lately, i've been controlling myself from writing because i am afraid to step into the confines of my solitude. and for that, i am currently learning to suspend my issues to delay the flow of tears. i refuse to go skinny-dipping in the pool of my emotions. yes, i am pathetic like that... but i no longer disgust myself.
i've been with j for almost 9 months now. that's enough time to have conceived, nurtured, and delivered a human baby inside my womb. . . and it actually feels just like that. plus the pregnancy depression, mind you. not that i feel bloated and ugly though, coz it feels nothing like that. let's just say that for months, i've grown accustomed to the sensation of having another soul reside inside of me. of course it felt weird at the beginning, having the responsibility to nurture somebody else's beating heart. i had to think of me not just as an individual but as a part of someone else. i had to sacrifice a lot of things, including some of my ideals and priciples. i had to let go of my own identity in order to make room for another. needless to say, my bundle of joy brought a couple of complications here and there, but i've accepted that it's all a part of the process. i embraced the experience tightly, indulging in every bit of emotion i could squeeze from it. unfortunately, it feels as though i've delivered that soul prematurely. . . yes, just after i've gotten used to its presence already.
sad thing about it is, i don't even remember when and how it happened. damn the way it feels so much like i had a miscarriage instead of a natural, normal delivery.
why leave now, soul?
i miss your presence inside of me - - kicking and breathing, bleeding but so much alive.
Fall down, make a mess. Break something occasionally. Know that your mistakes are your own unique way of getting where you need to be. And remember that the story is never over. - Conan O’Brien
Her eyelashes stay perfectly curled
All through the night.
She looks up,
With hands outstretched,
And her lips pointing toward the sky.
“She’s ready to fly,”
You might think.
But her wings are clipped.
Someday, she’ll get to where her
Perfectly curled eyelashes have been
Pointing to all along.
I am in one word, bored. With summer. With life. I have done nothing lately but lock myself up in my room and read. I read as soon as I wake up in the morning, I read right after I eat, and I read until I fall asleep in the evening. I used to read when I’m elated so as to suffuse my veins with more desire, provoking my hands to produce “literature”. Now I find myself reading when I’m depressed so as to render my nerves senseless, so I can ape content and escape reality. In the end, I only manage to get myself more and more dejected.
Yes, I am weary with you, world.
Shit. Summer should never be spent at home, in interminable boredom. I mean, we spend 10 months in school as prisoners of four cornered lecture halls, conference rooms, and study areas, in addition to being slaves to professors, textbooks, and one way discussions. That’s worth 3 seasons of measuring life in competitions, achievements, and grades! How futile. That’s 3 seasons measuring life in mundane things. All the more reason why we should spend at least 1 season measuring life in love and earthly passions – and that’s during summer!
Ugh. I can’t believe I just spent almost a week pouring over Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, ignoring my heart’s desperate singing. And now, I think I repressed it. I’m sorry, heart. Someone give me a C.P.R., please. >_<
When I turned 18, I never got to thank her for exceeding 8 thousand bucks from her supposed 2 thousand bucks budget for my gown alone. For carrying my trail behind me so I wouldn't trip. For putting up with my bad attitude and fake smiles. For cutting the cake for me so people won't notice I'm ignorant. And yes, for feeding me that piece of cake just like how she used to till I was in 7th grade.
Now that I'm 20, I regret not having to thank her enough for everything she had done for me. And this haunts me because I know she had given up a HELL lot for me...
And just recently that included my own "sister."
For that, and a lot more that need no listing, thank you mom. I love you.
***
So to you bitch, dare to point your fucking finger at me and ask who the hell I am and I will tell you this with conviction (still with arms crossed, eyebrow raised, and nose stuck up HIGH in the air):
I am my MOTHER’S DAUGHTER.
Strip yourself off of your Ateneo BS Biology diploma, your Ms. UERM Lantern Queen tiara, and your M.D., and who do you all boil down into?
Nobody.
You’re nothing but an empty, miserable, ungrateful, rebel without a cause, not to mention a single parent who happens to get a kick out of picking on her own little sister out of God-knows-what-reasons.
You think you’re everything you could be? You’re probably right. But you won’t be who you are and where you are at right now if it weren’t for mom.
Bitch.
Hinding-hindi matatapatan ng M.D. mo ang buong pagkatao ko.
***
My sister could be a poet, for
She is Satan dressed in phrases;
She possesses the body of words,
She embodies the words possessed,
She words the possessed body, and
The body she words is possessed.
