Tag Archives: relationships

Maybe I’ll Write About It

I don’t know. What should I tell you?

That I’m typing this half-naked in the most Third World of settings, which makes it more ironic because of the obvious desire to be bigger and more “cultured?”

That despite this squalor, I’ve somehow just bought this cool tablet computer but purchasing it felt like sacrificing one of my kidneys to the Chinese capitalist god? I’m actually in trouble of blowing my end-of-year bonus in a week and having nothing for Christmas. Terrible possibility: must avoid at all costs!

Hmm. I don’t know. What should I write about?

Perhaps I should write about the Christmas party of my former team in the office. I had so much fun I wasn’t quite the same guy the next morning. Didn’t sleep, by the way, because we had a family reunion following that wild night of Christmas partying.

At the party, there was the usual talk about love and relationships with other guys–not that I’m complaining or cringing in any way. And yep, guys do talk like girls. Frankly, that’s one of the few conversation pieces I’m interested in. Everything else seems like a waste of time and a futile exercise of jaw muscles.

One guy talked about patience, caring, and understanding. In a matter of minutes, I knew we were both confused over the meaning of all three. Thank god for alcohol. I told him I understand him completely though I’m not really sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. An addict understanding his fellow addict doesn’t make them clean for shit.

Another guy told me to basically rewire my brain. Now that’s hard. That kind of advice is music to the ears but it’s almost always a Houdini to pull off when you’re already on the front lines. God knows how many philosophies, socializations and re-socializations I’ve gone through my entire life.

But I believed him and I think he’s right. Maybe it’s not enough to think you’ve moved on. Maybe there should be a conscious and constant effort on your part to move forward and attack your brain so that it demolishes everything you’ve perceived as basic, unassailable realities before.

Maybe there isn’t any template for the right girl. And what if I can truly convince myself that I’m a–what’s that cliche term–tabula rasa? Man do I hate that term.

But I’m sure I’m just bored. This is what happens when I can’t think of anything to write about because my head is filled with half-baked plans and fears. And someone.

Maybe you can’t really write about the things that you truly care about, deep inside, without all the bullshit that somebody somewhere successfully funneled into your brain? What if I just wasted my own time with these words and the one thing I should say–need to say–on this blog and to myself is impossible to say?

I’m pretty sure all that alcohol I ingested during the Christmas party is gone from my system by now, so no, I’m not drunk.

I guess I’ll just return to tinkering with that expensive tablet computer and wring out the value of my money. Comicbooks to read and movies to watch and all.

Or I’ll just think about her again and plan a better article another time.

Yeah, maybe I’ll write about it.


Filed under Uncategorized

Let’s Write Again.

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.

Who knows?

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.

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Filed under Life, Love, Random Thoughts

I’m an Ex

I’m an ex, the crossed-out name in a lengthy list that extends from her wild youth to her smoldering maturity.

I occur after a bitter enemy and precede a mysterious new face–most likely a more good-looking one with whiter teeth and healthier skin. But deep in my proud heart, I won’t ever admit that.

The truth is, other exes and the present partner/s can all eat my stinkin’ sock.

On a drunken night when you hit on her, you’d miss my name in her abridged history of love.

I’ll get labeled by some simplistic means of reduction in aid of memory. I’ll be “the one who wrote pointless, mushy letters” or “the one with the hopeless rage problem” or “the one who just couldn’t buy dinner.” On second thought, maybe there’s more than one of us exes who will fit that last category.

Perhaps I’d consider myself lucky when she lets something slip about how my mother was one of the best cooks she ever knew. But you wouldn’t care, you bastard.

For the most part, I’m a statistic. A single digit in a double-digit total of guys who used to be so truthfully, so dramatically romantic. If you ask her how many exes she’s had, she’ll give you a figure and I’ll be there. Included in there somewhere. In other words, I’ll come in a pack. Or a set. Or a kit.

You could say I’m objectified. Depending on her life, I’ll either be the equivalent of a shrunken head worn by a fearless warrior or just another dead weight to a pirate victim who walked the plank and is now sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

But basically, I’m an ex.

I’m a sealed-off memory containing our enchanted hopes and wishes that will never see the light of day again. Don’t even try to pry the seal off or my magic will engulf you.

I was her insatiable fancy.

I used to go with her morning coffee, digested with everything sweet and tasty. Burped with delight.

I was part of her daily healthy habit.

From her deadpan look, I won’t fault you if you find it difficult to imagine that she used to care about me so stupidly. So foolishly. She’d give me clothes, and food, and thoughts, and gifts, and lascivious glances you can only dream about. For now.

And in return, I also gave her my attention, my letters, my mother’s cooking, my hugs and kisses, and rage, and sarcasm, and violence, and rotting pride.

But we used to go out a lot. You’d laugh at the fast foods we raided but nothing’s cheap in the conversations we shared and the emotions we explored. I know that she loves her grandma immeasurably and she knows that’s also how much I love my mom. My soul is entwined in her deepest, darkest secrets and at some point, I became an indispensable character in the novel of her life. It will take a lot of your fancy dinners to match that level of intimacy over spicy fried chicken and ice-cold soda.

Look at her eyes, which may be arching in glee or drooping in boredom over your career talk. Those eyes used to behold me with unearthly tenderness. And I used to stare at them and see myself, alone–a king basking in her mind’s landscapes. I used to make them quiver with anticipation or red in tears.

Hold her hand. It’ll strike your heart how soft it is. I am as at home with that hand in mine as you’re excitedly unfamiliar to it right now.

Touch her hair. Is it wavy? It used to be the curliest thing in the world, rolling and coiling everywhere like the first roller coaster we rode that launched us into the sky. Maybe she cut it or straightened it out to move on from the cheerful memories of me. Wouldn’t it kill you if it were so?

Put your arms around her waist. It used to be my home.

Kiss her lips. They used to be my playground.

Fuck her brains out. I was her god.

But today, I’m only an ex.

Depending on the type of person you are, I’ll be something taboo or an impossible world record you’ll have to keep on trying to beat all your miserable stint as a boyfriend. Or as a mediocre, balding husband.

Oh, I won’t get off your back, won’t let you sleep, never let you alone, smile at you from the toilet bowl when you pee if you even give me the slightest chance.

You can try to shut her up but the moment you laze around in your cheesy rituals and duties, she’ll utter the first syllable of my name and it will tear you to shreds, you indolent fuck. It’ll ruin the expensive food on the table that tastes nothing like my mom’s expertly home-cooked meals. It’ll interrupt your useless talk about basketball and before you know it, you’re my ultimate bitch, Bitch.

Yet again, you may get lucky and she’ll forget about me. Completely.

I’ll remain on that prestigious list but it will get tattered, burnt and carry on in its accelerated decomposition over time.

All the traces of my being will disappear from her skin. My feeble spark will go out from the complex neural networks of her electric mind.

She’ll be Her without exes.

She’ll be her own new self.

She’ll be Her. A self-sufficient, independent, fresh soul devoid of blotchy histories with strange, scraggly men.

In that case, you’ll win. I can’t imagine–but you’ll win and you’ll bring home the bacon. And the wife.

You’ll have winged fairies for kids whose pictures will lay waste to my heart that’s supposed to have moved on a long, long time ago.

Your simple, yellow home in the countryside will pluck my imagination like an ivory palace in one of my old fairy tale books as a child.

Your short, loving embraces will be my eternal condemnation.

Your quickest kisses, my centuries of regret.

Hell, your brown dog will be my devil.

‘Cause I’m her forgotten ex, the crossed-out name on a lengthy list that extends from her wild youth to her smoldering maturity.

It’s fair to say that since I failed to give her the future she wanted, I must willingly offer her the unfolding present. With a fossilized version of myself lodged in its crevices or not.

Though I have much to say and many things to do, I must pound it into my head to take my rightful place in the list. Scream her name no more. Struggle out of my bonds no more. Try to be her hero no more.

For it’s time to be a statistic.

A passing subject of small talk.

At best, a friend. At worst, a recurring nightmare.

It’s time to be an ex.

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Filed under Life, Love

Her Station

She’s there
in my burger

telling me how heavenly
this is,
this cheesy cheeseburger is,
when our bodies are already dried
from the liquor
and the blabber
of the night.

She lives
in the sooty streets
asking me how come I sing
every morning and
I won’t let up ’til we part

in the train station
where I kiss her cheek
a single

She waits
still at the same spot
in the mall
where we used to wait
without any guarantee
that the other one will arrive
saying their sorrys,
prodding to hurry
to catch the evening TV.

She’s there.

I know

that she dreams of me
half a world away
as I live to sleep
and take my turn
come dark
to dream of her.

I see
her in every bare wall
and each busy page,
in all things the calendar
throws my way,
and in the nothingness
my eyelids and my bed
conspire to envelope me with;

and in my fingers she used to hold,
and in my feet she still adore,
in my face she used to measure,
and my eyes that used to behold

her. She’s there. She’s everywhere

there’s nothing and something and anything!
I lie and I walk and run in circles
along her planetary rings,
hopping and skipping in our dreams,
wishing and watching our favorite films,

making it to the next stop,
checking myself if I should laugh,
hoping we wouldn’t



‘Cause while she’s always a step ahead,
a safe distance where I can’t
smell her hair,
I know I have to keep on going,
keep on eating my cheeseburgers,
walk my way down busy streets
across malls, over calendars
and ’round planetary rings
once more.
And I know I have to keep on humming
the silent song in my chest
for I can’t rest
’til she’s back
in the train station
where I used to kiss her cheek
a single


Filed under Love, Poems

Red Light


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

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


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



in my hand.


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.


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

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

in my tracks

and refuse,
just shake my head violently
and refuse,

to cross
to the other side

so I can stay there forever.


Filed under Love, Poems

My Home

You are my simple life,
my home at the end of the road.
I’ve traveled far, hoisting the problems
of a million strangers on my shoulders.
Oh, I can’t wait
to lay them on your doorstep someday
and worry about them
no more.

On your small wooden table,
a cold glass of water awaits.
I’ll drink it with glee
while looking out your window
at the warring worlds
I’ll leave behind. Continue reading


Filed under Love, Poems

A Story of You and I

I am afraid of writing
because I can only write about you
and you are leaving

I am afraid of poetry
because the saddest poem
is the most enchanting one
and you can’t be the reason
I write it now.

Every morning, the birds remind me
that your plane flies well
like they fly well
and neither of them can ever fail.

And every evening, the dark sky whispers
that everyone’s almost asleep
and so are you
and so should I.
There’s no other choice but to sleep
and wake up again tomorrow. Continue reading


Filed under Love, Poems