Tag Archives: sleepy

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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Unearthed

 

Typing sleepy. Wanna ponder the world. Pondering is all one can do after a few paychecks. They just soften you. Make you gay. Now you don’t even care if you’re branded a homophobic. It’s just another difference in this stained glass global population of Asians, blacks, men, transsexuals, daughters under 18, daughters over 18, the handicapped, cool, nerd, goth, obese, soccer moms, sucker moms. I’m just one of them. A statistic with beliefs. I rome the Philippines restricted by a foreigner’s table indicating specific allocation of profits. I get his cents, my mother gets part of the cents, so I can eat part of the nutrition-drained meat she cooks. People don’t understand me. They don’t understand a single f*cking thing we’re saying and we’re proud of that. This sets us apart, baseless pride. Pride that has an actual measurable base is uncool, pathetic. Scums only have measurable bases of pride. And usually that means they have a lot of money. But I don’t have any, so I’m cool. I’m not a scum. Still, that doesn’t make me any less slimy. Now with all the negative adjectives you’ve rained on yourself, you wonder who’s the bastard who put this into your head. You can’t think of any because you can’t trace any effect into a single cause today. No God nor science now. Just this random incessant desire to make a difference that’s already there. Like I said, it’s a stained glass window of an existence. My body, my work and my dreams are a huge stained-glass window inside an empty church, glimmering red, blue and yellow on a hot, August night. So we write and take pictures of ourselves and scatter them all over the Internet to feel all right. We gotta make people read the next chapter in our lives. We’re protagonists and they are readers and vice versa. There’s a constant peeping going on and we’re all indecent exhibitionists to some extent. Imagine that, in the Philippines? This place was innocent a hundred years ago. Now, it’s just an extension of the latest Hollywood flick, only grimier because the MMDA is inept. We’re like Americans. Everyone is like Americans, more or less. The Chinese are like Americans except they have a bloody history of Communism and they’re more mysterious. Arabs are like Americans, only they’re learning how to be like them in a very painful way. The North Koreans are also like Americans, fate sees them getting there. And of course, Filipinos are like Americans, only their MMDA is inept. What the flying f*ck are those urinals for? Who’s the big dunce? The head of the MMDA? Yeah, maybe we should blame him. We can always blame the President but everyone’s hatin’ her already so that’ll just make us lame. Let’s just hate the MMDA head. Let’s see ourselves ranting, talking political, putting in our two cents worth a thousand bucks when we’re drunk. ‘Cause when there’s nothing less boring to talk about, politics is a sure bet. Gives us a sense of power. We’re all Filipino citizens, anyway. We wear t-shirts with yellow stars and a sun. We make a lot of money from it, especially the Chinese. Pirates love us.

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Let Us Go to Sleep

You make me sleepy. Let’s go to sleep. Let us drag our bodies
Across the floor, lift our legs up and climb the bed
Like two poisonous critters of the night; but we
Won’t be poisoning and sedating anybody but ourselves.
Tonight,
The covers will be pulled over our pupil-less eyes and tomorrow,
We’ll wake up with drool all over our mouths.

As my stomach vigorously works on two plates of rice,
Lilliputians tie ropes around my neck to try and make my head
Crash against the desk.
They will tie me up, those little bastards,
Their rigid ropes and effective instruments may maroon me in their
Unreal country forever.

So I’ll be trapped, my eyelids merging like one thin, pale veil of
Innocence, my eyeballs
Drying
Up.
Down I go, following Alice’s
Rabbit and I’d want
To fall through that tunnel
Between here and there forever. No “thud”
Will be heard forevermore as I let myself
Go and miss the ground eternally.

Apologies won’t have to be handed out to people who desire to grasp
The inconceivable in me.
No goal or ambition, attitude or opinion
Would be able to penetrate the walls of my snores. And the whores
And the wars and the worlds will be
On the other side, the darker side of this enigma we call
Waking.
But me, I’d be cooking, dancing and cooking,
Cooking ’til the morning where the sunny side has the sunny side up of
Basically, nothing.

Then you don’t have to
Realize and analyze
My twitches since you should feel it, too.
Our fingers ache for sheets and we’re excited
To get devoured by the cushion.
Your boss,
We’ll leave him behind because he’s too boring for a pillow fight and
Too formal for a cozy night.
He won’t let us rave and rant while our consciousness
Drifts away into Neverland. His company
Won’t forgive us for shutting down everything in the universe but his
Office.

Don’t shake me, honey. Let the dark bring out the roaches
And the spiders that will never dare to scuttle out
Of our slippers, cups, and socks
‘Til this awfully cruel light has locked itself inside
Pandora’s box.

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Night Shift Now

As I’m writing this sentence, I still have three more hours to go before I can finally go home. It’s 3:00 in the morning here in Ortigas.

It’s my first night ever as a lucky, employed guy on a night shift. This is the joker card that I lay on the table in this poker game with the devil of global recession. I couldn’t do night shifts before but I’m doing them now. Yeah, f*ck recession. Here’s my card. Read it: “night shift.”

One can’t be too choosy nowadays — or nowanights. It seems that the company can’t get day shift clients for me, so they sent me to the dark. Now I’m on the dark side, the shadows, the eerie, scary, bone-chilling graveyard shift.

Forgive the flowery language. It’s the only thing that my mind can manage at this level of sleep deprivation. This shift is hard. My body is only supporting my soup-like brain because I’m energized by an unworldly fuel of mush. If not for these transcendental feelings of lightness and optimism, my face would now be scraping this greasy keyboard.

The keyboard’s greasy because my mouth is automatically gorging on PeeWee, an all-Filipino junkfood. Went to the bathroom two hours ago and noticed that my left eye was already bloodshot. My thoughts are as sharp as a chubby chin and my body feels like Baguio beans. I don’t even know what that means. Who cares? I’m a sleepy bastard on a night shift.

Did you know that it’s both acceptable to type night shift and nightshift? Bet you didn’t.

Do you know that you’ll also go on night shift if it means that you’ll probably get promoted and earn a much higher salary? I bet you do.

This body is but a tool to make itself survive. It will choose to punish itself if it means it’ll have something in its hungry belly tomorrow morning. Night shift is nothing because I need money. I can’t allow myself to become a part of the mass of people roaming jobless on the face of the earth. There’s no doubt now that this is a dog-eat-dog world. I’ll be living on my own carcass in the near future, feeding on my fluid-drained, double-dead, tired meat. Blunt eh? Told you my mind is as sharp as a chubby chin. Whatever.

If I pass the day-time client’s interview tonight, then I’ll be writing resumes for people I don’t know. That, by the way, means big bucks.

The client hasn’t yet replied to my e-mail as the hour comes to a close, however. This could mean that I’ll be back to being a normal daytime wanderer soon. Of course, that would also mean I’ll be jobless. I’ll be hunting for jobs again, figuring out how to send people to school, how to maintain the KFC fries addiction, and how to support my money-munching romantic relationship (all romantic relationships are money-munching).

Too many possibilities. My soup-like brain can’t process them.

It’s 3:50. Cocks are crowing in our backyard. Gotta get up and eat lunch.

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