Highways Apart

I could stare at this untouched cup of hot coffee for sixty more minutes.

I had been walking on empty roads illuminated by solemn orange street lamps. I could not keep walking anymore. It had been an hour of walking, going nowhere but here and there across the familiar place. It had been an hour before I decided I could use a cup of coffee in this 3 AM silence.

I can still see the wars we endured against our own enemies—our friends. It was the time when we thought we could be selfish, that in each other’s arm we’ll find happiness—even if it meant that we had to sacrifice the spears and bullets they threw at us.

When I tell our literal short story, they always tell me that I should have fought for it. Tell me, listener, would you will to sacrifice friendships for a person?

Rather, I chose to forget and I closed my eyes in my sleeping coffee dream.

That night I dreamt of seeing the skyline of Manila from a terrace at a house from somewhere I’ve never been before. I knew I was somewhere else. I remembered faces were around me, warm and familiar. Although I had recognized none, there was a chill in the air and a vibe.

I hardly remember someone, but I remember that person—one particular person I can’t remember the name or what that person was like. I remember that I met that person the first time that night. And that person just stuck to me. It was the first time someone made me feel like I am special, that I am appreciated and to be fought for. It was the first time my flaws are like a work of abstract art, but that person appreciated that abstract of mine.

I remember trying to emphasize my brokenness to that person. But that someone made me feel fixed—repaired in some fashion that I am perfect the first time.

There are moments when we wake up from a dream so great, that we wish that we had been sleeping and dreaming again. In that moment we find it hard to differentiate what we really dream and what we dreamt to happen. Either way, both are fantasy.

I drank my coffee—the caffeine sank in. And once again, I am awake to my own reality, as dark as that night.

thewritersguild   prose   



Another fishfishfish 🐟, our fourth Betta. Pinaghalong kulay nila Bubbles (deceased) + Sharkie (deceased) + Chieshie 👌

Another fishfishfish 🐟, our fourth Betta. Pinaghalong kulay nila Bubbles (deceased) + Sharkie (deceased) + Chieshie 👌




Why I share beds and pillows

13.9.’14

I moved in to an LB apartment thinking that I would own the single bed and two fluffy pillows I brought. Instead, I use half of my bed, with my other body on another’s bed. And only one pillow for my head.

Come to think of it, having 4 beds in a single line was not a bad decision. If your classes start late, you could just roll on empty areas where you can avail of free pillows <3

Come to think of it, one pillow is better than having two. Instead of making ‘lantay’ to your other pillow for warmth, I can rather spoon/hug the nearest person. A human’s warmer anyway.

Share a bed. Maybe you’d realize what it means to make space for someone. Maybe you’d be disciplined to reserve a spot for someone. Maybe you’d learn how to respect and love and care. I know because I realized, I had been disciplined, and I learned how to respect, love, and care.

Thank you for reserving my bed slot. Thank you for not isolating me to the lone bed. Democracy rocks!

Share a pillow. Maybe you’d realize how important it is to hold on tight to your only pillow so it does not get stolen. Maybe that’s why I’m so clingy, because I am afraid of letting my pillows be stolen or get smelly or lose them.

Maybe you’d know whose pillow is which. Their fluffiness, their scent, or their nonexistence.

Maybe two would share one pillow, two heads in one. Maybe because someone na sobrang kapal na mukha ay nanakawin yung unan na hinihigaan mo na na wala nang ititira sayo kahit isang unan man lang.

Or maybe you would use pillows as killing weapons and suffocate each other with the skunk pillows.

But you guys are my real, metaphysical bed and pillows. Not because you’re soft and fluffy but maybe because you comfort me. Maybe sometimes you’re unacceptable because you’re stinky and harsh, but that’s the best thing about your honesty. We may not have equal bed and pillow shares, but it’s great that we can have a democracy—that we actually share and find comfort. Let’s be clingy beds and not leave these beds we are in.

I apologize for sometimes being a noisy pillow. I miss my Rizaleno and Sta Cruz pillows. Let’s not change.

to besties   personal   



Sweggg 👊👌

Sweggg 👊👌




Why I Hate Fridays

30.8.’14

The part why I stress.

Maybe it’s just me trying to escape the problems in my real home here, or me trying to find the better confinement and company. Or me trying not to be alone like I am today.

Three weeks of ‘school’ have passed and somehow I find my feet involuntarily walking back to LB. Maybe it’s just my three-month vacation sickness filling that craving. Or not.

It’s not the actual ‘studying’ that I miss and want right now, I actually hate that part lately. How I remembered not attending my first ever subject (because I was ill) and not attending morning subjects (because I was lazy). Another reminder to me right now to set my priorities straight. Acad load right now isn’t that heavy, it actually is light but really time-consuming.

It’s also not the ‘things I have to do’ that I miss and want right now. Nope, I didn’t want to be a head of logistics and publicity in my two affiliations. But I managed. And I will manage.

The part why I like weekdays.

Monday nights until Friday afternoons are my daily LB existence. And in that existential part is what I love, excluding the part I said above.

Cue clinginess.

It may be my 60 other orgmates or my 10+ other Perspective guyth or my devcom hi’s and goodbye’s people or my PSS peeps or my bestie roomies housemates.

I don’t know, but I like just being there. I want to hang out at CHE lobby just thinking and killing time and trying hard to connect to ‘UPLB’ wifi, socializing physically and online at the same time. I like being in the [P] office even though it’s hot and butt-hurting, just laughing and ‘meeting’, and talak satisfies that rant crave. I like being in devcom series classes where almost all my recit classmates are the same people, I like being bibo and kwela and not actually doing articles or recording voice or learning systems or scientific papers, but rather making chika and daldal to everyone I’ll be with for the next two more years. I like being with those high school peeps I never get bored at, they keep that nostalgic thread firm and unbreakable. They’re one of those people who you can differentiate from then to now; these are the people you had a foundation, need not worrying about trust issues. And finally are the housemates, one I like slapping in the face, one who is barely evicted, one who rarely goes home at sunlight, one who is in a high school hormonal rage, and one antagonist who likes burrito.

These housemates who I hate and care, are the real reason why I hate fridays, they may not look like it, but some of them are people I’ve been friends with only since the first sem, some only since July, or only on April. I like being called Senpai because of my sole, actual, and real Sophomore standing. I like back massages and face massages with consumable hours. I like clingy texts and pagsusuyo. But I don’t like paying rent.

The real part why I hate Fridays.

I don’t like going home at 4 PM on Friday, dreading your arrival by the end of your 5:30 class, because I know that we have to pack things to go home (or wash the fishbowl and put 2-day worth of fish feed). Then by the time we have eaten dinner I don’t like knowing that we have to actually walk to junction because full jeepneys can’t hold us all together. I don’t like separating at all. You guys riding a Cubao bus while I sadly have to go alone and wait for an Alabang bus. I’ll send texts as soon as I got in the bus, trying to hold my existence existential to everyone. It’s what I hate: having to know that it ends at Fridays and starts on Mondays again. And as I write, I want to be back.

It’s like having to pause a game because you have to.

personal   journal   clingy