Tag Archives: alienation

The Real Problem is Gravity

The real problem is gravity. This primordial force of nature that oftentimes subtly, but sometimes violently and mercilessly, pulls our feet down to the ground where we belong. It would throw us savagely against the face of the earth, splattering our brains and guts all over the map. It would crush us the second we get ahead of ourselves and think we can really fly.

How stupid of us. How ridiculous! Just look at how we fill our heads with the most complicated of thoughts and our notebooks with the most elaborate of plans just to see real life break them into two simple shards: to live or to die. And of course, we always choose the first option, making things even more laughable. For the moment we choose to live, we die bit by bit. Who really lives? Is this life? Working from morning ’til night, typing thousands of insignificant letters on a screen, so someone can make millions off them while we waste hours, years, decades, eternities cheating ourselves? Listening to nifty bits of music in the train to dull the senses and hide our consciousness from the zombie of a world banging on our door, screaming, “Let me inside your head, so I can eat your brains, you yellow-bellied fucktard!”

Yeah, that’s about it. That’s about life. And then there’s the amusing fact that when one chooses to die, he miraculously finds the secret passage to real, radiant, thriving life. Ask the people who are ready to die anytime. Ask the rebels in the mountains who have something to live for. The scavenging souls in the streets who still find a genuine reason to smile. The terminally ill who can find spiritual meaning in a matchstick or a dead cockroach. What are their mornings like? I sincerely think they have something I don’t.

See I’ve tried to rise above it like every John and Mary in the room. Hoodwinked myself into believing I’m worth something priceless and intangible. Perhaps an element of immortal love, rushing above people’s heads in a gust of wind. Or an embodiment of hope–a furnace of phoenix fire eternally renewing itself. A lighthouse signaling ships where to go in the darkest, most directionless nights. I’ve tried to imagine myself as such to no avail.

When the time has come for the twinkling fairy dust to collect on the floor like regular dirt to be swept away, all I see is a man, sitting in a dreary desk in a square building, facing his computer screen for the upteenth time. An existence deprived of the time to love. Or to take his lunch. A bag of sickness and porn waiting to explode into something fleeting, filthy and futile.

It’s all because of gravity.

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A Routine Reflection on Routines

You know what they call drinking on Fridays, right? They call it “unwinding.” The connotation is something like, Monday to Friday, you stress yourself out, working on your job, a trapped robot among hundreds of trapped robots along a kilometer of conveyor belt. But then on Friday night, you get a screwdriver and unscrew all your nuts and bolts, get out of your metal shell, and sit on a table in a bar a complete breathing human being for once. And then you look at the inviting golden bubbles of your cold bottle of beer and drink it. All the problems sorta melt, dripping at the back of your head, vaporizing into nothing at least for that night, and you’re free. That’s “unwinding” for you. For us.

But that’s the thing with routines. Even the part where you unwind after a routine is part of the routine–you tend to realize that after a few drinking sessions. You realize that somebody’s fooling you and having a good laugh at you. Even that blissful moment of drunken freedom is actually part of your role as a clunking robot. You can say it’s even the last stop at the conveyor belt before it enters the machine, goes around, and begins the cycle once more.

Routines are our lives. Well, at least for some of us, like me, for example. If you’ve got a creative job then good for you. Or it may also be the case that your job’s really not creative at all, but since you’ve got very low standards and expectations when it comes to creativity, you’re satisfied with your job as it is. If you’re that kinda guy, you’re lucky and I envy you. Continue reading

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Just Skip This One. I Badly Need Some Sleep.

Why is my blog not as personal as other blogs?

The enthusiastic imaginary audience of this blog may be asking, “Why not tell people more about yourself? Why keep on analyzing things that people don’t really care about? Why write poems and fictional stuff only you can comprehend? Why do you always sound so bored and sleepy?”

Good questions, imaginary audience. Good questions. Now, let me answer. Maybe I should go through this one by one just to be clear. Continue reading

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Neverland: 121 Days to Go (Fast-forwarding the Fruitless Week)

Coming back from an awesome beach trip to Nagsasa, this week felt more incredibly dull as the city looked like a completely gray picture of staleness and pollution. The only thing that’s pushing me to continue doing my regular day-to-death activities is the prospect of a fun drinking session today, Friday, at Mogwai in Cubao Expo — the beehive of all the cool “artist” bees in the metro. But let it be known: I still prefer Sarah’s careless banter and layman philosophical talk over Mogwai’s. Still, with Lele, Angel and Rizch coming over, it should be great later.

And now, a quick review of this monotonous week, which just gobbled up 5 days of my precious time with Chemae:

125 Days to Go:

I kept thinking about how beautiful Nagsasa was compared to Pag-Asa, Quezon City and Ortigas Center, Pasig City. I worked and waited for our pictures to get uploaded on Facebook. Memories of danggit made my stomach growl and Chemae’s, too. I wore a white shirt.

124 Days to Go:

We are two very quiet and shy individuals. Our blogs betray our true personality. She wrote an insulting message over YM and I sent an insulting reply to her cell phone. That night, I felt like I was in a loony bin. She made me realize something valuable by inventing a very convincing facebook story. I wore my black company shirt. It was a good shirt and quite comfortable. Continue reading

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A Philosophy of Happiness

You don’t have to take my word for it, but I’ve been lonely enough in the past and happy enough in the present to say that someday, you’ll realize happiness is all about them, not you. That is, the only way to be happy or have a semblance of that feeling is to make everyone around you happy, or at least more positive about life than you. The ego is an empty shell, a dark cavern filled with stale air. Amusing ourselves with fanciful vacations, a cabinet full of DVDs, an altar of trophies and recognitions — the thrill fades after a while, once our brains develop enough neural networks and mature enough to realize we’re just setting ourselves up for a huge fall during the midlife crisis. The more exciting it is at the beginning, the more hollow it is in the end. Continue reading

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Some Kind of Freedom


Who cares what others think about how we think, how we speak? Why must we play along with this web of rules and standards they have set upon themselves? Why must we feel pressured for the correctness, righteousness or validity of what we have to say? Why must we tremble in our own bedrooms, afraid of their cold vengeance? Can’t we shout “We’re not part of it! I’m not part of it! I refuse to be defined by it!” Have we really been plugged into this monstrous machine of dreams and sleepwalking since the day our unknowing mothers set us free in this shackled world? Isn’t there a means for an uncontroversial escape? Is there a way to live without agreeing to the term “responsibility?” — therefore, without agreeing to any “term” at all?

——————–

Yesterday, I saw two boys lying on the steps of a footbridge. They can’t be older than 7. They were fighting because the younger boy seemed to take up the space of the older one. All the while, we were passing before their sleeping space as hundreds of vehicles disturbed the dust on the paved roads underneath. Continue reading

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Fantasy Genre

He got up from the chair and did some jumping jacks. The morning people stood up when he walked briskly in front of them and did the robot dance followed by a slick moonwalk. His boss, cussing, ran outside his office when he stood on his table and did a tapdance, then consequently screamed his name to the blank blue ceiling.

He ran as fast as he could toward the elevators, pounded the arrows until one of them broke and his palms were raw. The doors opened and he leapt inside to the shock of everyone. There’s a harrassed pretty girl inside and he winked at her saying, “Fuck yeah!”

Off to the other floor where he kicked the first monitor he saw and sent it crashing to the ground. He ruffled every hair with his excited hands. Someone tried to stop him but he turned around and bit his arm. Then he grabbed someone’s bag of chips and poured it into his mouth.

Before the guard could catch him, he escaped by pushing everyone aside, grabbed a colleague’s boob in the process shouting, “Good morning, woman!” A split second before he held the doorknob, he spat on the guard’s record book and slid down the hallway on his knees. His saliva blotted the record books’s cheap blue ink.

His feet went down the fire exit like two cars racing against each other. He tripped, fell down two staircases and busted his lip. Blood gushing out of his mouth, he discovered he left something behind. His yellow tooth was on the dirty cement as well as his troubles.

Behind him 10 people tried to catch up. He burst open the ground floor door and threw some coins at the scandalled receptionist’s head. Through the screams of terror and dread, he let out a joyous laugh, which led him to the door and to the street outside.

So he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran. He ran until he remembered he hasn’t drunk one drop of water since last night. He fell on his back, surprising pedestrians, looked up to the blue sky then wrote the name of his love in the air.

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