There’s an inner loneliness in us that makes the entire contraption tick; the gears of emotion and ambition turn; the levers of the mind move up and down while moving gradually to a pre-encoded, semi-violent self-destruction as the screws loosen up. An inner emptiness that is the very fuel and the only source of life in this metallic shell. This mighty vacuum sets the mechanism dreaming like anything’s possible while knowing nothing is. And the tin man’s computer chip builds majestic castles out of alien sparks and electrons. Current and smoke. We dream of the organic life we can’t possibly have for the only life we know is something that corrodes in the rain. We dream of things we can’t have. We dream of places we can’t go to. We dream of people we can’t have. We dream. And the endless dreaming, strangely enough, somehow programs love into our Code.
Monthly Archives: May 2012
Bakit ka breathtaking?
Tuwing makikita, tangina, tantalizing!
Nasisilaw ako at ang pakiramdam ay numbing
Dinadaga ang dibdib sa sobra mong dazzling.
Di kumpleto ang araw, laging merong lacking
Pag ‘di ka nakita dahil ikaw ay missing
Hinahanap-hanap, parang mangangasong nagha-hunting
Masilat ka lang ng saglit kahit ito ay stealing.
Oo na! Nabighani na! Sa pagmumukha mong captivating
Di makapaniwala sa ganda mo kahit seeing is believing.
Nagcha-cha-cha ang tyan sa chuwing ika’y magpapa-charming
Pesteng buhay ‘to lagi na lang hanggang daydreaming.
So why is it–why are you so kamangha-mangha?
My jaw drops to the floor, in other words, napapanganga.
My eyes, lumuluwa
My heart, pumapalya
My lungs stop pumping air, it’s impossible to hinga.
I just can’t believe how your skin is so ganda
You probably shower well, not just with a single timba.
I always feel stupid, so hopelessly tanga
When I walk up to you and try to make my diga.
It’s just a crush, I know, a simple paghanga.
But goddamn! I’m writing a poem tonight, napapatula.
It’s all your freakin’ fault, your pagkakasala
That you’re the girl that you are, excessively pinagpala.
Kaya sagutin mo ako dahil ako’y inquiring.
Anong pakiramdam ito? Anong klaseng feeling?
Wala namang pag-asa pero eto pa rin hoping
Malay mo maka-jackpot at ako naman ang winning.
‘Til then I’ll wait, very matyaga
‘Cause I’ve got nothing better to do, nothing to gawa.
Keep on scratching my head, removing my lisa
And ask it one more time
Like a crazy praning,
Why are you so kamangha-mangha?
Bakit ka breathtaking?
Let’s write again.
And let’s hope I haven’t forgotten how to stitch up with words what’s usually left gaping in life.
Let’s write about stuff again. My favorite petty things that have occupied so much space in my mind. Let’s write about work and home and the MRT; if you’re me, you almost always find yourself occupying one of the three.
Let’s write about thoughts again. Thoughts that dance so wildly they’re often more real than what I can touch with my oily fingers. The same thoughts that are so lethargic they make me sleepy just thinking about them. God they’re boring.
Let’s write about politics again and limit it to a single, icky sentence.
Let’s write about writing again and secretly gloat over the playfulness of the words–the inverted reflection of an ego so serious it abhors playing. Let’s express our love for words. My bread and butter. My feeding tube and others as well. The reason I’m digesting a huge piece of grilled meat right now and going to the bathroom to take a huge dump later. The reason why somebody on the Internet today, right this very moment, is probably cashing out while gladly taking my bullshit in. It’s a craft.
Let’s write about a girl again.
Oh, there’s always a girl–and that’s the first excuse. The first strokes of a craft well executed.
Yes, there’s always a girl. And the truth is, when everything coated with bull crap is wiped spotlessly clean, the only thing worth writing about is a girl.
There’s always, always a girl.
The one who breaks your heart walks away, another one comes creeping in. Freakin’ creeps they are. The new one’s not the same girl but something indescribable moves you to think she might still be the same, exact one.
Strange but maybe she’s even the same one you thought you got over with years and years ago. Sometimes, it seems to me, she’s all the girls in my life just wearing different masks and costumes. A trickster par excellence.
Maybe her ultimate role is to keep me chasing after her skirt–and you know how much they’re a killer when they’re wearing skirts. Maybe she’s a fishing line and I’m a fish. Only she’s the kind of line that doesn’t end and I’m the kind of fish who’s addicted to hooks. The endless whirring of the reel goes on.
Maybe–just maybe–it’s her purpose to keep creaming my heart until there’s no more and I’ll take the first woman I see by the hand on a drunken night in front of the altar just to fuckin’ get on with it and die.
Maybe her ultimate reason for living is to make me live.
But I guess I’ll wait for her and try to set an appointment despite her impossibly unpredictable schedule. I’ll search for her masked face in the crowd who don’t really give a shit about me and her. Keep on looking ’til I pick up her scent, that familiar fragrance of a kind of fear that has to be met like a man in order to feel like a man. And if I can’t sniff her out because she’s so elusive and rare, maybe I’ll wait some more and grow old some more. I’ve done it before and fairly recently.
In the meantime, I think I’ll tap on the keyboard.
Tap on it like a modern mating call ’til she shows herself–the love that won’t leave.
But come on. Let’s just stop this madness and write again.