Tag Archives: death

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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Lazarus

The other day, I lost my soul. I, slowly descending from that escalator in a mall, transformed into a mechanical part of it and lost all my feelings for humanity. I became a screw or a metallic plank or a generic shank with eyes. Yes, the eyes might have been the only humanly part of me.

Within those few seconds of descent onto the busy ground floor of the mall, I found myself immersed in the heartless randomness of life (or non-life). People seemed to me mere objects with a leathery fabric as shell covering. Their shells were empty. They were strolling along the malls as billiard balls would almost aimlessly roll over the carpet and bounce against each other during a game. They were carrying plastic bags that I couldn’t distinguish from the leathery covering of their bodies. What if they were mysteriously connected in some way? I mean, how could you know a plastic bag isn’t a part of you?

But they continued gamboling about the stalls, laughing, talking, smiling. It was all very cheerfully human and yet since I lost my soul that day, I honestly found it to be cold and external. They were like a bacteriological sample under a microscope, only bacteria are alive and they’re not. I had this urge to blame their purchases for the suffering that I know has ailed them since time immemorial but even that sort of humane, socialist analysis had lost its warmth to me. In fact, I couldn’t distinguish it from the very purchases it supposedly criticizes essentially.

Needless to say, I didn’t find any love or mercy in my heart for them. As parts of the extremely modified earth, I considered them as expendable as any of its pieces of gravel, steel or tree. Like they were building blocks for something pointless. Or shards of something alien. There was nothing special in their faces but their ability to fool the senses and make the brain conjure up something that’s “true.” But that was a trick that couldn’t work on a screw or a metallic plank or a generic shank with eyes.

I couldn’t judge rightly if my turning into a component of the escalator was my own way to grab power or to withdraw from it. Am I playing a human all too human game or did I just successfully quit and become the finest spectator ever–an object devoid of emotions and emotionally-guided thoughts? I wasn’t sure. But what I did know was that from that peculiar vantage point, every hope and dream of every person was a roundabout illusion only meant to satisfy the source for the duration of his sentient existence. Every illusion’s goal was to keep the source “living” productively until his organs can no longer accept air into his system. Perhaps the silent earth was telling him to do so? Maybe the earth and the sky were in conspiracy to make everyone wander around making purchases and loving and hating and smiling and crying? The origin of the senselessness was probably impossible to pin down. But oh, was everything futile. So futile in the eyes of a screw.

The solutions were but problems just waiting for their turn to transform monstrously. The problems were solutions that were justifiable when one considered a different moral system (a moral system of a screw, perhaps?). Hardships contained no romance. Sentiment didn’t come from principle. Love was as banal as the common cold.

Justice was everything that existed and that nullified the concept even further. It was just right that the homeless perished and the rich thrived. But anyway, if the homeless managed to launch a revolution that topples the status quo, it wouldn’t have mattered. For the present, whatever its conditions are, speaks of justice–for justice is what happens at each moment of this seemingly eternal illusion. The deceptive enchantment encourages people to speak up, denounce the wrong, and exalt the right but beneath the magic is an everlasting mantle that says everything is as it can only be. And therefore, there was justice that day but none of it.

The escalator reached the floor.

I stepped away and shook my head vigorously.

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My SIM Died Last Night. Funeral Wreaths Appreciated.

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May you rest in peace. I lay the colorful flag of my life over your wooden coffin. Twenty one guns empty their ammunition out to the sea for you. A formally dressed weeping crowd gathers around your hole adorned with white roses. The god of mobile phones and SIM cards shall meet you in heaven.

I lost my phone last night.

The phone was a cheap model of Motorola that is so unheard of I don’t even remember its name myself. But like all things good, it worked well. The voice on the other end sounded very clear unlike other mobile phones I’ve used. The controls were a little complicated, but once I got used to them, everything went fine.

But alas, another lucky taxi driver brought home a new gadget for the kids and the wife. I can already see their frustration though, because they will never be able to sell that cheap-ass unit for more than a grand and I doubt they can even find a charger that fits. The thing is just so old its only game worth playing is a black and white Arkanoid.

To hell with the cell phone, though. The sim is the soul for whom I mourn.

My mom told me this morning I had that sim since I was in high school. But I think it was more like first year college because I still remember myself secretly envying my classmate for playing snake in his 32:10 back in fourth year high school. Back then, sim cards were a freakin’ status symbol because not everybody had a cell phone. My Globe sim card cost a whopping P500. Still not as posh as my brother’s which was priced at a cool P1000. Continue reading

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Today, an Earthquake Hit Us.

The thing that’s scariest about death by earthquake is how innocent and, at the same time, how conclusive it is. Unlike illnesses, which we can partly blame on our lifestyles and, often, our lack of resources to pay for healthcare; or unlike murders, which we can directly blame on the person who pulled the trigger or shoved the knife — an earthquake is as faultless as an infant. We can’t hurl accusations of injustice of any degree on an earthquake. It existed before us and will persist after us regardless of anything we do or say or conceive. It may be the closest thing to an omnipotent deity. It has limitless powers, innocence, and, well — wrath. It is also decisive, final, ultimate. All our aspirations, political ideologies, hard disks filled with pictures of our loved ones don’t matter to the second that earthquake swallows us whole like a whale does to plankton. All our everything turns to nothing and you can’t imagine any other way for the narratives of our lives to end as nonsensically and abruptly as the way an earthquake destroys us. We just end. That’s it. No stories of how brave we fought through our diseases, no tales about how divinely or badly we treated people before we were murdered; no legends of our great wars, no letters to justify how unconditional and passionate our love was. The earthquake just erases us and we’re gone. And if something is more terrible than dying, it is dying forever without an echo.

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I Died on Valentine’s Day.

I died on Valentine’s Day.
Paramedics hauled my indifferent corpse
To an ambulance 10 minutes late.
A pretty girl had dropped her red roses,
Petals now blown by the cold wind
Onto my face with pale eyes wide open.
The police was questioning the woman,
“What happened to this guy, ma’am?
“Why is he dead on Valentine’s Day?”
“I don’t know, Sir,” she replied.
“But it is indeed the tragedy of all tragedies.”
“Some people are that unlucky,” said a banker
His tie bright red for Valentine’s Day.
“Some get robbed on Christmas,”
Some get burned on New Year’s Eve,
And some get death
on Valentine’s Day.”
And the girl nodded sighing,
The police shook their heads frowning,
As paramedics hauled my corpse
To an ambulance 10 minutes late. Continue reading

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Random Thoughts on Life and Death on the Eve of My Birthday


It’s the eve of my birthday. I was just 6 months old when I was born. Had I been born normally, my birthday would be on November instead of August. I wouldn’t have been Leo. Maybe I wouldn’t have that lion pride in me. Maybe I wouldn’t have been Marvin. Maybe…

Whatever. Continue reading

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