Waking up from a dream I can only wish that the clouds were clearing up outside. I tried to get out of the bed, but as always it took me quite some time to even make it sitting down. Still in bed against the wall, I was still zonked but I could tell that it was still early — feeling the cold concrete on my back. As I rubbed my eyes to open with an aching head — had too much of everything last night — I realized that I have not had a cigarette for hours, so I lighted one in celebration.

I closed my eyes several times wandering off in my thoughts walking here and there, in the shapeless dimensions of my own universe. I did not realize that I had fallen back to sleep. Lately, I have the habit to narcotize myself by sleeping when things are not that amusing. After a while, finally getting up, way too early for breakfast and still in last night’s clothes, I took a look through the misty glass of the window checking on the weather. I stepped outside then sat on the sand, too lazy to do anything, just chewing gum while the others were still sleeping, as I waited for the sun to bleed beams on me.

Early mornings are still the best. As I watched the waves kissing the shoreline again and again, it was through waiting that I completely understood that the then and now are not that different from each other after all. Waiting to be there and to do what is now. While the wind did the same with me, as it graced onto these passages, as we decided to take a stroll through the corridors of our deepest thoughts during so, we found black and white Polaroid’s moving in slow motion and at times in overly animated shorts of how things were and are.

We learned to let things be. So, we sat and waited for our sunshine. The virtue gave us more time to ourselves. It somehow expanded the short time we had, supported precision on analogy, while process carefully observed.

Guarantee was not an ally though, but hope is.

Drizzles dropped, ironically, I still had my sunglasses on. Ever hopeful for my sunshine to come, I had no choice but to move by the tree towards the shade. The fruity taste of the gum started to fade. Thoughts of what ifs and could have been came in. Sometimes even if we are exactly at the precise position, things still fall short. But those days were all about second chances, so one chose to wait still.

I found and opened up a note from my left pocket reading it to myself. I could not recognize the handwriting at first, but it was mine. I must have written it the night before — I could not remember. Writing to imitate, I tried to make it my own. Wanting to be original, a conventional fool, the words we found beneath the hums and the pages were the ones we sang to the people we woke up with. We watched the sky unfold from monochrome until it slowly turned into butterscotch gold. Blissfully sedating with hangover, we took a dip down under into the ocean’s arms. Washing away our blue Octobers while ceiling us were the vastest horizons lined by white rabbit clouds and giant seahorses. We watched the sunrise to always remember that there are always good days to look back to. Binding and overwhelming us were the waters and the skies.

We were in between with sands on our feet.

The sensations of turning the tides, the now and then to be one and the same, bending space and time, I had my legs folded against my chest. As the sun finally showed its magnificence, its rays revealed the stains on my plain white. On the sand, never minding, as another day brakes — I was still there waiting, in celebration.

Post-Note Confession

I have my body stretched between the spaces and the cushions, facing up, staring blankly at the ceiling, with my thoughts pushed backward; the room seems a little different this time, maybe I was away for too long that things are seemingly new to me. As I get reacquainted, my mind is somehow stuck somewhere elsewhere. Funny that this thing in me lingers, the microbes are getting way too closer each time. An exhale and a puff more, as the ether running through my fingers, feeling the warmth, trying to stay conscious, between asleep and awake, I realized that I have yet to unpack some of my things from the trip. A second and back to thinking, convincing oneself that things are the same, still waiting anxiously for the rain, trying to put sense out of everything, a poor attempt to squeeze in algebra back to the things that once were.

It was still dark when we left; the calmness of the night subdued everyone, an invitation to sleep. The glittering pellets shed light over our heads as they also reveal our tired bodies resting, the wind offering its share, as it whispers its lullabies from afar, cradling us, off to slumber most of us went, the silence with happiness hitting cold down to the waters, a cigarette and a match, standing to stretch my legs, being cat-quiet about it, careful not to wake the others, I placed my back leaning against the bamboo brace of the boat. I was caught up by the silence realizing that the chugging from the motor had stopped. Looking around, then accidentally, bumped into a thought as I glance upwards, I was taken held by the overwhelming vastness of the night sky.

It was around 3 in the morning, the mountainsides walled our route to the port, and apparently, the boatmen had a little trouble with their little ship, stuck in the middle of nowhere, somewhere, having the habit of taking the good out of everything, now I have my attention fixed to what I think I have fallen in love with.

And as one clutch on the moment, when everyone was in their sleep, I snuck out my feelings, a travel between my mind and my chest. Probably the farthest I have ever taken so far, dazzled by the innocence, never uttering what was meaning to, one can neither let it go nor hold it too tight, frosting glass it was. One has been caught in a trance at the moment, then a revelation. The wooden raft and the waters offer an analogy – why is it that most of the time we need to know where to stand and feel something constant under our feet? When all we need is buoyancy to stay afloat. Having my own conversations, but not losing it (see Microbes). then a counter:  We need to have something firm to stand on, to reassure ourselves if we rely on buoyancy alone, eventually our legs will tire and drown (quantifiable factors – see The Simple Things).  Being stuck out of nowhere in the middle of the night, with no life vests and a failing motor, out with the stars brings me back to the story of the people of the desert, who relied on the skies for answers when lost. Doing the same, reluctant at first getting any, I began stopping analyzing too much. My eyes went off way up and just appreciated what I have there at the moment. One cannot remember how long my senses were out, and then suddenly I am beginning to finally see the answer. And there it was. Staring in front of me, – What we feel needs not to be reciprocated, the romance we feel is the love we want to share with the people we care for, and when we share, it is giving. So In conclusion, one realized that what we hope to inspire is not a reaction. We don’t want that, but instead needing another is like turning your love note into a one way- paper airplane, throwing the words and letting it all go.

Back to the apartment, I am now sitting by the window, realizing, what was seemingly a long wait has already come to a halt. And as each raindrop hits the pavement, it was like watching the rain dance.  A sip and a puff, with happiness, felt, now I can probably say that I have seen the goodness once again.

A Perspective

Rolling down the window, now, I have my head out to feel the sun. A passenger with my sunglasses on, filtering the noon rays, I relish the eastern breeze that bids farewell. Looking up, I see fluffy cotton candies, infinite blue skies swirling over and over, mirroring the sea, the tree-branches reaching on to each other, casting shadows, as they offer shade for those who may want to rest.

As one tries to capture every detail in prints, memorizing each honest breath, and transcribing the feeling on a canvass for words, my notes are filled by crossed-out lines and incoherent phrases. As one stumbles, not really caring of what color-paste to use, I am now overwhelmed by these scenes rolling before me.

Funny how we get from one place to the next, with ease, my once tired mind is now ready to have this skipping pen moving along, to have it scratching on my scalp before throwing a few wrong and a couple of right ones, I think I may have found a new perspective to finally begin with.

One of the best things while being away is the thought of you having something to go back to. While most of us are more than willing to drop everything, taking on that great escape, a vacation perhaps, being so darn spontaneous because we are young, or at least feeling like one, without really thinking about it, we are yet to realize that, what we are out looking for is already within our reach, inside the confines of our walls. Sometimes, all we need to have is another angle to see each day a new.

Drive down the interstate or have the curve taken, when you are tired of the usual things, try another route on your way home, or walk in the rain sharing an umbrella, seeing the city in full length in different hues.

As your body tires, you miss the scent of spilled milk on your pillow during sleep. Having those conversations in bed, heart-stoppers cheese eggs for breakfasts, and as the morning beams intrude, shining through the window pane, reading, and storytelling, with too much caffeine, you lie wide awake listening to cassette tape records. – that for you is one of the most profound things in life.

Daydreaming, I have my attention stuck on the ceiling cracks in the backseat. Halfway to the city, one can’t wait to have my first cigarette for hours, I turned my head back looking outside, ever longing to see her again, to hear her read the words out loud, promises, throwing those arms around me, now conscious, with my backpack stuffed with used clothes and a few bucks to get back, wishing to be in her sugar rush embraces soon, listening to her love stories, to be home.

The Simple Things

Sitting outside my door, on the steps reading the sky as it writes, its narratives across and over the day line, sharing the sunshine on everyone down here.  Pretending to be up there, I have my mind set imagining that I am taken adrift by the winds over the plains and the greens.  As I have my Journal with me, I am lost yet surprisingly felt found in the experience.  You can probably see me closing my eyes as I do this, opening at times to have that pen moving, writing down a list of what good things I may find inside my wandering mind.

So I take the time, then pouring coffee in a stryro cup. As I carefully do so, I hear my neighbor singing; probably making breakfast, the smell of garlic takes me back to Mom’s home cook meals and Sunday childhood laughs. – Then I go thinking, on why most of us at a certain phase of our lives tend to fall far apart from our child selves. I mean, we tend to focus too much on our careers, on how lavish we can provide, focused too much at work, so in preparation, we weigh things too much in almost everything that we do, that we over calculate things. In doing so, we tend to rule out the most important variables because we think that these things are not quantifiable factors, therefore, cannot be part of the equation. What I am referring to are the simple things in life. Think about it.

I am too, is guilty of this, I forget. That’s the problem, I miss watching cartoons with cigarettes, and have that pillow on your back, placing the ashtray on your chest while you enjoy the comforts of the cushions of the couch, brushing her hair, while she has her head over your lap, capturing each moment, striking the keys, writing, overflowing and hoping the words are enough, a humble attempt to paint the feelings, not stopping, reenacting the moments in magnification and detail. To have those moving Polaroid pictures taken, while still in bed, under the heavenly sheets and cloud-like pillows, white over the wooden base of the four-poster bed.

Remember those yesteryears of kite flying in the park, Jazz records-vinyl playing and reading old newspapers as the music echoes across the yard, spider hunting with lollypops, afternoon street games and puppy love.  We drift back to our past, but only during the split seconds of our hectic lives, not the way we used to, not the same way anymore, not like when we were still fond of colored-gummy bears, summer golden haze with iced candies. We only remember the simple things in life on the train ride from work, or during our coffee breaks. Seconds, we spare for these variables not part of the formula to success. For what matters now are the paper works and beating of deadlines. We drown ourselves with the things we thought important. We are bound within the shackles of this reality.

So I say, that instead of thinking so much of those sepia days you once knew, why not start trying to do something about it now. We have got plenty of time to ring a friend, and hang out all day, go out to try the best ramen house in town, have that wacky picture taken, watch ballgames, sword fighting with your son, afternoon naps and travel. The simple things in life are the best ones you see. And just in case you have troubles on getting started, you can start by counting your blessings. It will work, definitely.

Travel by definition

May it be flying or just a bus ride, just plain walking, or climbing mountains, it is in our nature to travel.  I have friends saying that at times when they feel bored or just think that they should do something different, will jump on a train, and go around the metro in circles, doing their reading for hours (their version, instead of going to a coffee shop), some enjoy the ride with their music on and have the tunes encrypted in their chests, some will fly to Cebu just to have Brian ribs to go or have lunch in Dumaguete, just for the heck of it.

Come to think of it, we travel all the time. From home to our schools, to our offices, some of us travel for fun or for work. Every time we get that phone call, receiving an invite to go to a friend’s place for an inuman, every time we carry our lazy butts to the store to buy cigarettes and pancit canton, we travel all the time.   Even an amputee can do his share of traveling, through his thoughts and words; he can break barriers, stacked walls, and opinions. When we read and explore words, when music writers make music and when we sing along.  Now, this kind is more profound, for it transposes to journey already, a greater degree of travel.

For me, it is best when we travel in the simplest fashion and doing it with romance. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen this already in movies. On a train or a bus ride perhaps, you see a couple sitting next to each other. You can’t really tell if they are interested in or in love with one another, maybe they are, or maybe the screenwriter just wants us to believe so when actually they are not. Nobody knows. The scene puzzles you. Let us asses further.  The actor has his hands holding the steel bar of the seat in front of them. The girl, on his right, holds her hair, not wanting the wind to ruin it, slides it tucked beneath her shirt. While the boy is trying to stay conscious, she kept on holding her hands together. And with reluctance, eventually, allows the boy to hold it anyway. She has sweaty palms whenever she is happy, she explains. The boy loves her happy hands. The boy then placed his head on her left shoulder, onto her arms, like a child he clenched. He relishes her perfectly matched scent on her sleeve. The girl looking at him, inside her she feels a silent kind of happiness.

We continue the romance.


INT Bus – Night.

She wears her Brit inspired sneakers, white trimmed with red and blue.  He wears his wristwatch on his right. Then the girl shoots in her analogies on why he likes it that way.

The camera zooms in focused on their entwined arms.  With their bags on their laps, they hide the sweetness, camouflaging it.  They were neither going fast nor slow.  They did not care anyway. Traffic is the last thing in their minds now.

Traveling goes beyond physical, it transcends.  Out of words, I turn to my sister in law, as she utters these words – “Traveling elevates you to higher plane of existence, that you are able to see things in top view”.

Many write about the coherence of Love and Travel. Maybe because of the celestial bliss it brings. May it be for answers, for wisdom or for love, may it be for stories or laughs or out of sheer boredom, we travel because we have to move along, and above all, to share. To borrow Ol’ blue eyes’ words, – Fly me to the moon!


Every day you always hope for that perfect day going for you that everything goes your way whenever you are near her.  I mean, we try so hard to be cool and steady in her presence that more often than not, we end up smacking our heads with our palms, behind her back because of some silly things that you’ve said that may accidentally have taken her off, or at least you thought it did, especially with friends, that cross the line, but you know you can’t be angry at them on the same way. The point being is, even if you have that much of experience you always end up taking pauses and take time just to clear your throat whenever she walks by. You are powerless. Legs not working, you can’t get them to move. Microbes had eaten your chest. You are infected.

I don’t mean to pry, but it is an outbreak and there is no cure. Most of us are in the same pair of shoes, just a matter of preference of what size and brand of shoes we’d be wearing. I don’t have the answers on how you can sweep her off her feet, nor the ‘one-liners’ and ‘come on moves’, none of those. But I know songs.  And I know that songs have the same effect as that microbe we were referring about. Not to help pursue her, not to help you understand what you are going through, none of those. Again you are infected.

It’s like an incurable disease. You’d start noticing every detail about her, what color she usually wears, is she a lefty? those Mickey mouse ears, childlike ways, her stilettos, her hormonal mood swings that you are unusually obsessed about, then there’s the teasing but for you, it is normal, for now. Then you’ll feel that things are getting pretty scary, and at times you may think that you are losing it, but you’re not. Believe me, you are just fine. Those are just the microbes working. Most of the times, just to hide your addiction, by this thing called pretension, you feel like an actor in a play, convincing your audience, her, that you don’t care. Won’t work, it will boomerang. It is math. Expect that it is accurate.

Now, there is nothing left to do but to just tell her how you feel, but you just can’t. As a remedy, you’d then turn to heart amplifiers. Every day you’d put on those headphones, hoping to find your saving grace, you’d correlate every line in every song with those entwined days that you’d wish to spend with her – sitting on a bench, tangerine fields, rabbit clouds, and coffee stains shared morning views, breakfast. And as you listen, as you take on that curve, and the stretch of an avenue from your office, to the bus stop, everything around you are like moving pictures, a film and your playlist is the score.  And as the scenes in your head roll, you turn your head from left to right, looking at the city lights and the highway hues. And the immovable feeling will kill you at every end of each song. Darn microbes.

And before you know it, you’d be listening to way too much of Thom Yorke and his bizarre ballads, finding yourself in strawberry fields, looking at Lucy’s eyes, ever longing for those Fender imposed C minors and B flats, waltzing away, with her thoughts, trying to find the words between the lines on how you can finally ask her to have that first cigarette with you. Darn microbes.

The Fine Art of Sulking

Spending Saturdays in bed online, finding one’s frontier, reading romantic screenplays with cigarettes and junk food has become a weekend routine that starts in the first light, and stretches on till dusk, midnight until slumber hits you and takes over. In between the activity, are the daydreaming and the short naps, it is best with ice creams with cigarettes, an odd combination, but for a romantic, I’d say the stale taste and the sweetness of the experience will surely take you back…  Now focus you.

The mixture of all the sour things that happened and the few good stuff that filled your days with her will definitely hook you up with this kind of a weekend ‘hobby’, so to speak. As if you have any choice.  The sheets and the bread crumbs, the long hours of browsing online for that perfect Sunday afternoon song, reading lyrics and screenplays, certify you to be at it the entire summer.  You won’t survive without TV, – your HBOs and Nat Geos, and most of the hours awake, you are watching at the same time you are surfing the net, and listening to overly saddened British pop music, writing some of your thoughts, doodles, crumpled papers everywhere. And yes these are definitely possible. You’d be surprised how easy it is. Most of the people I know will drown themselves in the bathtub with alcohol, for some, antibiotics. But actually the art of sulking is a complex mixture of everything, except of course drugs, this option is way too extreme even for my taste. Overdrinking will not do it. Alcohol will overpower the romance in you. With bathroom medications, well, you don’t want to go that far of the line my friend.

Mind you, I am with you with alcohol, drinking is one of the few things in life (alongside with cigarettes) that are honest and will stick with you even if the night is over – I’m referring to hangover. It is just that, over drinking takes the sense out of you and makes you say and do things that you will definitely regret in the morning.  So I say do it right. With cigarettes, the pack brutally and honestly tells you that it causes cancer and ‘dangerous to your health’ – isn’t that something?

If you have to be alone, by all means, do it, I recommend before doing it, go to the grocery, get yourself a bottle Jack Daniel’s, (please drink within your tolerance), of course, cigarettes and a gallon of ice cream.  – You might also want to grab yourself 2 cartons of OJ, just for the kid in you.

Read.  Brain activity will surely help. Logic can provide you with a clearer picture of what you are into at the moment.  Music also does the same effect, only it is too emotional. But one can’t help but listen anyway because we long for it. We need it.  That is why it is imperative to balance it with logic. So read.

This kind of a weekend routine will last for about 3-4 months or so, depending on the severity of the case.  But it is normal.  All I am saying if you are to do it, do it right. You’ll know that this phase is over when you find yourself somewhere elsewhere doing a different thing, and doing it regularly. We’ll save that one for next. For now, enjoy sulking!