We Are Walking Questions

We Are Walking Questions

We are walking questions,
Moving toward running answers.
Sometimes we walk too fast,
And often we walk too slow,
That the answers dart out of sight,
And the answers we fail to know.

We become the walking questioned,
Without the present answers.
We walk too fast; we stumble.
We walk too slow; we get left behind.

The answers? They are ever-changing.
We fail to know. We fail to know.



Chill. Not that kind where one’s life gets taken away. But that kind where the rut goes away.

Sometimes the planning is what makes something not happen at all. More often than not, planning consumes the energy we should have exerted into the execution of things planned. We end up staring at the list we made, wondering where all the time went. We are left with a piece of paper of things we did not do. We go to sleep, with full determination that tomorrow will be the big day- the day when we see checkmarks on our list. And yet tomorrow is that unicorn-like fantasy where we achieve everything in our list. But fantasies are mere fantasies; they only elicit sheepish smiles.

I was always a planner. I still am, really. So basically, I liked the feeling of finishing something before the deadline. Nah, just kidding. I have never felt that way before.

I know the feeling of pressure, though. The feeling where you block everything around you, and all your energy is channeled into that thing you have to get done. Where you do not get hungry, sleepy, and distracted. As if your life depended on beating that deadline. And that happens every single time.

So I tried fooling myself, acting as if every day was a deadline. But c’mon, how do you fool yourself?

Well, the reward system was going along well, until I began reaping the rewards before doing the tasks. Hopeless case, huh.

So I ended up removing the roots of distraction… and crashed into looking for new sources of the same.

Then I realized I needed to be watched like a toddler. Or guided. Or supervised. Or scolded.

Or I just needed a friend to remind me. Or a trainer.

But the execution part, that’s actually something I realized that should be started only when you’re ready. Physically and emotionally. Not halfheartedly, but with all the guns blazing. But all these realizations should only be contemplated when you have your list done. So the planning and the “realizing” are ruining my “executing.”


Time to get my game face on– I mean, work face. what.


With this borrowed time
Should I stop and consider
What to do, where to step
And where to linger

Is it criminal to breathe
A little more cheery air
Or to simply pass through
The judging, lonely stares

Is it proper to choose
Those things not life-like
And hold on to the
Opaques non-spiritual

Could life be
A little more people-friendly
And give us all a walkthrough
Far from this paralyzing insanity

Still I wonder
I do too wander
And lost I’ve become
Like every unmoving thinker.

The Other Wing

(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
have imagined?

This Time


This Time

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

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; 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.)