Looking Under The Rock
Posted at 09:49 PM

Nothing more could be gained from lingering here. The sight of sharply focused and unchanging eyes unnerved me, and I was quiet inside and full of love for those nearest me -- my little imps; jinggay, who touched my soul with her music; gay, with her constant "i-hate-you-as-if-i-mean-it" little quips; derrick, sweet advent and his witty conversations; and chiqui, dear chiqui with her warm hugs and elating smile.

I left the pack.

I didn't even take note of who was there. The whole den was now the dwelling place of little sprites. It was not an unruly place, or a neglected place, but I didn't notice who remained when I left.

There was simply nothing left for me there.

I was toiling with pathos...time...forgetfulness.

Whenever I was in front of a virtual audience, my hands were slack, one digit always slightly below the other, touching plastic keys, tapping and clicking lightly, as if with a purpose, when there was no purpose at all. My fingers curled, making a little hollow in the palm where the light fell, and that too seemed to have a meaning, but there was no meaning.

Sometimes, I looked at the stained blue windows, I noticed they shone with all the wondrous light which came from buildings and lamp posts outside. But it was merely light. Nothing else.

When I left, I went straight to you. No piteous words. No looks of consolation. Just a smile and a hint of humor -- "You're now a bum!"

It's funny but when you look at the other side of the mirror, cracks turn into crevices of possibilities. Another adventure for Cristeta Kalabasa!

Lee
Posted at 03:03 PM

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

- William Shakespeare

There are things more precious than letters written on parchment yellowed by age, initials carved on trees to ameliorate love, sonnets and poems that immortalize emotions, or words spoken with serious conviction.

It is the soft splay of the wind that kiss our cheeks when we weep, the fire that warms the hearth when we are cold and frozen from loneliness, and the tears that roll down the cheeks with infinite subtlety to wash away our sorrows.

It is the exchange of smiles between two strangers, it is the little friendships formed when there is no one looking, it is cognition and forgiveness borne from hearts distilled by time. Thank you.

Men, Men, Men
Posted at 10:55 PM

2 hours straight, staring blankly at the ceiling. Routinary work is unnerving, but doing completely nothing  the whole day simply cuts every synapse connected to your grey mater... you might as well be brain dead.

So, why am I tapping at the keys during this ungodly hour of the night? Because I want to remember why I'm here, why I am the way I am today, and why I'm happy just the way things are.

Earlier this week, I was brought to think that I'm too cynical, that I've changed and morphed into someone who hates too much, it's a wonder I don't hate myself. I repeat it like a mantra, "Have I become someone I've always dreaded to be"? And then I realized, he was right. I have changed. But I'm not hateful. I don't wallow in pessimism. I'm just trying to be more realistic. And if sounding defensive means impossibly reaching his perfect, perfect little world, then I guess I'm happy just where I'm standing.

** The length of time you've spent with a person does not merit you any expertise on knowing that person.

---

When Not To Believe

sometimes i think you bribed
the fates with drunken promises
of the sort of love you seem to have,
the type that makes little girls drown
in your intoxicating lips, sweet satin veils of
bubblegum pink and a steely grin.

sometimes i think you bribed
the gods with your space-dyed dreams
of blood, and tears, and conquests,
surrounded by a row of fatal ivies
and sad drooping umbrellas of lilies
accomplished by your unfurling determination

most times i think you bribed
the recesses of your very mind
into believing that you do care
but hearts are hard to fool,
and you still feel the drought of anguish,
tearing and screaming in the night.