Tag Archives: loneliness

Why She Wanted a Drink

Now I understand why she absolutely hated nights when we didn’t drink.

There were those innumerable nights when we’d end up going at each other’s throats just because she wanted to drink and I didn’t. We’re not talking about your usual Friday after-work rinse here or the scheduled weekend liver beatdown. Believe it or not, we’re talking about Tuesdays or Wednesdays–even Mondays.

I’d notice it early in the day. Like she’s not comfortable with how the day’s turning out. As if she knew where this was all heading. I knew where. I knew I’d end up in bed, watching TV, which was exactly how I wanted it to be night after night after night. And I made it clear to her. I made it clear that the only thing I longed to do after the work’s done and all the clothes were thrown on the floor or barely hanging on the edge of the bed was to lie back, relax, and watch the goddamn TV. Maximize the use-value of that wretched, silver box of pictures, which weighed a freakin’ ton. Almost broke our backs when we carried it from Recto onto that plastic table where it sat for quite a long time.

But she wanted no part of it. No part of TV watching. No part of lying on the bed. Heck, she begged to be left out of cuddling or anything mushy for that matter.

She had to drink.

And you know what? I really understand it now. Why we had to fight over this simple thing.

It doesn’t seem absurd to me now to be walking to the office, feeling uncomfortable with how the day’s turning out. Because I know where it’s all heading and, the truth is, I don’t wanna be there.

And another truth is that I don’t really miss her–well, not as much as somebody who’s supposed to admit that he misses someone should miss that person. What I mean to say is that tonight, with these feelings in my heart and the thoughts in my mind, I still don’t have the right to say I miss her.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand her ’cause I really get it now probably more than ever.

This thirst for alcohol is the thirst for something different. It’s the desire to grasp father time by the beard and say, “Wait a fuckin’ minute, bozo!” To mark this day as this and tomorrow as that. To chop up life into little, potently intoxicating chunks of memories that you could admire when you’re sober and sitting at a coffee shop somewhere. This thirst is a faint whisper as loud as a scream in the middle of a busy crossroads to make everyone stop for a bit. Or, you know, hypnotize yourself into thinking that they’re indeed stopping even when you know deep inside they’re not. Nothing’s stopping for anything.

In other words, the whole point was to avoid this crushing feeling on the train home that you did exactly what you did yesterday and it’s utter madness. Utter madness.

I always thought she had a twisted childhood development that made her long too much for friends, acquaintances–drinking buddies who won’t be there when dawn broke. But why would she want anybody else? I was there.

But I get it now. It doesn’t work that way and watching TV, relaxed on a bed with somebody in your arms doesn’t fix jack squat. Even when I was there, she was lonely and kinda tired of tomorrows.

And you know what? So am I.

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Red Light

Bad
Bad

They have no idea
how bad it gets
when the office falls
silent
and I’m left to gaze ahead

at the beckoning abyss of the wall
dotted with sharp pins.

Bad
Gripping

Your face on my cell phone
eternally smiles, and I remember
I was there in that same room
on that same night,
as bald stray cats prowled the grounds,
and I
was seeing more — far more,
an entire more universe
sparkling with undiscovered stars —
than this

greasy

gadget

in my hand.

Mad
Seeping

It’s like a naive cancer or an earthquake,
or a tragic film no pleasant soul
would wanna see on a summer day
of flowers
and lovers
trailed by petals
and a hundred

bowed heads.

Bad
Bad

They have no idea.
Push me with a finger
and I’ll collapse on the bed.
I’ll stare and I’ll glare

at the abyss of the ceiling
where lizards hunt roaches
patiently.

No one has an idea;
not even you since you can’t pick my head.
Oh, darling,

you don’t wanna
pick this head.

It’s so bad that
one day, while crossing the street
among the usual crowd
between the typical jeeps,
inhaling that exact, same soot,

I think I might

stop
in my tracks

and refuse,
just shake my head violently
and refuse,

to cross
to the other side

so I can stay there forever.

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Filed under Love, Poems

My Pimples Never Lie

My pimples never lie. They burst out like an angry Arab mob out of my greasy pores when my unconscious falls into anarchy (though the unconscious is already in a constant state of chaos). They burn. They itch. They make me want to grill my face with a red-hot iron and condemn the whole world for its infinity of sins and cheesy religious rituals.

My unconscious never lies.

I smile calmly before friends but deep inside that black hole, I am wasting away at the bloodcurdling truth that she will leave me in a matter of weeks. If you’re curious about how an utterly lonely man feels, I’ll tell you how. It usually feels like deliberate indifference and forgetfulness, which it IS exactly in every single way. One cannot smell right or see right; mostly just a haze of colors and scents in a crumpled day. One cannot remember.

Some two nights ago, I dreamed we were chased by vampires. Brown vampires, not Meyer’s pretty pale vampires. We were running down a flight of stairs we painfully hike with our mouths agape everyday. We were hopping, skipping, careful not to trod on something and crash. It was a losing battle, so I woke up.

It doesn’t take a Freud to see that I’m running away from the future, which has recently synchronized its meaning with the word “failure.” Future and failure mean almost the same thing to me now despite my efforts at fighting back the clouds of doubt and the bloodsucking vampires. Though I love her with all my heart and soul, this darkness has blanketed my sight with the sleekest, clearest blindness and I can’t see beyond.

Friends say I should apply for a scholarship. In Canada. Or Japan.
My mom just wants to be assured of the monthly rice allowance.
Gates have to be opened for “wire cutters.”
She’s leaving.
It’s hard to get a fuckin’ job.
The axe is nearing my neck.
She’s leaving. Perhaps forever if I can’t make it out of this shithole of a homeland.
All the while I’m forgetting things, succumbing to an illness brought about by years of paranoia.
Did I say my love is leaving?

———–

It’s nice to shop around malls for things she can bring on her trip. She’s careful not to buy clothes she can’t use in the merciless cold of that country. So basically, I’m helping her get out because I’m the best man to do that. It’s always the greatest irony and tragedy when the guy who doesn’t want to let go helps the girl to fly away.

And she sells things ladies love. I joked that she’s selling our memories. Every dress she posts online is invested with days and nights of experiences engraved in my mind and my skin. Funny how customers fight over them like wolves under a juicy piece of meat dangling from a tree, blood trickling. Had they known how precious they were, they will probably stay away from them and bow to them, like they were sacred temples.

But they have to be sold. They are of no use to us anymore.

————

Chemae’s friends know she is a special person like I do. From here on out, her Facebook wall will just continue to unroll a kilometre of farewells, sad jokes and goodbyes. I’ll make sure to add my own bits because in the end, I’m just another guy in the crowd who will wave at her from underneath the plane. Not even literally ’cause she won’t let me be there on her departure. God, we all love her. But please allow me this — I love her the most.

Fuck, this entry is gloomy.

And that’s why my pimples are here to stay and they never lie.

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Filed under Life, Love

Self-Diagnosis: Pre-Loneliness Loneliness

Must be the Nilagang Baka (boiled beef) but there are swirling, sloth-like dark clouds inside my cranium today. I’d be lucky if that means a storm is coming because right now, at this very moment, I want a nerve-wracking thunder storm, a near-life experience as Tyler Durden used to say. Maybe another shot at EK’s Space Shuttle or a chance to dance dirty in the middle of a club — not like I’ve ever done that — but something that will feel real, something that will smell real again.

Of course I’m kidding myself if I attribute all of it to the Nilagang Baka. Obviously, the diagnosis should be what I would call a Pre-loneliness Loneliness (PLL). The root cause is the plunging levels of endorphins as your mind anticipates a gray future approaching slowly but surely. Symptoms include staring blankly at the computer screen, a natural reflex to avoid work, listening to a repetitive playlist that drives home a certain feeling, and a positive revulsion for the future. I am experiencing all of these now. I am suffering from a self-developed, self-diagnosed, and self-perpatuated disease. PLL is killing me.

In about three to five months after that plane carrying Chemae heads for Neverland, people won’t recognise me. I’ll tell them “I’m Marvin” but they would perceive an obvious change in my demeanor, like my upper lip is constantly quivering, or my fingers are twitching too much. They’d look at me suspiciously, like I’m an impostor. I’ll probably be scruffy with thick and oily facial hair reminiscent of Pacquiao when he pummelled Clottey last March. Except unlike Pacquiao, people won’t be delighted to see me at all. They would think I am a good tap on the shoulder away from incurable insanity. Continue reading

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Filed under Life, Random Thoughts

I Miss You

This is my life before we got together. I don’t know it anymore. Thinking back to how I got here in the office from the moment I struggled to get off the sheets at home, I can’t imagine how I lived before I met her. I must have been a zombie or a piece of deadwood kicked around by strangers’ feet. I really don’t know. It’s almost as if I helplessly fall asleep and get lost in dreamland whenever she goes away. Continue reading

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Filed under Life, Love

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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The Loneliness in Writing

Writing has a way of releasing your emotions but it also has a way of eating you up.

When I was in college, I would write uncontrollably. I wrote notes or short poems during classes, I wrote when I was alone in the library, in an empty classroom, under a tree, in the Sunken Garden, in the lagoon; I wrote in my head when I’m with other people, and I wrote at night before I sleep. I was writing because it was all I could do to reach out and feel the world. Continue reading

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