CURTAIN CALL

I don't trust my feelings.

Sometimes I question if what I am feeling is all for show.
Blame it on me for being a romantic. Blame it on me for loving theater.

I look at each chapter of life -from the quarrels to the make up- as one big narrative that needs the perfect lines. 

I still do.

Why waste the perfect pause when the moment calls for it?
Why not blow the perfect kiss if the timing is right?

I found you to be my favorite actress.

And I molded us as the perfect loveteam that we can sell to the world, worthy of the frenzy and curiousity.
We didn't mind the attention, to be honest.

We even have an interesting backstory that may pass as a classic.
You have your own tale you want to be highlighted, 
but oh, the reel wasn't enough.
My god, I didn't even notice what you were reciting at times.

It must have been a monologue for a quite a while. 

We peeled our skin little by little to reveal us as fragile beings;
and realized that these roles

are concepts we enjoyed playing.

It wasn't that bad; don't get me wrong. 

Our madness can't be captured wholly on a peephole, but it was pretty most of the time. 

We were proud of that. 

Friends and family of yours caught a glimpse and pass judgment
as cruel as those self-proclaimed experts in Rotten Tomatoes. Spectators will settle on whatever is headlines-worthy in our world, you see. 

Who can blame them?
I just know we were happy. Contented.

Then again

I never trusted my feelings.

Then last night, I cried loudly.
Broke down harder that usual. 

Lost myself

On the edge of sanity
Without an audience for my performance.

Just this montage on my head for lost opportunities
of things left unsaid
and promises left undone.

Only now did I feel that I am real.

that WE are real.

were

THE LUCK OF LACK

I cry when I do certain acts of kindness to anyone. I get overwhelmed by the intensity of the act that I can't even pretend to show that it is not a big thing.

Maybe because I am naturally a cruel bitter person.

I have been crying my hearts out every 3am in the morning about nothing. 3 nights in a row. Just this loooming emptiness that I can't figure out. 

Last night, Vishnu stared at me with a seemingly curious but loving expression that I burst out crying.

I am that fractured.

What do I need? 

Whenever i think of therapy, I can't even imagine what to tell the concerned person because I already know the questions and corresponding answers

 so what's the use?

It is the lack of real friendship in my life.

It is the lack of forgiveness in my part for myself.

it is the resentment of not being the best in every situation

and just regretting what I said or did.

It is the shame of my angry outbursts against my loved ones.

it is the lack of creative expression in my art that is making me think I am not as good as I thought I was.

It is the suddent realization that my kids are growing up without me

and the fear that they won't need me in my life.

It is the lack of resources in my arsenal to make Mawhi stay. 

It is the lack of God.

november

This space has been taken for granted.

but you are still my confessional since I don't have any willing ears that
won't judge my sorry self.

I still feel trapped. For not having enough to solve all these contraints.
Wish a genie would magically appear and pay for my annullment case.
Wish a genie can point these dimwitted congressmen and senators to the realization
that we need the divorce bill.
Wish I can go back to certain scenes in my life to correct everything.
Wish I have the right words, the right reactions...

Wish I can be better.

Narcissistic prick.

Every time I complain, I charge it to being one. It is unfair
because my mind is my sole enemy. I can't even be honest with what I feel

to myself.

It is ok to feel this way - I need to convince myself. 

It is ok to admit that I am not ok. 

Lately I have been thinking about what legacy I am leaving to my kids.
To the world. My parents are getting old.

I AM GETTING OLD.

everything is fleeting.

I am sure there will be testimonials about being a wasted talent when I die, but I'll just be another status post.
a statistic. 

But do they really know me?

Do they even bother to know me? 

All I really need is a friend.

All I need...

fences

Tonight I write directly to this blank canvas because emotions are smothering me, it needs a wall where I can spill my hurt.

I can't seem to breathe right now. Pillowcases, wet. Feeling my heart double its beat. My toes hurt. My face, numb.

I am at my worst.

I live by promises. I live by rules. Simple pact that I think is valid. A fence if you will. Not to serve as bars, but as a security blanket to keep me sane.

So yes, I am at fault with my neuroses. I am imperfect. Broken. I like to think I am proud of it because in acknowledging that fact, you gain identity and direction.

But why is it not easy to comprehend that each teeth of a fence means a lot to my sanity? Worse, I am pushed away and made to feel guilty and insane for rules we both agreed on.

Over and over again.
Over and over
again.
Over
and
over.

Now I am at my worst.
And I can't seem to forgive myself for reaching that brink again where I will be another dysfunctional stereotype.

Over and over again, you make me lost my sanity over simple rules that would have save us...

or me.

But do you really care?

All you care about when your sorrys came out empty are those projectiles you throw at my direction, making sure it find a spot it can dig in.

Do you even have a point when all I ask was just keep your little promises?

I am at my worst.

I feel so tired. So empty.
I feel so ashamed of what I have become.

POUR POOR PURR

Have you ever locked yourself in a CR cubicle so you can just cry it out?

I have. Did, actually. Moments ago.
And many moons before now.

I had the mistake of not emptying these ducts that I accidentally let it pour while performing at Van Gogh Is Bipolar last week.

They say it was bare, beautiful, and inspiring. I justified it with other adjectives to make it seem OK, knowing matter-of-factly that it was not ok for me to be seen that way. I don't know, must be an ego thing. Well, I'll feel uncomfortable if an artist I paid to watch start shitting his performance because he can't hold himself together.

Thank God I found the courage to write here again. Been putting it off for reasons other than laziness. Maybe this can temporarily halt whatever that wants to come out.

I am continually finding other reasons why I exist. Sometimes I run out of excuses.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN....NOWHERE

There are times I loathe the world.

Too deep a feeling, but not in a “millennial” sense 

(you know, those so-called depressed blabbermouths who can’t stop announcing what they are feeling. There is a big difference between depression and craving for attention).

That’s why I shut myself up and don’t talk much when I do. Because even the world doesn’t deserve to know what I am going through.

I’m not like them, but I can pretend.

I catch myself asking what these days are for.

I catch myself pleasuring myself with porn – a series of scratchy discs on the fourth drawer.

Repetitive stomping of flesh. Flap flap flap. In 5-10minutes, it’s over and I find myself reaching out for something to read. Other senses need to be triggered.

Some old music magazines I love collecting or maybe the daily bread to balance my guilty ordeal.

Something to distract this restless mind.

Sleep – that I need according to my neurologist, but what is it for but for dreams to be nested. 

Then what?

I have putting my writing off and I resent myself for that. There are ideas wriggling like worms, in search of a blatant hole to peek on. But I can’t seem to find a proper time to collect them and spill them. A proper canvass. I have been criticizing myself for not being good enough.

It doesn’t help that people don’t even recognize that I write differently than other songwriters. That I play with words more thoroughly. That I pay attention.

They want the usual hooks.  The usual rhymes. The usual staccato.  And the problem is words are taken for granted.

And I am getting tired recently.

But I am glad to be alive. Honestly.  These questions just linger once every blue moon.

Yes I am lying. 

It is more than what I expect. 

humdrum conundrum

Learning things about myself again.

That I am currently unstable in terms of career. 

I can do my work with my eyes closed so it is easy money. The company is decent too, a place secure enough to provide compensation possibly for my whole working years. But it does not excite me.

And don’t get me started with office politics. I am getting used to being numb and minding my own business because everything’s futile. I’ll always be the villain if I speak up. 

No, I am not looking for a job. I am not that kind of person who hops from one office to another, seemingly unsure of his life’s purpose. But I have to admit that I kept thinking of doing freelance work.

Talk about unstable.

I just hope to catch up on my sleep. I mean I need it after my health scare (I’ll write about it soon). And do a lot of things at my own time. But do I have the discipline? Nope --- that I am sure of. 

So where do I go from here?

At least I get to drink good coffee (ESSENCE wins as the best 3-in-1 concoction out there) and I am allowed an hour nap at the clinic’s office. That’s what I look forward to every working day.  

That’s enough for now.