Follow Me, Follow You

Saturday, March 24, 2012


I was walking around in a known mall across an another known mall. I'm used into this kind of “psychedelic experience,” my euphemistic term for tripping. I traveled and walked alone trying to make up my mind -- things I do when I feel like my life is becoming messed up (as always been). I would walk around blank seems looking for nothing and I'd watch people and formulate conclusions about their life but couldn't even make a judgement what my life has to take. It has been like years since my existence to the world I'm living in hasn't changed that much or at all. Or has my entity being denied by nature. Simply put, why am I feeling this way? And why in the first place I was brought in this questioning?

I would like to see myself answer those inquests yet I am afraid to. I am scared stiff that it would be a no-answer question, something that I would have to live by it. I had questions before that were easily left unanswered and I settled for that many times. However now, I still don't know. I still have completely no control of what is left in me.  

Sometime before, I went along with my uncle in his work just to kill time for the summer. I once heard a man scream, probably in his prime, who owned the office where my uncle worked at and told his employers, don't bother ask if you already know the answer. It wasn't new to me actually. I was sure I heard that line before and I thought it was horse sense to even my ignorance that I knew exactly what he meant by that.

A random clerk with a chafed face passed by while carrying a mount of papers saying, how we're supposed to know it,  jerk!  I realized that my take on it was different from most people in there. 

Recently I kept glancing at the window a hundred times with the same scene and people I see everyday, getting my hopes up that soon I'd find the answer to all these questions. I feel disabled of many things in life. But somehow, I learned that it's not worth to ask the same question over and over. What we ask do not equate of what we need, and I clearly know how it's distinct from one another. There are no problems resolved without solutions as it would end the same way. If only someone could counterclaim every bit of my misdoubts and suspicions in this crucial world, I could have been less of a dread man.

With those left unanswered, it made me strong in a way. The strings to where I am clinging at is unchanged, thin and almost breaking. Only the fear of falling makes me stay clutched to it. Maybe in a little more while, I'd get the hang of it.

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Dance Yourself to Death (Teenage Romanticide) 

Monday, January 16, 2012


I found myself staring outside at the window. Nothing was there, just the leaves overlaying the benches. I thought sometimes it is seemly to see things on one side. That why would I have to look around if I'm by then content of it? (Was I?) If everything in one shot has color and several dimensions, like the ones we see on the big screen. Howbeit if I take these glasses off, everything is blur. And I know I'm losing sight of you.


I don't know why they call it ‘heartbreak’ if I feel like every part of my body is broken too. My eyes are swollen, my lips feel betrayed, my heart rushes to beat, and my mind suffers of past memories and delusions. I have killed you alive. With those few words I said, It'd be good for us, drawn me badly into the abysmal agony. You're being unreasonable, you countered. Silence grew. I took a snort of cigar as if t'was my last. You moved closer to me with moist stare. I couldn't look back. I have words to say I never had courage to say before. But still something was holding me back. I realized the times we've shared are so fragile that I'm afraid it would break you; the way I was breaking you all along.

Bemused enough that I drank my macchiato in blue streak without admiring the olive leaf art it forms, as it casually takes me quarter of an hour to finish a cup. That night I made it straight (at the least, it wasn't alcohol). If only there's a pill for severe confusion, I would have overdosed myself that moment. There was no longer any input to my senses. Neither I could think of way to suddenly be gone nor tell the truth. If there is anything in this world I am worst at, it is confession. My head was purling. My thoughts were making their own ways to get out of my exploding mind.

One by one, I counted how many sticks I consumed in front of her just to say how much I loved her, not still. Bit by bit, I finally wove my words with disgrace of myself. I did not care whatever you had to say. To imply it was an another man of unimaginable contempt.

I slid my hand reaching hers. I began to consider my actions thinking about myself, my indiscretion, this part-taking, my sins, how I ended up with him and how my life had become so much misleading. But I soon thought of nothing else other than content. I have found my own default with. That is something I could not lie more about. We both knew a sparing, overused sorry is not enough to suffice everything but I'd say it for the last time with an overstatement, you deserve someone better than me.

I drank another cup of espresso. I gently savored. The taste is much better now. He took a sip, what do call this coffee, again? I grinned....
Its hard I must confess
I'm banking on the rest to clear away
Cause we have spoken everything
Everything short of I love you

You right where you are, from right where I am
Somewhere between unsure and a hundred

And who's to say it's wrong
And who's to say that it's not right
Where we should be for now

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Hundred  (The Fray)

Sunday, January 01, 2012


A short called Agnes. And this is how I met her.

I recollect the first time my eyes laid on her. Every break, I used to dine alone in a bourgeois café established unpopularly along the university belt. It was less nestled by boisterous people and so a limpid place to purge time. Daily, I indulge my palate with Curry and cold Java whilst the remaining time is mine to grow callous in my seat. One fine day, as I was about to finish my routine, the meek chimes from the door belled. My eyes, as usual, is abnormally synchronous to  who goes in and out of the café. I noticed this fagged looking girl, clumsy in every detail as she dropped the book considering all puissance were on her fingertips, engrossed texting. And in the time she picked it up, stuffs in her bag slipped out. She was awkwardly a turn off and so I decided to depart without even looking where she would be seated.

The following day, she did not show up; I did not expect her to come back. On the other day, she was already perched when I came. Staring at her closely: plain earrings, dyed hair, faint makeup, the badge in her uniform, and the book she was reading by Tom Porter, no doubt an architect student not far from my institution. I requested a different entrée this time, but at the same charge. There was nothing fancy about her, not even fairly ravishing except for the dint on the sides of her cheeks. I wonder what her name is. As she closed her book about to leave, her surname inked sidewise, Cordova. I finally unveiled something about her, at least.

Days had passed and I figured out she would only visit to lunch thrice  a week. Increasingly, I was becoming an espionage to her. Every so often I would slyly tail her the moment she vacate the café. I did not care if she sees me, or else I would merely feign that were traversing the same route. Make-or-break, I irrevocably decided to introduce myself, I did not just know how.

One noontide, I saw her making way to the café. It was a terrible day for buckets of water come down from sky. She tried to cover herself with a book but failed so. Clumsy as ever, I whispered. Today is my day. I, on the abreast side of the street, with an umbrella amassing all the guts reserved, fleetly saved her from full-blown catastrophe. As gentle as a mist dress, I opened the door for her. This time, we shared the same table. We gibbered endlessly as the rain plummet unceasingly and decided to absent ourselves from respective class. Her name was Agnes  Cordova and the rest is how we became lovers.

And they'd sit in the trees and they'd talk thru the night 
While the blind moon swam in the pale starry light 
And they talked and they crowed and they told what they knew 
It was better than beer, it was all strange and new 
There was grass all around, there was black up above 
It was more than hello, it was something like love 

And I don't know why life, it seems to be 
So hard for dreamers like you and me 
When love is, love is, love is everywhere.
-Bob Schneider
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Love is everywhere I go (Sam Philips)