of. she didn't even attend ptca meetings.
but she was there during my first day in kindergarten, during my first flag ceremony. she was there when i was learning how to read and write. she was there when i thought i was dying of cardiac problem, but turned out to be just heartburn. that two nights i was out somewhere for my ini, she kept calling me on my phone. she may not always be present but she was there when i needed her most. i afterall drank milk from her bosom.
i have forgotten that she sprang from the heels of morpheus. and that dreams are her messengers.

Ma [07:21:43]:
Kmusta kn?
Me [07:26:04]:
Ay? Hehe. C mama dw o. Mwah. Mbuti po.. Kayo jan?
Ma [07:29:17]:
La lng hehe! Npanaginipan kc kta nwawala k dw? Ingat ka i love u!
Me [07:29:41]:
I love you too.

i'm a big boy now, ma. kaya ko 'to.

mateo

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 09:46:00 +0000

i am what they call a living corpse. vampire blood may be flowing in my veins, yet i have no desire--i have lost my desire--to partake of the feast laid out in front of the brethren coven. the world is for the taking. and everything is calculated, as if it is by nature, that victims sacrifice their selves for devouring. yet, i now despise this gift. i am a vampire who have lost appetite of the flesh.
and today i contemplate on how best end a demi-god's life. to the pyre the ancient had gone. it is better they said to be consumed by fire than lose that burning desire. still, i wait. i am for the taking. i still have eternity.

batangas journal notes, ca 2005

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 00:30:00 +0000

Jeepney ride. Mainit sa loob ng sinasakyan naming dyip. Umaalog kami sa aming pagkakaupo. Inuuna kasing tapusin ang Manila-Nasugbu Eco-tourism Road na magdadala sa mga turista sa mga resort ng Nasugbu sa loob ng isang oras, samantalang ang national road na matagal nang ginagamit ng mga lokal na mamamayan ay walang kasiguraduhang magagawa.
Kuwento ng kasama namin, isang dyip lamang ang bumibiyahe paalis-pabalik sa pupuntahan naming baranggay. Pagdungaw ko sa bintana, may mga batang naglalakad sa ilalim ng init ng araw pauwi sa kanilang mga bahay. Hinahabol nila ang kanilang mga anino habang ang dyip na aming sinasakyan ay hinahabol naman ng malaking ulap ng gabok.
Cellphone. Walang signal. Hindi ako makapag-text sa mga kaibigan ko sa Maynila kaya naglakad na lang ako papunta sa tabi ng dagat. Palubog na ang araw, tanaw mula sa isang baranggay sa Hacienda Looc.
Tahimik sa tabi ng dagat. Walang bakas ng pagkakatambak ng lupa sa maisan ni Mang Maning para sa ginagawang Manila-Nasugbo Eco-tourism road. O sa banta ng pag-aangkin sa lupa nina Tatay Mandy para gawing golf course. O sa kapalaran ni Bikuy na papasok na sa elementarya sa susunod na pasukan.
Magtatagal pa sana ako sa tabi ng dagat, ngunit may parating na sundalo kaya bumalik na ako sa bahay na aming tutuluyan.
PPA. Madilim sa bahay nina Nanay Minda kapag gumabi. Mahal daw kasi ang dalawang daang pisong pambayad sa kuryente paliwanag ni Tatay Mandy.
Ilaw mula sa apoy na pinangluluto ni Nanay Minda ang naging ilaw namin habang pinagkukuwentuhan ang simpleng buhay sa Hacienda Looc. Mamula-mula ang mukha ni nanay sa ilaw habang nakayuko siyang inaayos ang apoy na luluto sa aming hapunang gulay. Natanong ko ang panganay nilang magkokolehiyo. Mahal kasi ang pagpapaaral sa kolehiyo, simpleng sagot ni Nanay Minda.
Maya-maya dumating si Tatay Mandy dala ang isang baterya ng tricycle. Ikinabit niya sa isang linya, at sumindi ang natatanging bumbilya sa bahay.

no exit, zarathustra

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 09:23:00 +0000

tell me, dear Father, what is more agonizing than reading your own life from the Book of Life and finding it not to your liking? bore your self to death, perhaps?
what is more dreadful than re-living your own worthless life over and over and over again, not just once or twice but more than a thousand times over, from start to finish, from the first cry to the last breath, with all the aches and pains, with you being conscious of stumbling on the same rocks not just twice or thrice--but more than thrice a thousand times over, but since you are just re-living the one life--the only one that you have--that matters you cannot do anything, cannot change anything? that, Father, is the real hell.
and this life i have now might be it, Father. forgive me. i have sinned.

barker

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 13:35:00 +0000

christmas vacation has come for studying children and i was not a bit surprised, though not expecting, to find a young man, barely in his teens maybe, barking for passengers to ride jeepney taking the MRT-Ikot-Campus route. i was standing at the waiting bay for quite a while, more of watching the child work--or play, depending on one's world views--than waiting for my ride. i saw how the child, wearing overly large shirt and walking shorts for his size, wait for a "free" jeep, that is one without a barker, infront of the gas station, a good fifty meters from the waiting station by my estimate, and holler for passengers to ride the jeep, shouting "MRT-Ikot" at the top of his lungs three times in one swift go, while keeping pace with the vehicle.
he may had not noticed me but i rode his jeepney.
i wait for my ride day in and out at the same place and that was the first time i saw this young jeepney barker. instead of thinking of irresponsible parents who let their child wander on the streets at this early in the morning to earn a few coins, what i saw was a determined child with a vision of what he wants and works to achieve it. a smile spread on my face thinking of what this child would be in the future if this kind of spirit of his would continue. i have high hopes for this child.
my daydreaming, however, came to a full halt when i heard the child, from the window, sigh. "kuya, inagawan na'ko." i looked infront of the jeepney and i saw an older barker, probably in his late twenties to early thirties, barking for the same jeep the young child had declared ownership of first. the child was watching at the sidelines, sometimes barking for his jeep, but not with the same surety and timbre as before, as passengers filled the vehicle.
in the end, sheer height and brawn of the older barker won, the driver giving him the reward for a full-jeepney-trip and not to the child who was there from the beginning until the end. i looked at the eyes of the child, and i was no longer sure anymore of his future.

remember kismet

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 07:08:00 +0000

it was like how jack dawson described it, the cold water, i mean, being like a thousand knives stabbing me all over my body. i can't breathe. i can't think. but then that is how it was supposed to be.
i had become deaf actually. i wish i had been deaf all my life. i wish i had been "special" and then receive attention for being "special." but i know had i been deaf or "special"--or mute, for that matter--our dots-then-lines crossing would have been impossible. i heard you, unfortunately.
it seemed like a prayer more than anything. and i, a lesser god, an infinitesimal being compared with your divinity, have been humbled to the roots of the earth.
whispers, hurt yet firm, yet still soft, flowed naturally, like Buddha praying, like rain falling, from the bosom of emotions, where everything starts--and will end. but i had become deaf. cold water, cold as that from Chippewa Falls during the coldest winter, flooded my inner being, rampaging, making anything--everything--it passed-kissed still, then hurt, then numb--as how it was supposed to be.
from the depths of nothingness i suddenly smelled the sweetest camachile, that which only suffuses the air after light drizzles. i remembered how i was as a child, how i used to hunt bubuli with my cousins, how everything seemed simpler, more mundane. then i remembered how we were before--but more importantly after--the great flood.
there was no way to communicate, except dreams perhaps. but neither of us descended from the line of Morpheus, thus have to content our selves with what is, and think of what could have been had we crossed a different path, or offered kinder prayers, or offered devotion to another god.
i would still recite my prayers with you. just say the words and i shall be healed.

i love you, too.

third

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 06:29:00 +0000

i sat with third today on the front steps of an old building along tree-lined amorsolo. we just sat there, just looking at the passers by, just waiting for something, anything to come about. but time passed and nothing happened. i started to fidget. third looked at me with an ugly smirk on his face, but i did not care. my hands slid inside my pants' back pockets to check if someone left a stick for me to smoke december's chill away. unfortunately noone did.

five? eight? seventeen? thirty-eight? i cannot remember how many minutes--or hours--had passed before i noticed that third was gone. i must be in such a stupor to have not felt time passing, and him leaving, me behind. feeling something is missing, i quickly gathered my things, and walked to the nearest bus stop. i sat with third today, my mind was repeating over and over thirty times until my shadows faded into the night.

coffee stain

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 09:06:00 +0000

funny how you insist on opening the sachet all the way through when just a small tear will do. do you think eating doughnut with your coffee would add three inches to your 20 to 23-inch waist? had there been more time i would ask about your parents now that i have an overview of your siblings and how you were when you were, er, still climbing trees to pick bird nests. but fate is so cruel to not let a fifteen-minute coffee break chat take its natural course, wherever that would lead to. still, i insist, thank you. i had been craving for a cup of the real thing since a few months ago.

postscript: i remember one chilly morning nine months and six years ago, my mom insisted that we go see a heart specialist to check, of course, my heart. i complained of chest pains earlier in the morning when she woke me up for school. the doctor later dismissed mom's fear, and diagnosed heart burn, instead. no coffee for me the doctor said.

stress

noreply@blogger.com (mikel) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 08:11:00 +0000

the tiled-room was my fortress, and the white tiles my confidante, as my weak human body revolts against every good thing that Bathala, the creator, had given me. i was there, lying in fetal position, in the dark room, cold, with an unbearable headache, so painful that it was almost numbing, waiting for time to pass.

[tears slid from someone's face.]

i can't remember how long i slept, but when i woke up it was your white lips that was touching mine. yours are cold. and mine, red. and all over was the stench of a question long forgotten. then i asked: how will i bear more?

[silence]

from a dvd left playing somewhere, lynette* answered: we changed our whole life to live your dream and now you’re bored. we can’t keep throwing all the cards up in the air every time you get restless.

[cold water suddenly gushed from the broken faucet]

i was jolted back to cruel reality, defeated. more vodka, please.

__________
*from the Desperate Housewives (2008)