Confused-Shoes

Crying at 2 pm, the sun so unforgiving

Afraid of death and tired of living

I no longer recognize my bed

The smoke has taken over my head

Playing songs that speak of loss

As I trace my wrists across

To understand peace, its why and how

Is the only thing that matters now

Bleeding deep inside I am almost full

They say hope is there but I can’t feel the pull

That’s supposed to uplift my weary heart

For all year long I’ve been torn apart

It’s hard not to panic and keep your cool

When the blood is a fast forming pool

Say good bye to the ones I love

`Coz I won’t be going to heaven above.

                             (interlude)

Visit the profile of the girl you love most

And leave a message, saying goodbye

And wonder, will she ever wonder why you said goodbye?

And smoke the last cigarette, it promised to bring a thrill

A sudden surge of happiness as you go for the kill

But why go for it when there are many things left to fix

Like the house, for the future, build a home

Like the heart, for the future, spread the love

Like the bench, for the future, enjoy the friendship

Like the books, for the future, nourish the mind

So many things indeed

But nothing catches my imagination now.

Drink to the health of your parents

And send text messages to your lovely nieces

And if you can, fill the donor card up

Your eye can bring happiness to those who cannot see

`Coz I’m not bothering anyone anymore, when no one has

Except to insist that you’ve done them something wrong

They admire you and they hate you and you wind up

Not speaking up, when your heart’s got a million libraries to say

But nevermind, it’s almost all over now, as long as I know

Today’s gonna be such a glorious day.

Cup noodles, a can of beer, a single cigarette from a pack opened a week ago. Plus a cup of instant coffee, and a small can of Armour Vienna Sausage. All these and I was still damn hungry at 2 am.

I had no pressing problems but I was not at peace; like a walled city that’s not under siege but is dying from a horrible pestilence within. I could not sleep. I could not sleep.

The lights in the living room seemed merciful but it was horribly dark outside. Ah, the story of my life. All aglow and facing the dark. Left in the dark and unable to lighten anyone else except my own fickle mind.

There is no salvation in my own messianic imagination. There is only the darkness that awaits; I do not dread it.

I haven’t taken drugs yet and here I am, pretending to be hallucinatory and manic all the same.

I close my eyes and decide to write about something close to my heart.

In 2005, I stoppped writing poetry in favor of music. Or, I tried to let go of creating poems in order to write songs. Of course, though the songs must have lyrics that are essentially poetry, it was clear that I was fast ceasing to be an amateur poet and rapidly becoming a minor songwriter. Though the pen remains, the guitar was becoming the weapon of choice.

However, I soon discovered that I could not harness the strength nor the beauty of the guitar as much as I can with the pen. Furthermore, it seemed that my musician friends were not really too keen on using and/or expanding the songs I have written - this I say without any hint of bitterness or malice. It was just that I discovered that I am really no musician at all, and I have learned ti accept this fact as one of my fundamental limitations as a person.

The sad part of it all was that there seemed to be a price to pay. Having deserted my poetic muse, she no longer wanted to accept me back. I tried to pick up where I left, pen and notebook and the silent view of houses and trees from my room, but there were no more nice words and lovely sounds to write about. Her graces departed, I found myself struggling pitifully to regain my composure as an amateur poet. Despite the stream of ideas and possible inspirations I discovered that none of these could ever materialize. Alas, I was a broken writer, a man whose poetry has completely departed him. I was left with only the copies of the poems of my youth, the haunting prospect that there will be no more poetry for me in the years ahead never leaving my head.

Poetry is a gift that once squandered could never be regained. I seemed to accept this, rather sadly. And since life was too brief, I knew I had to move on. No poetry nor music to create, I then became like a wanderer, completely lost and lonely. All that was left in me was the desire, but not the skill. The potential but not the ability. The promose but not the possibility.

Days went on and i soon found a compromise - I would just have to settle with poetry and music which are not mine and not of my own creation. Thus I became entangled with pop songs of all sorts and genres and origins. What I could not write about myself I sought out to listen to; since I could not write about my broken heart and listened to some band, hoping that their words and music could best speak the feelings I have. feelinsg towards certain things, certain people, certain thoughts. And it seemed weird and wonderful at the same time, how commercially motivated creative artists could perfectly hit sensitive spots in one’s  heart, tugging at the heartstrings, singing songs that make one feel that you experienced the very things they talk about yourself. That is how it goes with me.

Well I am just sad because when I was young I was so delighted at the prospect that I could have been famous for my words. In the end, at the dusk of my youth, I quickly learned that this is just a feeble fantasy. I am mediocre and so are my abilities, and, like the nameless crowd that crawls along the grim days of society, our hearts are just consumers in a materialistic world. The language that our souls could best recognize and speak is a language that is not of our own choosing, but developed by publishers and programmers, mixers and sound engineers, arrangers, composers, conductors, artists, matinee idols, band members and the like. Of course, this is not saying that I have everything against musicians. I believe that musicians are blessed people, and I myself could never be one. But still, no musician is free when music is made for the purpose, or when music begets the purpose, of commercial appeal.

I let go of my poetry in order to write music and when I found out I could not, everything vanished and the creativity in me died completely. Now I must depend on professionals to do the job for me, make my heart sing.

In the end, there is really nothing else I can do but listen to the music. From the machine, out into the air, into my head, speaking to my heart.

Then my heart sings it out and my soul understands. Like a cigarette, we inhale smoke and exhale smoke,a nd we could relax. Music we catch and music it is we sing to comfort our weary lives. Pity that we could not create for ourselves how to feel better.

I listen to the music.

This is a Freak Country and I am allowed to say what I want to say.

The indelible ink in my forefinger has proven to be incredible. Two weeks after the polls and they’re still here. Not that I do not take frequent showers nor wash dishes or water plants or clean cars or clip nails, it’s just that, this ink is really, incredibly, indelible. Incredible indelible ink.

And all over there are news of massive cheating, freaking governors, insane COMELEC people, apathetic middle-class employees and beleaguered teachers.

I am just to happy that Darlene Custodio won against Manny Pacquiao, because, if she did not, then, hell, I would have really felt that this country is hopeless.

But is it not? This is a freak country and we are going to the dogs.

And to think that three weeks from now I will officially be a law student? Hell, will I be part of the massive fraudelent rotten horrible democratic system that we have?

Geez. I hope there are apothecaries somewhere that sell polyjuice potion (so I could evade the authorities when they issue a warrant of arrest against me), veritaserum (for our idolized chronic liars, the politicians), and felix felicis (for everything else).

Wohoo. Sorry, silly post.

So, let’s try to brighten up the weekend.

I am generally confused and ultimately sad, again. Haha. But not as sad as I have been when there have been real problems confronting me. This time, I am experiencing a metaphysical sadness.  A sadness that is not the effect of something but the cause of everything. Sadness that I haven’t experienced before, and yet feels so natural to my being. This sadness haunts me, radiates from me, within me, as if without this sadness I become nothing, meaningless, senseless. And this sadness delights me and makes me feel alive.

It keeps me alive.

I woke up and it was horribly dark. I felt creatures moving all around, whispering. It was a dense darkness, one that seemed to penetrate my soul. All the while in my head I was replaying certain scenes of the TV shows I had watched as a kid, during the heydays of ABS-CBN. Home Along da Riles, Oki doki Doc, and Okay ka, Fairy Ko! It felt really weird. Then all of a sudden I was experiencing blinding flashes of decisive uncertainty, I was reliving the embarrassing moments I’ve been through. Like a deep river flowing angrily, swiftly, drowning everyone, everything in its path, I became a capsule containing regretful memories. From the heights of my mind came rolling down boulders massive and destructive. I was the violent storm that uproots the ancient trees. I wipe out all the guardians of nature.

And my writing remains like, all the time, always a preliminary draft.

I was in a pizza parlor, talking with someone, drinking Coke, thinking of the rain and the people at the other side of the glass walls. Quezon City was not entirely nice during rainy summer nights. Ah, rains at the end of May. I love the summer break months, April and May.

Summer break?

Yes, I am young, in school, and pathetic. Nothing has changed, I have not been able to fully comprehend the lessons life has given. Blame it to the fact that these lessons, instead of being served in  legal sized bond papers and in black and white, where served randomly on certain rainy nights. These lessons always make me feel mutinous and murderous, suicidal and anti-social.

I still fail to understand what it means to, you know, that.

the recent lack of intelligent conversations has led me to adopt a very melancholic outlook. long, hot summer days of steaming boredom and an insurmountable feeling that I am neglecting to feed my mind. Hence, the ever-familiar sense of self-pity; I have been thinking that, maybe, this is how people see me: for those friends older than me, that I am too young. for those friends younger than me, I am just too old. And for my contemporaries, that I am too uninteresting.

It concerns me that I am so concerned about the way people see me. Why do I bother when I should know better? but un the end it is the haunting feeling of self-consciousness that haunts us all at night, i believe. And I’m just passing through one.

Well, I just had to let that out.

I need oppurtunities to get better. I need things to get me going, to wake me up from my slumber. Like a postseason bound NBA team that has clinched a seed late into the regular season but is on an uncanny losing streak. Worse, when their superstar has been on a legendary scoring tear. Hell, do I feel like the LA Lakers.

See? My mediocrity makes me do comparisons against so unimportant things. Thoughts. A sigh could not remedy it all. Not even a sigh could cure something, anything.

I need fresh air. I couldn’t bring myself to say, law school, here i come.