(Because I am temporarily blue. Yet not as happy as a smurf)
And to think we tried- to tip the scales
in our favor. To battle Reality who shoots
for no reason. Who bruises our fantasies
just because he can.
Like misguided little birds who lost coordination
we were all bound to lose direction in the end.
And one after another our feathers fell.
One wing now broken- can the other wing
still manage to bring us to the skies we
It will be right this time, I’ll choose not with my sight
But with more than five senses; It will feel right this time
Regardless of the flaws I might instantly perceive
I swear I won’t leave
This time, I’ll wait for redeeming qualities for surely
You must have some, every one has some I know
But would you hurry up please, I’m anxious to know how I’d
Behave and how you would too
For I’m certain we’re both longing for that feeling
We thought would never be felt again
Would you promise me though,
That when your clothes have finally fallen,
You’ll bare to me your heart instead?
Dear Soul of Mine.
One day, I’ll try to please my soul.
To understand my soul’s needs
To stop my soul’s frustration
Every time my soul tries to understand me.
I’ll mend this inner conflict, forge a lasting compromise.
I will look for that silver lining that is marred
by black and white.
I’ll speak pure words, untainted by pretension, so you
my soul could smile.
But for now my soul, please bear with me.
I’m being human for awhile.
Writer’s block; not my type of sunblock
Writer’s block is like a woman’s menopausal stage; hot flashes of creativity followed by cold flashes of artistic futility. One day we are all going to lose our touch and be sterile so we better be active while our left brain permits.
I shudder at the thought of losing something I did better or even best during childhood. It seems as though the peak of my creativity left me when I stepped into college. Ironically, it is always when you need your special powers to activate that they start malfunctioning. Pity, how I became rusty when I know I grew wiser. Or so I think. I say all of these now because of this freaking writer’s block I experience every time I see an empty paper or when I face the computer. What will happen to me now? (Thesis).
So how do I loathe thee, writer’s block? Let me count the ways. I hate how you choose to stun me for a maximum of 12hours before allowing my creative juices to flow. I hate how you make me feel like a dunce every time I decide to write. I hate how you pick to assault me with your uninspiring boredom just when there is a deadline and I hate how you leave me when I’ve already decided to do something else. I hate you. Period. No erase. Are you a parasite? Feeding on people’s creativity? Or are you just lonely like me? Scratch that. I wasn’t serious.
Maybe mom’s right. Let me push the replay button. “Pirmi ka magsurat ta pag dae tiga gamit ang tinao saimo kang Diyos, babawion an.” Then I’ll give an arrogant and philosophically erroneous reply. I know now how right she is as I struggle with the simplest arrangements of a complex sentence. I don’t want to be a subordinate clause; I am an independent clause so butt off you leech of a writer’s block.
So I’ve got a theory that the epidemic called “writer’s block” was sent by an evil plagiarist from the depths of his uncreative abyss to suck all of our original ideas so that he or she would become the best writer. Why yes. If all else are losers, then he or she would be the winner. Bow. I’d like to believe in that theory. Because it’s plain madness. And also because it would make a good film. To protect yourself from the evil plagiarist’s army of “writer’s block”, you chant “I do believe in fairies.” Again. I’m kidding.
Or maybe I’ve just lost all sense of creativity. Oh no, I did not just say that. Knock on wood three times. BS. But then I believe that we can relearn what we’ve known all along. That what is latent in all of us would always find its way out again. It’s all a matter of wanting it and not whining about it. Whiners never become winners. So I’m ignoring writer’s block for the nth time and waving my middle finger at it, together with my pointing finger of course. Haha. Peace out. Happy writing!
(Written on June 28, 2011. Found this while deleting files.)
I can see clearer from
a distance, those things which
are but a blur when zoomed.
I need not inquire to
understand how things went
from perfect to twisted.
The light may give warmth
yet warmth can be extreme
and extreme never leaves
Life. We are but leaves. We
shall all fall down someday.
Would it even matter if the wind
blows you away- when you know
you’ll eventually be part of the brown.
The wind never saves. It only
cushions the fall. For fall, we will.
Reality- the crusher of dreams.
I stopped believing.
Will I remember the words I’ve written
if I chance upon them on some other page?
Will I recall the ink-stained abstraction the pen
created while my mind strayed?
For I doubt I’ll be able to if repression occurs-
Protecting me from words in opposition to reality.
To clean is to make another place dirty. I have often
witnessed the dust and the dirt change residence when I
evict them from my room.
I wonder if they are happy, squatting someplace else.
Right now I feel like an emotionless cactus. No. I just feel emotionless. I just miss using that word “cactus.” A week to go before the final examinations. I am weak right now, miserable and dramatic. To the nth power. I probably am not making sense.
Ah. But I found a new good vibes song.
Oh well. I shall read again. Take care, people of the internet.
Pore over the individual words, each letter befriend
and earn an enemy when you ignore the collective intent.
I have been ignoring the collective intent. OR maybe I am just ignorant of the collective intent. That’s where the danger lies.
Ignorance of the law excuses no one. Really. Especially during classroom recitations. So here I am, taking a really brief pause from my pseudo-reading to type some random words which hopefully would make me feel guilty for closing my book this early. This early as in 3am. This is going to be one interesting summer. This shall be a test of determination and concentration. And right now, I doubt I have even registered.
Playlist for the summer: Michael Learns to Rock. Old but gold, dudes.
Here’s a poem I wrote exactly a year ago (How random I know)
The artist carries his palette with colors predefined,
The million hues to furnish the rainbows in his mind
A shadowless foresight of golden ink, dirtied fingers
Was a pleasure — but dried up they did in the warm
Wetness of tears, new paintbrushes eventually despised
The rainbows in his mind conceived was an unfinished
Black and white without the pot of gold
In the company of a barkless dog, the question of protector
Arises— Another malfunctioning gun in a draw favors
The underdogs from the subplot of the subplot
Hindered by the clink of coins, atleast Icarus had a chance to fly