sporadic again.

GE.

To be so cold that I could freeze your hand off if you held it in your
painful exquisite fingers. Even with the knowledge that chances are, my
hand will die warmly instead when our fingers touch.

-o0o-

Nightglow again.

And everything looks freakish enough for me to want to fetal curl and wish I was back in Naga but this is everyday, every night and every breathing second that I happen to be here. And you get used to it after some time, but in the same way that you'd get used to, say, having someone thwack your head every minute or so. Which you don't get used to it at all.

And homesick suddenly becomes the new painful word.

summer dummer thoughts.

cruel world.

just said hello again. I have no plans of saying goodbye.
because I have a lovely daughter and they still play the blues
somewhere. and I miss my wife.

a good evening, my dearie, when I am up working at night and I go to
sleep in the morning when everything else melts along with me in the
summer heat. lava lamp my ass.

the world is not cruel after all, the people are.

-o0o-

so, if this were some other thing.

Like if things were a little colder and things were a little farther away and things were a little faded to see anymore, and if things seemed like they were not there anymore, and if all familiar things seem a little smaller and if things were a little desperate and if things were so changed they were not the same anymore and if things were so harder than ever before and if things were numbing you down to ice and if things just shouldn't happen and if all these things were getting more serious than yesterday.

Would you still call it your life.

Or some other thing.

tangerine tofu.

I remember a morning, still dark, I burned my tongue on hot tofu, and tasted sweetness at the same time. Not a contrast, but pain and sweetness seem to be strange bedfellows.

So, this is Manila in another way. and being alone.

And yes, don’t forget the rain.

You know, you still pull my strings however far. I should wash my whatifs with the purple rain that would be falling this afternoon.

-o0o-

vertigo and tunnel vision.

I mean right now, and there’s this tic in my lower right eyelid. and perhaps hunger plays a large part, but the food I am looking for is miles away.

Like everything is miles away.

Or kilometers, or whatever way you want to measure it.

poop.

I think I am trying not to write because too much of myself will bleed over into these letters, and I still cannot stem the flow, and trying to get my mind off it all the time, but the pain still kicks in some time or the other.

looking out a tall building before sunrise and before sleep.

The cranes are still dead, looking very much like skeletons if handguns had them. And the vermillion sunrise has come and gone in minutes, the morning is now at the mercy of the blues and greys; the moments before the unfettered sun comes.

We have silence for the moment, and coldness. This is much better.

I don’t want to watch the city wake up, no innocence or the magnificence when Rain does.
By the time I have to go home, the city would have woken up and will meet me with the hunger and the veiled desperation. The cool pastels are retreating now, the sun has shed her clothes. Whites and yellows. Radiance. Even the clouds scatter. I can only hope to dream in her fever and harsh rays. Then my dreams go translucent, and eventually transparent enough that my own sweet silent desperations can be seen, cooking in her heat.

Coldness is an eternity of reminisces away.

outside.

Turning blue again, and I am thinking I am somewhere where I never thought I’d be. I’d never thought I’d be somewhere anyway. With the blue comes rain.That early morning rain,When it is a lovely time for sleeping and holding someone else’s warmth to your own coldness, imagined or otherwise.And I’d rather be there, than here facing these digital visual wonders and the world of information.They don’t embrace me back.

whatever.

The rewind button has been ignored for months now, even if things ain't looking so good enough to warrant a looksee in the past and check if back then was much better than the now-as-in.

To flashback if I wanted to, go somewhen and live an older life for some moments and come back wiser and a tad bit more sentimental; and more often than not find that I have broken an ittybitty piece of myself somewhere.

These days, the present is enough reason for waking and to just space out. Solitude has made herself so scarce these months I am starting to twitch nervously sometimes, for the lack of her presence and the thought that she just might have left for good. I remember back then that I fooled around with the word Existentialism.

Now, I am in a limbo far worse than any I have been in and I know that I should be somewhere, preferably moving and making some money while at it.

crumbles.

I'd love to cry in your arms again, be warm again and all my pieces gathered; all in one place. I'd want to be where I can soften my emotional calluses, that I'd want to smile again like it is the natural thing in the world and not be paranoid that someone would see.

Manila is a place where being myself is not exactly a good idea.
And for the past weeks bonks has not been a good idea at all. Yes, I hesitate to use being real, as it falls prey to subjectivity.

Its almost pure sadness to miss my lady's embrace and my daughter's smile floating away in the air unaffected by the gravity of living for money.
At times, I will take that back; because it is pure sadness. The word "almost" would not be there at all.

I think I will listen to loud music again. Put the blues and the Counting Crows on the backburner. There is a need to space out, I miss my family too much.

flickers of madness.

running along the peripheries of my heat-addled brain, are not giving me nice thoughts. I am thinking that is the result of going for months without writing at all.

I have to open up the wounds again, I think they are closing up. Internal hemorrhage is a bad way to go. I have to let the blood flow again. Watch it crimson the place up again, then I can play the guitar again. and yes, Write.

Even with the lack of sleep and all, because a decade ago, I got along just fine, and my wounds were raw and bleeding fine then and I slept late and woke up early. and there was this thing called angst; ah, wonderful word that one was.

Things have gotten buried since then and I haven't gotten around to digging up things that I miss more than twice some time or the other these hot days.

Perhaps I should grab my grammar book and hone up the edges a bit, the better to open them wounds again. The funny thing is I'd prefer to watch my daughter hold her toes up her nose than do those things.

I wonder if I can do those things at the same time. Find some balance to it.

guess not.

I can only do one thing in the absence of the other. Oh, yes, this is my life.

hunger and heat.

(AM)

I am off again to hunt the elusive sleep, in this fertile heat. Slumber is rare thing these days, like kisses (the long ones) and yawns (my daughter's). Like enough money even.

(PM)

And I found a poor man's sleep, scraggly and threadbare. Barely there, but I took it anyway. And woke up weak and hungry, scarcely able to push the buttons on the remote, so, I just lay there, imagining you, and Rain.

near enough to bask in your warmth, even in this heat.

and be home again.

more than that.

these are sad times
even sighs are held back
thinking that it may color
the air,
and advertise to the immediate world
that for some reason.
You are sad.

being wired.

Would being up there be a better feeling. And the hundred questions that I would never answer, or would take that a step further.

Its been so long.

I cant even say I miss this, or that I need this. I just have this feeling that I should, not that sort of feeling that obligation gives you. Or responsibility.

Just that feeling that I should, that this is life.

Like that.
I guess I'll only be getting a few things that I want with my life. There never was an assurance that I would anyway, just the dream that this is what should be.

I can only hope that I could say I am complete if I happen to die in the next minute.

What I am is beyond my dreams of 8 years ago.

What I am pales in some parts of what I dreamed of 8 years ago.

The thing is, only the dreams remain. Yes, I would not want to wake up from them.
They are good sources of sustenance.

hear here.

through acoustics again.

Direct access memory, where scents holds reign supreme. Fading lingering traces of desire, and the realization, yes, through acoustics.

And seems like another life, far removed from the current one.

Viewing it up here, and the world gives a little spin, making sure the whatifs and whatmighthavebeens would not have a semblance of life. Or even just the idea of it.

I would just listen and unzip memories, and yes, this is a good life.

Much appreciated and much enjoyed.