Sophia Sophia

6am. Awakened by a bad dream, my eyes open in an unexplained agitation.

I suddenly see this angel staring at me. Her eyes damp with the innocence of youth. The morning sun kissing her chicks aglow. Her hands is in a struggle to create a meaningless motion.

The nightmare ends.

For some reason, this makes me want to pray.

Humdrumming

Humdrumming

The desk lamp stares at
the ruins of a dead constellation lost
in the vast piece of
nothingness.



The light suddenly burns out.

Lito's Stars

Lito always thought that stars were fairies that grant the wishes of children.
This is because his mother always told him stories about star fairies before he goes to sleep.

She says that stars have beautiful faces.

They bore two golden wings.

They have deep clear eyes that could see through the hearts of children.
Their eyes enable them to know what children truly desire.

They own a wand tipped with a crystal that could blind with its brightness.
That glistening gem is what we see from earth.

When a star grants a wish, it flies to earth and fulfills it.
So, when we see a falling star, it’s actually a fairy flying towards earth.

Lito’s mother also told Lito that stars want to hear children plea for their wishes before the stars fulfill them. So, she always asked Lito to pray to the stars each night before going to sleep.

And Lito always did.

He prayed for a meal other than tinapa and pandesal.

He prayed for her mother to stop coughing at night so they could both sleep well.

He prayed for a Father.

But his wishes never came true.

Her mother told him that it was just a test of his diligence and patience. Her mother pushed him to continue praying.

And Lito did. He was an obedient child.

On Lito’s seventh birthday, his mother died.

He was told by the village doctor that her mother died because of lung cancer.The doctor promised Lito that he will be living in a new house starting tomorrow. The doctor said that he will pick Lito up the morning after that day.

That night, Lito felt sad and alone.

He missed her mother.

So, he prayed for the stars to give her mother’s life back.

But his mother didn’t return.

He decided to stop praying from then on.

The moment Lito closed his eyes, Lito suddenly heard a voice.

It said, “reach for the stars.”

Lito cringed.

Then it spoke again, “reach for the stars.”

Lito was sure that it was neither the voice of her mother nor the voice of the doctor.

Lito decided to reply, “who are you?”

The voice answered, “I am the star you’re wishing to.”

Lito pulled a chair.

He stood on it and peeped into the hole in their roof.

He looked closely to the one star that was shining above the hole.

He never imagined that he could be this close to a star.

Lito’s eyes turned bright and big.

He saw that it had a beautiful face.

It bore two golden wings.

It had deep clear eyes.

It had a wand.

And it was smiling at him.

Lito’s heart pounded so loud he could hear it.

He went out to take a closer look at the star.

But when Lito went out, he just saw the glistening gem in the star’s wand, shining.
Lito shrugged. He was sure that what he just saw was real.

He decided to go near to the star again. He really wanted to plea to it.

Lito ran towards the star. He stared at it while he ran. He ran fast.

While he was running, he bumped into an old blind beggar.
He quickly apologized to the man, looked up again, and continued running.

Then, he accidentally stepped on a dog’s stool.

He briskly rubbed his foot against the concrete floor, looked up again, and continued running.

Then he stumbled upon a huge stone.

And as he tried to stand, he noticed that he was standing at a bridge.

His eyes turned bright and big when he looked down and saw a star floating on the river. He tried to jump from the bridge, hoping that he could talk to the star afloat.

But a car suddenly hit him.

Lito lost consciousness.

Lito woke up in an unfamiliar room. He was lying on a clean soft bed. He tried to get up but was too weak to do so. Then two persons came in.

“How are you doing Lito?” the man in white garb asked.

It took a while before Lito replied.

He realized that the man was his mother’s doctor.

“A bit dizzy. Where am I?”
“You’re in your new home.”
“My new home? What happened?”
“You were hit by a car last night. The person who accidentally hit you brought you to my clinic. I brought you here. This is the new house I spoke of last time we talked. Beside me is your new mother. Her name is Stella. She teaches the kids living here. We’ve been taking care of you three days now.”

Lito flinched. Her new mother was nothing like her old mother. She was not fat. Her skin was fair and flawless unlike the saggy freckled skin of her old mother. Her face glowed and had dabs of colors. He missed her mother.

Lito felt sad and alone.

“May I ask, what were you doing outside that late?” Stella curiously asked Lito.

“I was following a star fairy. Then I saw it floating on the river. I tried to jump from the bridge so that I could wish to it. I wanted to make my dreams come true.”

Stella’s eyes became damp after hearing Lito answer. She flashed a smile at Lito. She held Lito’s hand until Lito fell asleep again.

The next morning, Lito was asked to join the kindergarten class of Stella. Stella introduced Lito to everyone. The kids shouted in unison, “Hi Lito! Welcome to our home!”

Lito suddenly felt a warm gentle wind embrace him.
It put a smile on his face.

Lito participated in all of the classroom activities.
For the first time, he learned how to read and write.

At the end of the day, each of the children was asked to pronounce and spell the words they have learned earlier.

Lito was shown a picture of a man in blue and white driving a boat.

So Lito said, “it’s a sailor! S-A-I-L-O-R! Sailor!”

Stella smiled and said, “very good Lito!”

Then Stella asked for Lito’s right hand.

She took a stamp and pressed it on Lito’s hand.

Stella said, “Lito, this is a star.”
Lito looked at the image the stamp left on his hand.
He saw that it didn’t have a beautiful face.
It also didn’t bear two golden wings.
It had neither deep clear eyes nor a wand.

Lito got confused.

Stella continued, “From now on Lito, this would be the star you’d be aiming at. You will get it if you will study hard. From now on, you will make your dreams come true.”

Afterwards, Stella invited the class to eat pizza with her at their canteen.

Stella gave a slice of pizza and a glass of juice to Lito.

As Lito ate the very first slice of pizza he had ever tasted, he thought of what Stella said. He stared at the star stamped on his hand. Then suddenly, Lito felt a strange but strong feeling of contentment within him.

For The One That Got Away

I cant believe I wrote this. My version of cheeziness.

"Pulp"

Reality and illusion are one: a vague profile of a woman smoking a cigarette, eyes cast down, her back sadly propped on a vast dark gray wall plunked on a nameless narrow corridor. An unattractive side-view posture of despair at first glance.

But it is the soul of the exhibit. Unlike the other featured art works that have only two dim lights shedding their existence, it is illumined by four bright yellow lights, insinuating that it’s the most valuable painting in the room. Its canvass is as big as a billboard while the others are only as huge as one-fourth illustration boards.

Many secretly wondered why Javi Yulo had particularly picked it as the main attraction of his event when the other paintings are far more outstanding than it in terms of form and content. The opus seems to be hackneyed. Half-baked. The guests thought. These ill judgments ramble in their heads without actual precipitation in words because no one wanted to appear ignorant. Since he was a renowned artist, a pundit in his chosen field, popularly demanded by art enthusiasts and collectors, works sold-out in a week, everyone assumed that he knows what he’s doing every time he creates something. Hence, they kept their sincere criticisms to themselves, passively accepting that it was the most beautiful piece in the room. Some of them even threw away empty praises here and there, hypocritical compliments that are not grounded on critical thought, but nonetheless sounded intelligent and are pleasant to the ears. They, indeed, seem very cultured and learned.

And Javi is aware of their superficiality and his mediocrity, but didn’t say much about it. Artistry was not the reason why it was the heart of the exhibit anyway. Also, he had been used to these posers speaking about his art as though they genuinely understood and appreciated them. They give them money so he could make more art. That’s what’s important for him. Worrying about “serious art stuff” was never his business. He doesn’t care if art should be for Art’s sake or not. He leaves those sorts of issues for the “hardcore” artists. It would only cut his last grip to sanity. “Relax thy mind and go with the flow; you’ll never be in an all-time low”—his life motto.

Javi had been gazing at his central opus ever since he got inside the gallery. Really, the figure seems to be an abomination. Subject sketch was vaguely defined. It’s imprecise, yet can still be distinguished. It seems to be an impressionist painting, but not really. Close to surreal. Water was apparently sloshed into it as the “finale touch”. It’s a sort of silhouette only the subconscious can recognize.

And it was relentlessly melancholic. Very depressing it was. But for Javi, it was beautiful beyond words, a damp scene from a Wong Kar Wai film. Miserably nostalgic. But beautiful. Exceptionally and fantastically beautiful.

The colors he used might have helped in opposing, or rather, neutralizing the bleak theme of the painting, as they were the total opposite of the despondent picture: they were brutally bright. The woman is apparently swathed in a light red violet turtle neck dress that stretches an inch above her knees. It has a slit on the sides with a border around it, which are sewed with a darker shade of red violet. She is wearing a purple eye shadow and lipstick. She has hazelnut eyes. Two dimples at her face’s sides. She is wearing white stilettos. Fair skinned she was.

Radiohead’s “How To Disappear Completely” is afloat at the gallery’s sound streams. While Javi lights the newly rolled marijuana given to him by her girlfriend, a lady who seems to be in her early thirties yet still very cool and hip, wearing an orange tank top with a large sallow "The Cure" boldly printed on top of the fabric covering her breast approaches him. The woman points her index finger to the main painting, and with utmost curiosity, queries: “Who was your inspiration for this work?”

My inspiration for this work echoed in Javi’s head.

He intently looks at his painting.

Silence.

He offers the lady some of the dope he’s smoking. She takes a puff.

He forces a smile and responds matter-of-factly: “No one. Just drew what I felt like drawing.”

The lady half-smiles after hearing Javi reply, not fully satisfied with his response. But then she knows that most artists are like Javi as well: just drawing what they feel like drawing. Capturing the moment. Making a fleeting emotion last in eternity. So eventually, she fully smiles.

But Javi was lying of course. He did have an inspiration. All artists have, as they never create out of nothing, and never could. but he doesn’t want to consider his as inspiration per se though. Not in its general sense. For his was not a mere stimulator of the art work but its cause—formal, efficient and final. She was the maker and the end product. The vision and outcome. Potency and act.

Or so he believed.

The lady inhales Javi’s pot again. After six to seven seconds she exhales it. Weed smoke comes gushing out from her mouth and nose. It envelops part of the painting. After a while, the thin gusts slowly disappear in oblivion, and as it does, the painting slowly becomes clearer, more real.

Then suddenly, Javi is transported back in time. He’s not in the exhibit anymore. He’s in the painting. His present is not now, but two years ago.

=====

She was busy at her most loved and most hated vice when Javi first saw her, emerging from the mists and shadows of the cigarette fumes dancing under the streetlights and the silver rays of the moon. “Why We Cry At Movies” by As Tall As Lions is surging from the speakers outside Magnet—the café/bar/art gallery where she works as an events organizer and acoustic singer. It was her break from work. She was sitting on the corrugated gray steps of the stairs leading to the entrance of Magnet, smoking a stick of Malboro, pensive, her hazelnut eyes radiating a blank gaze, seemingly remote from this world as always.

She had always wanted to quit smoking because it tarnishes her golden voice, like how friction and time wounds the beauty of steel, giving birth to lumps of rusts after habitual use and abuse. But then the reason for her smoking always dominates her passion for singing: despair.

You see, Maxine Vallez was not the usual chain-smoker who smokes because she loves the addicting taste of nicotine. She smokes because she oddly believes that in some mysterious way smoking reduces the deep heaviness in the soul wrought by life’s heresies, like how it alleviates the heavy feeling in the stomach after a huge meal. And Maxine was never able to get rid of the vice, as life had always been playing a requiem for her existence.

She was in an olive green tube dress and brown pointed boots that time. Half of
her long black hair was curled and her bangs gracefully hung down from her forehead until her brown eyebrows. She seemed to be a laidback kind of lady. Her beauty is effortless yet stunning. She was god-like gorgeous. But what drew Javi towards her was not that, but her eyes. Her damp hazelnut eyes. They tell him that life had been worse than cruel to her. They mirrored dead dreams. Lost loves. He doesn’t really know why they did. But they did. All he knew is that she is extremely and irrevocably lonely.

Damp hazelnut eyes.

It’s not that he wanted to save her from this extreme and irrevocable loneliness. He didn’t have that so called messianic complex. He didn’t want to cure her from the disease of solitude. He just saw himself mirrored in her eyes. He saw his solitude in her, and wanted to share that with her. It was only in that instant, for the first time in his life, that he wanted to share himself with a woman, and not merely sleep with her. He doesn’t know her yet but he felt that he had known her for a long time. Uncanny. But that’s what he really felt when she first saw her.

He wanted to approach her that instant, but he didn’t know how. Also, he had a date that time. He always had a date. Everyday he had different dates. After he broke up with her first and last girlfriend, he promised to himself not to get intimate with women. And intimate doesn’t mean not having sex with them. He sleeps with women, but never opens himself to them. He seldom talks to them. That’s his appeal actually. That he seldom talks. Women think he’s gentle and mysterious that way. It also makes him seem to be a good listener, which most women love because most women love to have a monopoly in conversations. But the truth is, he doesn’t even want to hear what his date’s going to say. He doesn’t want to know them either, the way he doesn’t want to be known.

His first and last girlfriend is to be blamed. He was nineteen years old when he met her. She was her professor in Theatre Arts. She was eleven years older than him. He liked her because she was the only one who really understood him and his paintings. She was an intellectual. She knows four languages other than Filipino and English. She’s also a voracious reader. She speaks of art as though it was a common thing. And most of all, she took good care of him like no one ever did, not even his divorced mother who unreasonably left him in the hands of her aunt when he turned seven. He thought that marrying her and having kids with her was the reason for his existence, until he discovered that she’s married and has two kids already.

Their affair expired after five years. That’s how long she kept the secret. Since then, he took his art as his wife and just treated other women as mere mistresses who satisfied his sexual needs.

Maxine felt the very same feeling Javi felt for her when she first saw him. A woman in a black halter dress was with him that time. He was wearing a faded black corduroy pants, black slippers and plain white shirt. She was observing them as they walked out of his car until they entered Magnet’s door and vanished. She loves doing that. Watching people around her do what they do. That’s what she does during her break from work: watch people while smoking. When she notices something that strikes her, she mulls about it. Sometimes, she thinks about it too much that she forgets the cigarette weaved between her fingers—more often than not, the cigarette dies without warning. Talk about a constructive way to waste a cigarette.

Javi also had it. Damp hazelnut eyes.

Maxine noticed it the very first instant she saw him. And was appealed by it. She thought what Javi also thought: finally, a person that could understand me, to whom I can share my loneliness. She can’t explain why she felt it, but she did.

Her theory about him was even supported by Javi’s red tattoo etched all over his right arm. She always believed that engraving tattoo in one’s body is a way of coping with unbearable spiritual pain.

Man has this tendency to desire a state of apathy when he’s in a real inescapable pain. But a numb state can only be achieved when the pain has reached its fullest potential, which could only be attained when pain had already arrived at the end of the ache spectrum. But there’s no end in the ache spectrum when we talk about spiritual pain, for the soul is infinite, everlasting, forever. So, when spiritual ache becomes intolerable, man seeks a physical counterpart. Pain will then have a tangible form, visible, palpable and finite. It now expects death. And the ache spectrum will acquire an end. A friend of hers once told her that: “it’s all about the pain the needle brings to your body; the tattoo is just a souvenir.”

Javi’s frequent rejection of her date’s request to hold his hand also caught Maxine’s attention. It’s interesting because they seem to be in good terms that night. They kissed each other every so often. His arms were always around her waist. However, when the woman tries to hold hands with him, he refuses with grave repugnance.

Maxine didn’t know that Javi finds holding someone’s hand very intimate. Javi believes that holding hands is a I-know-you-and-you-know-me gesture. Exclusive for lovers. He will only hold the hand of girl that he truly loves and loves him back.

After Maxine’s break, the two were immediately introduced to each other by the owner of the bar. It was the first art exhibit Javi had in the gallery, and Maxine organized the event.

“Maxine, meet our artist, Javi Yulo.”

They didn’t shake hands. Both just nodded and smiled. Javi discovers that she has two tiny round dimples furrowed at the ends of her lips. Charming. He thought.

“Javi, she made this happen. Plus she will sing later for us. Meet my girl, Maxine Vallez.”

His girl.

For some reason, that bugged Javi. But he still flashed a smile nevertheless.

Both badly wanted to be with each other that night. But none of them did anything to make that happen. Maxine was hesitant because Javi had a girl with her. She thought that the woman was her girlfriend. Javi, on the other hand, thought that Maxine was the owner’s girlfriend. His girl.

Javi never wanted to make the first move until that day. Girls were the ones who always approach him first (He was drop-dead attractive.) But even though Javi’s desire was at the extreme, he didn’t want to get close to her, for he might end up liking her so much and hurting himself so bad, since she was his girl.

Thus, the two were just glancing at each other the whole night. Both were careful and furtive in their gazes, like thieves at work, snakes about to attack a prey at a forest.

Maxine left first before Javi did. After she sang three trip-hop songs, she left because her mother was sick. Also, Maxine always leaves early because she has to prepare breakfast for her younger siblings before dawn.

Before Javi left, a joyous revelation was unexpectedly disclosed to him.

“Javi thanks for the event! My gallery and bar earned a lot tonight because of you!” applauded the bar owner.

“Oh thank your girlfriend! She was great!” Javi replied.

“Girlfriend?”

“Yeah Maxine. She organized this, right?”

“Yes, but she’s not my girlfriend. I’m married! That girl doesn’t have a boyfriend. I actually think she hates guys because she was single ever since I first met her. And mind you, that was three years ago.”

Javi was about to ask when Maxine performs at Magnet when one of the waiters suddenly screamed because his date lost consciousness. Valium overdose.
They took her to his car. Javi brought her to her house.

After that night, Javi went to Magnet everyday, alone. He never dated anyone. But he never saw what he wished to see again: Maxine. He was told that her mother died, so she’ll be out for a long while. But it was an undefined absence they said.

But Javi still persisted. He waited and waited. Each day felt like eternity. But he tautly held on to hope. Hope that one day he would see those damp hazelnut eyes again.

After three months, two weeks and three days, she came back.

He was smoking pot and drinking rhum coke at the bar when he saw Maxine from Magnet’s entrance wearing a black off-shoulder dress and sunglasses. The speakers breathe “Everybody Here Wants You” by Jeff Buckley. She sat on the table near the stage of the bar and lighted a cigarette. She didn’t notice him at the bar. After Javi consumed all of his rhum and after consuming all the weed inside his pipe, he approached Maxine.

“I haven’t thank you for making my last exhibit possible,” Javi said.

Maxine was surprised. She flashed a pure flicker of glee. Kilos of loss evaporated from her soul. She was happy seeing him. Two twin dimples popped in her face. Charming.

“Oh it’s you. Thank me for nothing. A job’s a job.”

“Performing tonight?“

“No. I just came here to speak with my boss.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

“Of course.”

“Why wear sunglasses at night?”

Maxine strained a smile.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“I have to leave before midnight.”

Silence.

“Okay just one.”

Javi called the waiter and ordered one glass of tequila rose and another rhum coke for him.

After two hours, the two were inebriated.

Out of nowhere Javi blurted, “I like you a lot.” Even he was appalled that he was
able to say that.

Maxine gave him a deep and poignant gaze.

Then she said, “my mom committed suicide.”

Javi was told that her mom died because of an illness, whatever sickness it was, he didn’t know.

“Why do you think she did it?

“Dad left our house five months ago, without explanation, without a trace.”

Silence.

“How are you feeling?”

“Dead.”

Javi reaches for Maxine’s hand under the table. Maxine gets up from her seat. She didn’t notice Javi’s hand. She goes to the bathroom. Javi was not able to hold her hand.

Javi saw the act as rejection.

When Maxine returned, Javi was gone.

The two didn’t see each other for eight months. But they always thought of each other. Javi still haven’t dated other women and just concentrated on making priceless art, while Maxine continued his work at Magnet. Everyday, Maxine secretly waited for Javi to visit. But he never showed up. She always wondered why he left that night.

The breath of twilight was cold at Magnet when they finally saw each other again. The theme for the night was metal music, so metal bands were playing the whole time. The current band was covering Mudvayne’s “Death Blooms”. People were banging their heads and jumping while singing with the band. Maxine was already drunk when he saw Javi smoking weed at the bar’s patio outside.

“Why did you leave all of a sudden?”

Javi was caught off guard. He didn’t expect to see her.

Javi looks straight at her.

Damp hazelnut eyes.

Maxine stares back.

They shared nine seconds of sadness.

Then Maxine unexpectedly collapses.

Javi was about to lift her up when a Chinese looking guy wearing sando with a black and green skull tattoo on his back pushed him and took Maxine with her.

Javi watched them as they get inside the guy’s car, which is just parked near the bar. He stared at them like how a man watches a loved one buried in a funeral, until they vanished in life’s stupor.

Afterwards, he looked down and saw that Maxine had left her cigarette burning on the floor. It had crimson lipstick traces at its butt. Javi smokes it. As Javi slowly inhaled the last fumes of Maxine’s cigarette, he closed his eyes and wistfully imagined her soft lips touching his. The tang of nicotine diffused and lingered in his tongue. The taste reminded him of his undefined relationship with her. The next puff was long and deep. It placed him in a nostalgic trance. He was not able to notice that he had already reached the cigarette butt already, thus, the dream abruptly ended when his mouth was scorched by the last burn. A dry little scar formed on his lips. His eyes became damper. In his mind’s eye surfaced a blurred image of what had been and might have been.

After the day Maxine lost consciousness, Javi always dreamed about her.

His dreams were always set in a never-ending unfathomable labyrinth full of unopened doors and long winding thick hallways. This labyrinth is floating in the cosmos like a separate planet. He and Maxine are trying to find each other in the maze. But they never stumble upon each other, though they were the only ones at the puzzle.

What are these dreams telling me? He constantly thought.

All of his dreams were just them chasing one another, except the last one.

In this dream, a dark fairy spoke to him. The fairy had wings akin to a bat’s wing. It had an abnormally long chin. Its skin was wilted. And his eyes were permanently closed but he could see.

“You two are soul mates.” the fairy said.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, you two are.”

“Soul mates?”

“Yes you deaf imbecile!”

Javi was speechless.

Tha fairy continued, “But that’s that. Destiny could not do the work for you for it to be fulfilled. That’s your job.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You never get anything.”

“I just want to see her again.”

“What if you can’t? Will you do anything?”

Then Javi abruptly wakes up, dazed and perplexed.

He becomes more bemused when he sees his right hand holding a paint brush. Gray oil is also spilled all over his shirt and pajamas.

Then he suddenly realized that he had been sleeping on a canvass.

After a while, he became aware that he just drew a painting.

And he names it “Pulp”.

Incredible Hulk On The Loose

I hate myself when I get jealous. Insecurity is my worst nightmare, really. It makes me succumb to my baser instincts. Or rather I succumbed to my baser instincts first that's why I get green. I'm not really sure. Which came first the chicken or the egg? Wait, but which is the egg and the chicken in the first place?

I think the egg is the succumbing. I imagine it similar to impregnation. Jealousy is the chicken, or rather, the chick.

The Sex: I yield to my baser instincts, entertaining the possibility that the skin-deep shrimp deserves my envy. I open his account and check if he visits her page. And I discover that he does and he even comments on her pictures. Unfuckinbelievable.

Labor and Abortion: I fight its birth as I don't want to stoop down their level. Reason tells me that what they had is over. But I also know him well enough to know that he is flirting with this lower life form. My friend Aurora once told me that I shouldn't be jealous with women that is not at par with me. But then, I can't help but feel this strong pang of annoyance and animosity within me because the girl is just so puke-provoking. A bone-headed model? Come on! He should have picked a beautiful girl or a smart one at that. She failed to fill both qualifications.

Even though I keep on battling the labor, the chick persists on coming out for reasons that transcend my intellect.

The Birth: So now, here's incredible hulk on the loose. She cyberstalks, rants and sourgrapes. It makes me ugly.

I can't believe I just made this whole article just to talk about her.--Incredible hulk on the loose.

My self-esteem and self-respect? Bermuda triangulated.

I hate her.

But I hate myself more for hating her.

Exploration Of The Gray

I've been thinking of quitting my new job after a week of doing it. I find some of the tasks given to me unethical and even illegal. I don't want to go to the nitty-gritty details, but believe me, it's like cheating in exams. But because they pay well, I continue to cheat. The 9 units of Theology I took in college--gone. 9 units of philosophy--gone. My school's Credo, mission and vision--all gone. They're like stars that exploded into the darkest of black holes.

Well, I need this job. I have a baby to raise. His father's salary is not enough to feed us. I'll only do this for a couple of months anyway. I'll have a real job next year in Australia. So I think this could do no harm.--I can keep telling this to myself forever but it won't change the fact that I'm cheating. I'm cheating. I'm cheating. And I can't deal with it. It's crawling in my nerves every freakin' day.

By mere chance or by destiny (can't possibly know), I encountered a blog that has this phrase on it: "These people need to realize that just because you can do something, it doesn't mean you should...." Really timely, I thought to myself.

After having read that, I found myself in deep contemplation.

Morality or practicality?
My soul or my child?

To hell with this. I have 4 more articles to write.

No time to waste.

A Pledge

Finally, I've convinced my alter ego to blog again. Skills get rusty when not used--this dawned on me when I began writing my first assignment in my new job (not that it is a hard job, but I hope you what I mean). After several months of not "romancing my muse", I surprisingly found myself running out of things to type in the blank page of MS Word. Ideas that came easily evaporate like damp footprints on a shore. Words seem like strangers sitting beside me on the LRT. Now, I don't know how these metaphors fair in the mind of a good reader. Oh I think that's my problem--I'm too conscious about how my words would be judged by readers. It's the fault of that dumb seminar I attended and paid for last summer. An apparently renowned writer gave the talk. She's alright. Fluent. Seems professional. She was in a corporate attire during the two sessions, I think. She's fine. But she's a god damned magazine writer. Women fashion magazines. But I learned something about passion from her and about risking. Pursue your passion even if you're not sure where you're going with it--you might be surprised. Well, I give her that credit (but she didn't even put it as beautiful as I just did haha)

Well, the point is that I got the virus she was spreading. I wanted to be a profit writer. I wanted to write for magazines because apparently, they pay well and they make you popular. I wanted to be published even if it means I'll write sell-out uncreative shitzits. Thus, I stopped writing in this blog because the stereotypical reader might not buy it.

Aside from this, I'm pressured because I was pregnant. And, if you get impregnated, unprepared and unmarried, expect the worst, even from your family. The pressure would be everywhere like zombies on the movie dawn of the dead. On the one hand, I have my sister ridiculing me, telling me that I can't achieve anything anymore because I got knocked up. On the other hand, I have to live side by side with my boyfriend's family. Don't want to go into details, but trust me, you don't want to leave your home when you're pregnant. I was really at an all-time-low at that point. So I stupidly decided to make myself famous and get myself a normal job on a big well-known company just to taunt these animals.

And it was a big failure.I was unhappy pursuing something I deem useless so I stopped. I used to be passionate with my otherworldly dreams and crazy ideas. And then I turned into a bitch bandwagon. Because of what? Because I wanted to belong. Because I wanted to be respected. I need to end this futile sojourn.

I realized that if I don't start respecting my unique weirdness, others would not start as well.

Today, after seeing my rather eccentric tattoed friend accepted in society, I got really inspired. I visited her fan page in facebook. Yes, she's now popular and is an upcoming teenage role model. I realized that as long as you stay true at what you are, you'll belong.

So now, I pledge.

I pledge that from now on, I'll be true at what I am oblivious of the approval of the unpeople.

I pledge that I will regularly write in this blog, whether its a perfectly thought entry or just some brain fart.

I pledge that I will freely write with my soul as my pen.

I pledge that I'll not care about what the shrimpheads might comment about what I write.

I pledge that I will write and write and write and write and write...and never stop something that I believe defines who I am.