Doon Sa Amin, Sa Payatas

Sa ilalim ng isang nakangiting araw,

tagus-tagusan sa mangilan-ngilang butas sa yero

habang pina-pangalmusal ang natitirang tutong at bahaw

isang ingay ang mula sa dako paroon ang pumukaw.

Nangangahos na nginuya ng aking mga panga

ang almusal na s’ya na ring aking pananghalian,

nang sa gayo’y makapaglaro sa kanal kasama ang papel na bangka

at ang sangkatutak na dumi ng tao’t anu’t-ano pang karumihan.

Tinahak ko ang daan papalabas ng may ngiti

habang kasalubong ko ang marami:

natatakot, natataranta, punung-puno ng pighati.

Pilit na naghuhumiyaw sa galit

ang aking mga minamahal

hanggang sa langit ay magalit,

na pumuno sa bukana ng kaibigan kong kanal.

Dumating ang mga higante't matitikas na mga laruan;

Oh, ang pangarap kong trak at kotsi-kotsehan!

Agad kong nasilayan ang iba

handang agawin ang mga matitipunong laruan.

Buong lakas na tinahak ng aking mga binti

ang distansyang naghihiwalay sa amin.

Binti ko ma’y napuno ng pagal

buong dipa kong yinakap ang magagarang laruang bakal.

Kumagat ang dilim sa oras ng tanghalian,

animo’y isang malamlam na saad.

Nagpatuloy ang pagluha ng kalangitan,

nakikisama sa mga sawim-palad;

Mga bigo't inggit sa bago kong kayamanan!

Biglang tumahimik ang paligid

na pawang binawian ako ng pandinig,

kasabay nito’y ang pagkawala ng aking paningin at tinig,

o maaring hindi ko lamang maibuka ang aking mga bibig

dulot na rin siguro ng aking matinding pananabik.

Ilang sandali pa ang lumipas,

ang pader ng katahimika’y nabutas;

isang atungaw ang aking naulinigan,

hindi ni Santa Klaws ngunit ng aming ilaw ng tahanan.

“Putang ina mo!”

“PUTANG INA NINYONG LAHAT!”

Buong lutong ang pagsambit

tila punung-puno ng galit;

Isang haplos at mahigpit na yakap

ang bumalot sa kanina ko pang giniginaw na katawan.

Dama ko ang init ng kaniyang hininga at labi

sa aking malalamig na pisngi,

kasabay nito ay ang pag-agos ng kanyang mga luha

kasabay ng kanyang pag-usal ng, “Anak, mahal na mahal kita!”

Naramdaman ko ang muling pag-agos,

hindi ng mga luha o ng ulan

tila ito’y nagmumula sa aking bungo:

mainit, mabibilis na paglawa ng aking natitirang dugo.

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Ang tulang ito ay aking lahok sa Saranggola Blog Awards 3.

I don’t like waking up, for everytime I open my eyes, the thought that there are more days that I have to wake up alone — feeling empty as always — pierces through my skin like white-hot pins and needles. It makes me realize that I miss those days when I would eagerly wake up because I want to talk to you; or that I would rush myself to the bathroom, ignoring my breakfast because I need go to a place with you. And of course, those sleepless nights we spent together. I thought repetition will dull the shock out of it, but I guess I was wrong. Every time I wake up, it poignantly crawls on me that those days are gone now, and that there is nothing left but memories, a blanket and a couple of pillows I soaked in tears every night.

Waking up is just so fatal.

Has it ever dawned your mind how arduous it has been for me? It’s like feeding myself with nothing, making my innards go berserk; it’s like taking my pills and half-drugging myself to death every time you usurped my sanity.

Sometimes it feels like my world is suffocated with its own oxygen; crouching under the intoxicated, nicotine-tinged atmosphere as though gasping for a fresher air to breathe, hailing feebly for survival.

This is, as I have now realized, a turmoil. And I am writing this with what little sanity I have left.

Unpopular Opinon: On Mr. Lao

Christoper Lao's incident have circulated the new media quite fastidiously than the drying of his pants. It has even reached other continents and even Trend-ed on Twitter. Quite normally, it has been subjected and referred to as something funny, and that was not even difficult to fathom.

However, as I see it, people have been abusing the new media in such a wrong way. True enough, Mr. Lao's incident has not only been a laughable matter, but has also been the basis of his identity as a person. With all prejudices aside, when I found out about the incident, I did not know yet that he was a student in UP-Diliman (my former school), but then, I did not find his 'adventure' quizzical.

I have been driving for more than a year now, and I live in Malabon. As we all know, Malabon easily gets soaked and flooded, so it's quite easy for me to predict if I should storm my car in the flood or not since I have been living here since I can remember. Moreso, I share the same feeling of driving in a place you know very little things about, especially if you drive under the same circumstances.

If you can still remember, Mr. Lao complained about the lack of traffic signs, of enforcement that will signal the motorists that the flood is not merely passable by any vehicle. Also, from where he came from, the road was dry and then suddenly there's this flood. It would clearly state that the flood is not passable if on the other end of the road, the flood flows into a continuum--but as we all know, it did not. There is only a little flood stuck in between two spaces lying on the same road.

If I were on his shoes, I would have done the same thing. Not only no one stopped me when I assaulted the flood, but there was also no enforcement or at least a signage that should have been put there to remind in-coming motorists.

I agree that the way he justified his complain is not very well-thought of. But who on Earth will still be able to think thoroughly after such aggravation?

Come to think of it.

The human body is a vessel for constant suffering. It is meant to feel pain, bitterness, anguish, and the lightest of them all called “happiness”. But how could we not know, that after all, it is a cycle? That you start being happy and you’ll end up with the rest? How could we—the brightest vessel for this experiment—not know that from the very beginning, we are meant to such torture; to such excruciating pleasure? How could we not know that we are merely pigs being raised only to be slaughtered? How could we not know that we are nothing more than a beautiful flower, being nurtured only to be picked up and crushed in someone else’s gentle paws? How could we not know that we are nothing more than just a vessel for someone who plays stupid games in a place we do not know where?

Bread Crumbs

I sucked at portraiture, or maybe, I still remain woefully ignorant in that field; or perhaps, I am this person who owns a pair of eyes that needed practice. But sometimes, it's like magic that I am able to capture such precious candid moments of people.

Children are my favorite subject in portraiture. There's just this subtle innocence that envelopes their eyes; inexplicable mystery that once you captured it, your image suddenly turns into a piece that tells stories. Stories that even the greatest men in history can't give us. Stories that only their eyes could tell, encrypted in a wordless manner.

It brings me into a state of eargasm as those plenty tiny drops pounded my windowsill altogether creating a beautiful feat that makes my heartbeats mute; it puts all there is to ignore into absolute silence, just the pouring of it is all you can think of. You can wander into it as thoughts slowly slither your divine sanity.

I love the breath-taking chill it delivers every now and then. That in that instantaneous, abrupt momentum, everything will be cold. And that chill will pierce you with its ice-cold daggers, slowly protruding your humanity through and through. It escalates the tension as it relaxes those anguished beasts inside you, making you breathe faster but calmer. You can wander into it fearlessly as you have nothing to be afraid of. After all, you have mastered the art of understanding and embracing such coldness.

I just love the rain. I adore how it brutally and whimsically muffles my senses in a good, delightful, but poignant way.