isaac

Daddy tells me he loves me very much. i love him very much too. So i guess it’s OK that we play games many times. He loves me and i love him, and the games are OK, i guess. But sometimes i’m not really sure.

It’s the games we play at night that are different from the games we play during the day. When Mommy’s around, Daddy plays daytime games. They’re all fun actually, but sometimes i just don’t get it. Daddy tells me that i should keep the nightgames a secret. He looks funny every time he puts his pointing finger on his lips and says Shhhhhh. Why can’t i tell Mommy? Daddy says we share something special. He says we’re boys and Mommy’s a girl, and she won’t understand. Daddy’s smart, so i guess he knows better. Well, maybe it’s OK to keep some secrets from Mommy. i know Mommy will understand. Daddy and me love each other, and we love Mommy too, so i guess it’s OK to keep secrets from her.

When i feel like it, the nightgames we play are OK. But there are nights when Daddy gets bad. When i don’t feel like it, he hurts me. He pushes me on the bed real hard, he gets very heavy; he starts sweating, and makes funny noises too. He also whispers in my ear again and again that he loves me very much. When Daddy says that he loves me, i try not to mind that it hurts. It’s just that sometimes it gets really painful. i cry but Daddy doesn’t hear me. He keeps pushing my face hard on my pillow, and sometimes i can’t breathe. That’s when i start to close my eyes and pretend i’m buried underground.

i’m waiting for Daddy now. i hope he won’t be bad when we play later. If he hurts me again, i’ll just close my eyes. i'll play dead.

Rising to the Occasion

After another disaster earlier, attempting to un-inhibit myself in a tryst, I caught a bus with another commuter who seemed interested in me. Lanky with black-rimmed glasses (real, by the way), he was actually handsome upon second glance. Skimming through the seating arrangement in the half-filled bus, I caught the eye of a seemingly cute guy in the upper rows. My insecurities rendering me to shrink, I immediately took on the empty two-seater right behind him. “Nerdy”, following behind me, took the empty space beside “Cutey”. With the both of them cramped together, I was to witness their quick-forming relations all the way home. Left already with a broken ego earlier, the sordid duo in front of me made the long way home almost insufferable.

I began recounting how dirty I felt, post-tryst. I couldn’t help feeling down as the other issues I thought I sorted out already began rushing in. I felt uglier than usual, smaller and insignificant. All these exacerbated by the duo in front of me, quickly hitting it off, as I could tell through their furtive glances and guarded movements.

Trying to drown out my thoughts and the scene playing in front of me, I turned up the volume of my i-pod, opting for some loud house music; while curiosity and envy swam in my head. To make things worse, thinking that the cute guy would get off alone, it surprised me that the other dude followed in haste. Then I thought to myself, why shouldn’t he? The guy was indeed cute, and you’ve got to hand it to the other guy for his courageous pursuit. Through the oily window, I watched them scamper along, imagining what else the evening had in store for them: an exchange of numbers? a tryst? a brewing future relationship?

As always, I got to the sanctuary of my unit alone. I got my mail and opened my phone bill hastily while riding the elevator, attempting to convince myself that I had something important to look forward to. It was due next week. Great, more money to shell out. I felt all the more down on my way up.

After quickly stripping my clothes off, I almost swallowed my fast food takeaway in front of the T.V. After a cigarette by the window, I jumped in the shower to wash away the day’s excess, and sang to myself melancholic tunes, relishing the womb-like safety of the bathroom's accoustics.

I got to bed, cushioned my head with pillows, my mind still hard with thought. Even with the T.V. glaring in front of me, my fingers relentlessly surfing channels, I wasn't really paying attention. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't help bashing myself for reverting back to my dismal distresses. I couldn't help feeling frustrated at my current space: stuck and petrified. I couldn't stop feeling... hungry!!! Oooh! Martha Stewart started baking in the Lifestyle channel!

As soon as she was done, I put on a jacket and a pair of shorts, took the elevator and bought me a pastry downstairs. Though it almost tasted like hardened papier-mache sprinkled with sugar, it made me quite happy. After smoking a stick, watching people pass by, I couldn't help but smile. I couldn't help thinking that all's well really. Life's still good, even when you've got a pathetic pastry in hand.

Over It 2

Here's the second installment to yesterday's bliss:

"The card reader says, 'Listen to your heart...' And though the pessimist in me thinks it such a cheesy cop-out, the romantic and optimist in me finds it all too delicious. Truly, I've been too concerned of what other people think, exhausting myself in trying to look good, over-thinking to justify my ways; all of this, swimming in my head, forgetting to hear my heart. Interesting how she tied my current stasis, that palpable dead feeling that has burdened me, the loss of inspiration and vitality---all of this, to how I've silenced my heart's voice for so long."

"Yet still, I hear my mother's voice in my head. 'There is a reason why the head is above the heart', she says; her voice dripping with pragmatism. Nonetheless, one cannot discount the heart's existence nor it's power to induce our thoughts and decisions right?"

"The card reader continues that it's high time that I live outside the box I've quartered myself in. True. I've been inside it for so long, even describing it in the past as how 'petrified' I've become---deadened and scared. Living is a risk, and there is no other way but to take it on. Great if one succeeds, but if not, then try again. One thing never fails... you learn."

Over It

Amid all the negativity I've found myself swimming in lately, I decided to accept my friend's invitation to meet with his psychic-therapist. Though things have gotten better these past few days, the glimmer of happiness and hope shined a little brighter today.

Last night, I found myself exhausted from all the depression that I decided to start taking on a new paradigm.I got up from my bed (the cocoon I've long languished in), stood up, looked at myself in the mirror, and began singing a happy tune.

Today, after seeing the card reader, I couldn't help but feel much lighter than before. Buoyed with a new sense of self, I walked around the mall with a lighter stride, excited to settle down and write in my journal.

On a dusty, lop-sided table, beside the chaos of the adjacent streets, a full cup of coffee across me, and my trusty ipod playing, here are several musings for today (direct from the pages of my journal; with a little tweaking, of course):

"I guess it all boils down to my having a conversation with a stranger. Without the filters of familiarity and consequent judgement (brought about by well-meaning friends), I felt freer sharing myself; saw my reflection clearer, and felt the tempest within me ebb."

"Similar to the card reading I've had in the past (with another psychic), I was told of my greatness, power, and fiery aura. But this time I was made aware that not only is my fire innate, having the ability to create and make a difference, I also had the power to destroy. And for the past months, I have taken on the destruction of my own self with fantasies of ineptitude and desperation (what can I say, it's the drama queen in me)."

"I got present to my recent despondent feelings, in search of some messiah to whisk me away into a brand new life. And I realized how it was all a futile attempt at not taking responsibility, feeding the childish in me to whine and pine. The card reader urged me that since I was more of a 'fire element', that it was never in my personality to be saved. Apparently, though I may have seemingly reached my weakest point, my kind remain strong and powerful."

"Truth be told, beyond all my bitching and negative musings, I remain optimistic and aware that only I can take myself out from all this. I may have made bed, yes, but I can choose another or even make a new one to lie on. And my recent disappointments whenever I seek refuge in a friend's company (constantly left wanting for solutions or a sympathetic ear) all seemed a petty excuse to point the blame elsewhere."

In deference to a particular friend generous enough to take a look at my blog, I'll cut this short for now; and continue in another entry. I wouldn't want to vex any eyes with too many words (teehee!).

Swimming (in Shit) 2

Am I satisfied with my life? A constant topic amongst friends, either over coffee or buckets of beer, many of us find ourselves defending jaded and cynical answers. Though I often find myself espousing optimism, waxing lyrical and composed retorts, I cannot shake off a pestering thought: do I truly believe the words coming out of my mouth? I try to ignore it, even taking pride in having shared some glimmer of hope amongst a sea of negativity, but it revisits me whenever the question comes up.

Indeed, I am keen on believing that life ain’t all too shabby; and that there are many things one can truly be grateful for. Yet it seems un-happiness is a much easier thing to grasp. I tried writing happy poems once, but I ended up either cringing at the cheesiness of my metaphors or twisting the entire opus into a more dismal offering. Whenever I share how pretty things turn up in a film and wish my life to be similar, expected reactions include either a raised eyebrow or a mordant, “it only happens in the movies.” Speaking of, don’t you notice that even in the Oscars, serious movies have more heft; depressing dramas and tear-jerkers praised highly for their substance and truth? Why does tragedy weigh heavier than comedy? Why is it so hard for many of us to be happy? Have we all become that jaded and cynical?

We all seem too swift to resort to any possible drama and complication, keen on sharing and sometimes even imposing on generous hearts that lend an ear. Maybe because the pain is too comforting and real; and whatever all this shit brings us, we ironically find comfort in it, in its palpable familiarity. Maybe its that insatiable search for love that renders us to unnecessarily dwell in shit. We seek some messiah, some knight in shiny armor, to take all the pain away, whisking us to some "ever after", granting our wish of starting anew. The bigger we ache, the bigger the love we need. The human condition? Nah, Too easy an explanation...

An Empty Plate

After aimlessly surfing channels on the telly, narrowing my eyes from the glares of random flashy images, I finally had the courage to turn the thing off. I worry not only that it has taken much of my time, affording me even more sloth and inactivity, but that the circles under my eyes have begun to darken and quiver from all the stress.

An empty plate sits beside me. The metallic scent of canned tuna I had minutes ago wafts up my nose as I examine the dried up remnants of the tomato sauce it swam in splattered on the plate. I remember how almost crimson it was earlier, how it offered me the promise of a delicious and nutritious meal, but now a decrepit orange crusts on the porcelain. The lingering odor has become rancid and annoying. A pang of discontentment and regret, as acrid as an impending attack of heartburn, settles.

This is how it is. I, with all my optimism and the best of intentions in tow, eventually end up with gnawing regret, doubt and dissatisfaction. I am well aware that the answers to whatever it is that troubles me lies so close and obvious, and that only I can take on a solution. However, isn’t it that whenever things are nearer, our sight of them falls even shorter? It is our great expectations, our dreams of grandeur, our pining for what things should be that catapult us to an expansive panorama of possibility. Yet why do we feed ourselves when the experience more often than not is overwhelming, exhausting and ultimately, disenchanting? Is it hope? Wanderlust? Wishful thinking?

Swimming

There is some sense of in-authenticity which pervades the back of my mind whenever people tell me good news of their personal lives. I know it is right and kind to reciprocate with a positive or optimistic response, to verbally support them in whatever journey it is they have undergone; but I cannot help shake off that cruel side of me riddled with envy and self-pity. I cannot help but compare myself with them. I cannot help but see the lack and emptiness that pains me, causing me to pine for some semblance of the glimmer that they’ve achieved.

Maybe “cruel” is too strong a word. Maybe I simply am human to want what others have. And I know that having such a comparative view can be ruinous to my self-esteem, but I cannot help it. Or shall I say, I refuse to do the opposite. Am I a phony? What is it that I get out from all this positive reinforcements for the people around me, when I end up always feeling on the losing end? Perhaps, if one cannot be happy and content with one’s self, one can never be truly happy for the others around him.

I cannot accuse myself of over-thinking, or even over-feeling. I may be a drama queen, but my current space of unemployment and inactivity has rendered me pensive and terribly bitter.

The other part of me, that which I claim to be more generous and loving, finds my offers of buoyancy to my confidants sincere. Indeed, it is a beautiful thing when someone finds somebody special; when someone finds their true calling; when someone garners praise and recognition for their talent and achievements. I guess it isn’t cruelty really. It’s not that I wish ill of those who’d like to share their joys with me, nor am I conniving enough to aspire to covet what they have. It is the cruelty to my own self that feeds my unhappiness. Indeed, whoever that was that ruminated and said that loving one’s self was the hardest thing hit the cold truth. I’m sure he must have felt like the loneliest and most resentful man in the planet then.